Chapter Eight

It's Cornell vs. Cornell. Candice comes home, and she and Connor are both harboring anger from the previous night's blowout.

I pull the screen door open before pushing against the wooden door than leads into my home. Usually I enter with a frown or a blank expression, but never with a look that’s even remotely positive. This morning is different. With a smile that’s as genuine as that obnoxious butterfly feeling in my stomach, I walk into this well-used house happier than I’ve ever been.  

                I don’t attribute this happiness to the boy I talked to all last night. He’s certainly a factor, but it’s more-so the feeling of walking without a shell. Or at least a very weakened shell. I disclosed things to him in his room last night that I’ve never talked to anyone about. That is a freeing feeling.

                I walk up the steps and walk down the hall, slipping into the bathroom beside my room. Noting the time on the ticking clock above the doorway, roughly an hour before school starts, I reach my hand into the messy bun atop my head and free the bundle of hair from the purple rubber band that’s holding it all together.

                As the dark brown, tangled tresses fall midway down my back, clumps of it pool atop slouching shoulders. I pull my fingers apart, the rubber band slipping past the knuckles and snapping securely around my wrist. It stings, but I like it.

                It’s not my rubber band, but I don’t need to tell you whose rubber band it is.

                Whipping my hair as I tuck my chin down against my clavicle, I slip my head under the faucet. People’s opinions still don’t mean a damn thing to me, but my hair is in even worse condition than usual. And before you even think about what I know you’re probably already thinking about, no, it’s not sex hair.

                I reach up, my hand lifting the round grey nob so that the little indent is perfectly between the red and blue dots. As the lukewarm water douses the back of my head and the hair that’s there, I remember a tiny little detail I forgot.

                F**k you too, shampoo.

                With a soaking wet head that’s dripping all over myself and the floor, I walk hunched over, the wet locks dangling down over my face as I make my way to the shower. There’s the sound of metal rings scraping over the length of a rod as I shove the shower curtain aside and reach in, snatching a short, narrow bottle of generic, convenient store shampoo.

                As I spin around, through the thick wall of slick hair, I can see black dress socks and the pleats of dress slacks. I bite down hard on my lip, placing the back of my hand against my hair before whipping my head back, pushing the hair behind me in the same motion.

                Sibling stare downs can be intense, but this is on a whole new level. Connor’s arms are crossed over his chest, this painful and disappointed look on his face. Just to clarify, the look is painful for me, not him.

                “Why the long face?” I finally break the silence, unable to handle that look for another second.

                He uncrosses his arms, pressing one against the doorframe. “You scared the s**t out of me, okay? I didn’t know if you were coming home, I didn’t know if you were dead. Where the hell did you go?”

                “Me? Where the hell did you go?!”

                “I asked you first-”

                “No!” in an uncontrollable act of rage, I launch the shampoo bottle into the sink. It must explode, or somehow squeeze itself, because shampoo splatters all over the sink and the mirror. “We’re not playing this game. Okay. You don’t get to fight with Mom, get in your car and drive off, then wake up in the morning and play father. You aren’t my father!”

                This hurt look on his face is unfortunate, and I know I’ll regret putting it there once I calm down. Right now I can’t give any semblance of a s**t.

                “Candice, I am twenty-six years old. Where I go doesn’t matter-”

                “It doesn’t matter?!” I’m going for a world record for number of times cutting someone off in one conversation. “When I’m standing in the middle of the god damn street begging you not to go and you just speed off and leave me there crying it f*****g matters!”

                There’s a new look in his eyes. It’s tightrope walking along the border of uncertainty and estrangement. “What’s gotten into you?”

                “Is that a joke?” I run my fingers through my damp hair. “So you can storm off in the middle of dinner and I’m just supposed to accept it but if I get upset there’s something wrong?”

                “You are not upset. You’re pissed. And you don’t get pissed,” he finally musters up some form of courage because he steps forward through the threshold of the doorway, now standing just a foot away from me.

                “Yeah, well, I guess I’ve never had a reason to be pissed until recently.” I bump passed him, adding a little extra force into the shoulder that touches his side as I walk down the hall towards my room.

                Shoving hoodie after hoodie across the rack in my closet, I veto every option I come across. I recount Adam’s words about not having to look good for anybody, and he’s right. Still, I can’t help but succumb to the urge to dress just a little bit nicer. Even I don’t know what my intentions for doing so are. Am I trying to impress a certain someone, or am I trying to further confuse and alienate another?

