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            She’s always had this vague feeling that if anything could save the world, it would be music. That’s where she turns whenever there’s trouble, whenever the closed circle of girls at school become too much. It’s no different this time.

 

There’s a muted pounding in her ears. The crash of drums and the harsh chords of electric guitars drown out Father’s disappointed voice and Brother’s empty words. She can still hear Father saying something about applying for colleges, how this was a crucial point in Brother’s life…

           

            She doesn’t want to listen.

 

            Brother is replying now, but she can’t hear him over the raw vocals of whoever is singing those lonely words in her ears. Father’s put his laptop away now and set it to the side in order to scold Brother better. He says something about laziness, about achievement in life, about the future…

           

            She really hates the future.

 

            Brother is just sitting there sullenly. She can’t see his face; only his dark, dark hair and the navy blue of his sweater. There’s something defeated about his posture and tightly defensive. She can tell from his bunched up shoulders that his arms are crossed.

 

            Her eyes flicker between Father and Brother. Father is reading Brother’s physics grades out loud, and she doesn’t want to hear them. Neither does Brother, and from the pained look in Father’s eyes, he doesn’t to either. Father’s eyes flash as he demands something, and Brother suddenly raises his voice in a loud exclamation.

 

            She can’t understand through the hoarse vocals from her headphones.

 

            Father’s tone has changed now. It no longer has that horrible anger and sadness, disappointment and pity. It sounds tired and helpless, nothing like a father should sound.

 

            “Why is it so hard for me?!”

 

            Through the lull of her music, those words burst through her consciousness. They sound frustrated and ashamed, and she doesn’t want to hear Brother sound like that.

 

            Thankfully, her music plays another song right away, just as thundering and noisy as the first.

 

            She notices Brother and Father simultaneously reach up to swipe their hands across their eyes. Both palms come away wet. She feels awkward and out of place, the air around them simmering with tension, heavy with shame. She wants to flee and hide as Father’s voice rises, demanding again and again, why, why, why?

 

            She surreptitiously turns the volume up.

 

            Her lips are clenched tightly together, and her Latin textbook is positioned in front of her, half open. There’s an untitled Word document on the computer screen, one that she avoids looking at. She had been in the middle of working through a tough assignment before the yelling started. It’s not fighting; their family never fights.

 

            They lecture, they yell, they shout, and they are always, always… disappointed in one another.

 

            Her heart hurts so badly, she wants to rip it out. Her stomach clenches, and she wants to throw up. Her eyes burn, and she wants to douse them in water. Her throat is strained, and she knows she won’t be able to sing joyfully at tonight’s singing meeting.

 

            Oh. Now Father is accusing Brother of lying.

 

            A horribly empty silence falls over Father and Brother, and she’s wishing for it to get better, but then the phone rings. The cheerful jingle has no place in this twisted situation, so Father takes it and rejects the call without even checking the caller.

 

            She wishes that it was Mother, but Mother is silent during Father’s rants, only raising her voice to admonish either Brother or Father for stepping out of line. In her opinion, both parties step out of line quite often, but she supposes things are different from an adult’s point of view.

 

            She thinks she hears her name being called, so she removes one side of her headphone. Father is staring right at her, his mouth slightly open. He asks her to testify, that he’s done everything he can for Brother, that he doesn’t know what to do anymore…

 

            She just wants him to shut up. From what Father’s saying, it sounds like he’s giving up on Brother, and that can’t happen because Father is, well, Father, and he’s told her before, promised before, to never, ever stop loving them, to stop believing in them-

 

            But isn’t he doing that to Brother?

 

            Now that the headphones are gone, she can’t put them back on. Her fingers are trembling, and they grip the headphones so tightly her knuckles turn white. She continues listening to the horrible words from Father’s lips, and she hates the deep sadness flowing out from him.... from all three of them.

 

            The snow falls gently outside, blanketing the world in this pretty, pretty blanket, but she suddenly realizes that the snow is just a cover, a lying mask for the true state of the world.

 

            Her throat burns.

 

            Brother hasn’t said anything in a while, and she thinks that’s because he’ll cry if he does, and that’s not okay. It’s okay for Brother to cry when they’re watching a sad movie together or for him to cry when his love denies his presents, but not like this, because Brother crying like this scares her.

 

            Brother gets up to leave, taking his physics textbook with him. She’s not sure what the point of this is; surely he’s too upset to actually work. She knows that she is.

           

            She puts her headphones back on, and for a few seconds, there’s a strained bliss stemming from her uninterrupted music. Then she gets the feeling that someone is saying something, and she takes off her headphones, and Father is asking her a question:

 

            What should I do?

 

            She freezes, and she hates this so badly. She can’t do anything while Father stares so intently at her, and her throat closes up again. Her eyes flicker down to Latin passive voice, and she can’t speak. It’s her turn to rub a hand against her eyes, and her palm comes away dry.

 

            Father sounds so broken when he talks again, sincerely asking for her advice. Is it the setting? She relaxes a smidgeon because that’s logic, and she can deal with logic. Or, at least she thinks she can. Those pesky feelings come back, and her throat burns. She doesn’t look at Father. Instead, she directs her gaze to the untitled Word document and starts typing while music shrieks into her ears.

 

            Music can’t salvage this situation like it always does for her. When she has problems, she likes to drown herself in screams, in computerized noises, heavy drumbeats, and loud guitar riffs. Music is still pounding out from her headphones, but she lowers her gaze to stare at the dirty white table in front of her, avoiding Father’s expectant and tired eyes, avoiding the empty desk where Brother used to sit.

 

            Music can’t save her this time.