Golden

Chapter 1- Golden

“Oria, the house is on fire!”

I stumbled off my bed and the stench of smoke lured me into the kitchen where Tucker’s shouts grew louder.

I ran up to him and slapped him.

“Why’d you hit me?” he whined, rubbing his cheek.

“I told you to stop doing that s**t.”

The only smoke arose from two bread slices burnt black and his shouts were just his most sincere way of waking me for school, allegedly. No fire, just a mountain of foam that oozed off the counter, ruining the toaster and soaking his toast.

“Clean this s**t up,” I told him before leaving to wash up and get changed.

I let Tuck off easy only because I really didn’t want to miss school today and I wanted my dream to end.

I came back out with a white shirt, green cargos, and a stomach aching for the lasagna in the fridge. Tuck splayed out on the kitchen floor, groaning and griping as if he didn’t have a mountain of games to play, or summer assignments to finish. I stepped over him to see a yellow post-it on the fridge door, “Working overtime again, there should be enough lasagna for you both. Love, Mom.” Before I could open the fridge, Tuck slithered over to me and clamped his stubby fingers around my ankle. “Play with me,” he begged, but my stomach’s growls took precedence over his boredom. I tried shaking him off until I realized, all the minutes I spent beating him up could have gone to eating a damned good breakfast. I sighed and told him to fetch me a ball, knowing well we didn’t have any of those anymore.

He returned with a ball of crumpled worksheets. I could barely make out the subject matter on any of them. We faced off on opposite ends of the kitchen table. He chucked the ball above him and served it to me, noting that I couldn’t let it hit the floor.

“It’s volleyball, Tuck. I think I know how to play,” I said as I let the “ball” fall right onto the stove behind me.

He upsettedly flailed his arms, urging me to play via a cacophony of c’mons and sobs. Tears nearly fell from his eyes.

I smiled and picked up the ball, “When I win, just know you’ll be going to school hungry.”

He nodded with his gaze on the floor, then bridged his forearms together, eager to receive my strike. I fluffed the ball his way, only to have him snatch it out the air and pelt it back at me.

“Play for real,” he demanded, eyes bereft of tears and on the verge of rage.

Tuck was a scrawny lil’ shitter, but he was fortunate to have inherited those eyes, fierce and amber-glazed. If nothing else, they proved he was my brother. Alright, you asked for it. I threw the ball up and slapped it right to him.

Our match wound us in the living room, both bedrooms, and the bathroom, by mistake. The final 25 - 12 score earned me my breakfast, but he tried to spoil my win by admitting that he watched me sleep again this morning. My initial thought provoked me to gut him with my elbow, but I rose off him when he said something about Wilson.

“What about Wilson?” I asked.

He shrugged, “You kept mumbling the name and tossing in your sheets. You looked like a dying roach. Were you having a nightmare?”

I gave a half-assed smile and fought to keep my lead-filled lids from sealing my eyes shut. I stared at the ceiling; Tuck’s face furrowed into concern, the same look he must’ve had when he watched as I slept. I couldn’t bear to look at him.

“A nightmare? Nah, I wouldn’t call it that. Wilson and I played a whole team on a volleyball court for the first time. It was a nice dream.”

“I thought you hated volleyball.”

“Nah, Tuck. Just haven’t played in a while.”

“Because of the fire?”

I glared at him, “What do you think?”

A teardrop streamed out my eye and I snapped my head up so he wouldn’t have another reason to look down on me. I fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind more so by consequence than by choice.

I rinsed my eyes out and looked into the mirror to be startled by my reflection scowling at me. Their eyes, a common brown, lacked the luster I admired in Tuck’s own. I laughed at my image, maniacally at first before easing into a nostalgic embrace. The friend that introduced me to volleyball claimed my passion for the sport fired up in my eyes whenever we played. It’s been nine years since I last saw those eyes and last saw her. I smiled anyways. It was nice knowing my memories of her could comfort me in her absence.

I marched out the bathroom, chipper as ever, until my eyes fell on Tuck’s right before he scarfed down the last hunk of lasagna. I couldn’t reach him in time and, after he nearly suffocated swallowing the damned thing, he busted out laughing so hard he fell out his seat with a thud. I walked over to the fridge, hoping to see him fainted, but being sorely disappointed. The post-it on the door had been ripped off and trashed in a bin with the rest from past mornings.

I grabbed my milk, my Honey O’s, my diabetes in a jar, and sat at the table. I invited him to come sit at one of the three other vacant seats, but he only wanted to lie around like a starfish and soak up floor space.

“You know, Tuck,” I said, pointing my spoon at him, “I was a helluva lot like you back in my day.”