                Opting for a cheetah print skirt with the tag still on it from when Shannon bought it for me, I yank it off of its hanger and hold it up to my waist. I’m still holding it there as I spin around, once again facing my brother.

                He’d probably appear more intimidating if it weren’t for the beads dangling behind him. “Candice Rose Cornell.”

                “Wow, you actually kind of sound like how I imagined Dad sounded.”

                “F**k him,” I know Connor feels very strongly about him, but that reaction fires out so quickly I’m not even sure Connor’s mouth was open when the first syllable escaped. “He’s gone and I’m here, so talk to me.” His bewildered expression falls to the skirt, but he shakes his head and chooses to ignore it. Thank God.

                “Talk about what?”

                “Your behavior lately.”

                I scoff, tossing the skirt carelessly onto my bed before turning back towards my closet. Sifting through various types of colorful fabrics with an assortment of designs on them, I finally decide on a white turtleneck sweater. “My behavior? I’m about to turn sixteen. Blame my hormones like a normal older brother and just let it go.”

                I know it’s not hormones. He knows it’s not hormones. But I’m begging him to believe it anyway, because I absolutely do not want to talk about any of this anymore.

                “Candice, it’s not your hormones. Let’s talk. Please.”

                “Okay, fine. You want to talk?” I swivel back around so quickly that my hair whips around in an almost perfect three-sixty, my face narrowly avoiding being slapped by it. “Hmm? Let’s talk about your abandonment issues.”

                He extends his hand and waves it, not as a greeting but in a gesture of disapproval. “No, no. This isn’t about me.”

                “No, actually Connor, it is. You see, I get upset because I watch my brother go to work every day and I know that he works hard and I know that he has to work hard because our father walked out on us and our mother isn’t capable of supporting us. And I know that that really fucked you up. You felt like every one left you. But you know what, I didn’t! I’ve patted your back on your good days and I’ve helped you pick yourself up on the bad ones. I’m someone who didn’t leave you and then last night, when I was upset, you just drove off.” His eyes are on the floor, his stare so intense it’s like he’s counting the dust particles in the carpeting. “You can do whatever you want to cope with your abandonment issues except abandoning me.”

                “I’m sorry,” he mutters. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but I’ve never heard anything so sincere. It’s not quiet because he’s afraid to say the word ‘sorry’, it’s quiet because he’s afraid if he speaks up he’ll cry. I can tell by the slight trembling in his jaw.

                I sigh as I walk over to him, wrapping both arms around his upper back before I rest my wet head against his chest. Sure I’m soaking his dress shirt, but he deserves it. What’s an apology without a little penance, right?

                “I love you, Conn.”

                He tightens the hug as he wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling my head in even tighter against his chest. “Love you too, Candy. Don’t forget Smackdown’s on tonight.” He sniffles, and if there were any tears in his eyes he’s wiped them away by the time I pull away. “Hey, you better get ready for school,” he says, pointing to my outfit of the day that’s spewed all over my bed. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “Cheetah print? Really?”

                I narrow my eyes, planting one hand firmly on my hip while I raise the other with my finger pointing towards the beads. “Out!” My voice is firm, but I begin laughing the second he turns and exits.

                I’m left to relive this monumental occasion. Perhaps it was good for us, perhaps not. Either way, it was our first real fight of any kind. Sure we’ve sparred, trying to imitate the moves of people like Chyna and Hunter Hearst Helmsley, but that’s playing. That’s pretend.

                That fight was raw, it was real and somehow it left me feeling something. I feel closer to my brother. And the look he gave me before he left did not go unnoticed. He was almost proud of me.

                Am I really so one dimensional and bland that pride can actually be derived from an incident where I’m screaming at someone?

                Must be, because as proud as he looked, I feel just as proud if not more-so. Another piece of my shell is gone.

                Little by little, the genie is coming out of the bottle.  And it terrifies me, because I’ve seen a lot of genies come out of their bottles. It doesn’t scare me that I’ll be a little different, but it scares me because I’ll never be the same. No one puts a genie back in the bottle. Once she’s free, there’s no turning back.

                Baby steps, genie. I keep telling myself that… Baby steps. 

Reviews

[Lalochezia]

My favorite phrase: 'any semblance of a s**t' :D
Or: 'you actually kind of sound like how I imagined Dad sounded'

I like your details in the hair scene and, as before, the love between brother and sister.

At first I felt a little bewildered why Candice would take so much pride in her own changing but when I reread the chapter again, it became evident that she never even stood up to her brother. You have grasped her character extremely well.
I'm very curious what happened between Adam and Candice; nice touch to leave us in the dark so far.