“Great,” he moped, “now I know I’m going to grow into an eighteen year old gurf with no job. It’s what I’ve always wanted to hear.”

I kept chewing, “Except I wasn’t such a smartass.”

Gurf, his favorite his word for chumps who couldn’t tell the difference between a basketball and a volleyball. I never went a day without hearing it. His next breath interrupted my breakfast right at the crucial, crunchy-to-soggy turning point.

“Do you think Mom really loves us?”

I put my spoon down. Great, now I have to go hit him. I stooped beside his head, sitting on the backs of my ankles and stared at his blank expression. “Wow this face is annoying me,” I muttered. When he turned to me, I flicked him hard in the neck.

“Why’d you hit me?” he shouted, clasping his neck.

“Don’t be stupid, Tucker. Of course Mom loves us.”

“I barely remember what she looks like!”

“Do you need another picture of her?”

The bass in my voice tempered his shouts to a hush. He was frustrated�"furious at having been placed in a position he didn’t ask for, nor knew how to handle, and I couldn’t blame him. He loved his mother, but didn't love losing sleep waiting for her to come home. And he hated having to tuck himself in on the nights she did not.

He took to his feet and poured his gaze into mine from above.

“Okay okay, Mom loves us and she works really hard. I-I know that. But what’s the point if I’m just going to forget her?” His voice cracked. He pulled in his bottom lip, a failed attempt to subdue the wail that erupted out his mouth. “What’s the point of working so hard at all when people will just forget everything you’ve done?”  

D****t Tucker. Twelve year olds should be easier to handle.

I eased off my ankles, placed both hands on his shoulders, and kneeled eye-to-eye with him as he bawled. The defiance in his eyes faded faster with each falling tear. He tried averting his gaze until I demanded he look at me. My voice rose.

“Think yourself an ant and be crushed like one. See yourself a giant and you will fall like one.”

“Oh yeah?! And which gurf said that?”

“Our father. You were too young to remember.”

Fright struck in his eyes. Tuck was a smart kid. He knew he was pressed against a harsh reality he wasn’t ready or willing to face. He shook his head then tackled tackled me with a frenetic series of strikes, all which barely phased me. And yet, the weight of his punches and kicks carried more weight than mine ever have. It was pathetic on both ends. I stood erect, laughing wildly, then held his face against my stomach until he stopped trying to push himself off of me. I let him sob for as long as he needed to.

My stomach’s growl signaled the hug’s end, then I tickled him until he put on a face that was more pleasant to be around. His sour tears turned sweet and I took the chance to tell him about my high school experience, that I went in with no friends and left with even less. My childhood was remarkably s****y, but I’m glad it was if it means being able to come across new things worth remembering.

“My legend has not started yet and neither has yours, little bro. The last thing we need to be worrying about is being forgotten.”

I extended my fist out and he pounded it without a second thought. We both started cheesing and chuckling.

I picked up our ball, “One more for the road?”

I readied a serve that he stood determined to get. As we bumped and spiked the ball about the house, he asked me why I couldn’t stay home with him today. I had to go to school and so did he. I needed to earn the volleyball coach’s favor and eventually work my way up to team captain. High Charity University was the name of the place that’d make it all possible.

I caught our ball and cut the match short, panting as I told him that he earned his lasagna for the day. He spat out quips about how unfit I was until I sent him to get changed for school. Lately, he’s been denouncing school as dumb and skipping classes because he has a hard time making friends, though he’d never admit it.

I shouted for him to hear, “It was Dad who helped me through most of my rough patches, but he’s not around to make you go to school like he did me. Let that not mean s**t to you anymore. I’m still here.”

I finished my bowl of lumpy oats before he came back. When he did, he dragged his feet with a bookless bag loosely strapped to his back and a gold dog tag dangling in his hand. I snatched it from him and laced it around my neck, warning him that he’d lose his hand the next time he stole it from my room. It served as a testament to our father’s sins and success, though the note he left behind in it was long charred and carried away with the wind.

I threw on my army green bag and red sneakers and glanced at the clock. I’m running an hour late...not a problem. First I’ll drop this one to school and then�"  

Tuck leapt onto my back, strapped his legs around my abdomen, and already started giving me commands.

“If you fall, it won’t be my fault,” I warned him.

He nuzzled his face against mine to shut me up. Alrighty then.

Before we left, he poked me to tell him more about High Charity, but I told him to hold off until we got out the house.

“C’mon Oria! Why can’t you tell me now?” the lil’ shitter whined.

“Because that would spoil the fun of the run,” I replied, sticking out my tongue as he pouted.

I hefted him up once more and we dotted out the door, down the stairs, and onto the pavement before dashing up the block.

He groaned in my ear, “There better be some drug or blunt trauma that can keep me from turning into you, Oria.”