This catches Dad’s attention, Mom’s, too, albeit for different reasons.
“Oh?” Brian’s sure asking a lot with that word.
“I was doing some deep cleaning.” Her eyes flash. “The kind you don’t wear an engagement ring for.”
Jesus Christ, Brooke!
Clank.
Brian sets his fork down. He folds his hands over the table, a perfect triangle under his chin, and he stares down at Brooke. We’re all silent. He holds that pause. Credit where it’s due, that man is not stupid.
Brooke tilts her head, bats her eyelashes–over-dramatic innocence. “I thought that was my job, the cleaning?”
It’s Dad who replies. “I don’t like your tone.”
But Brain holds up his hand. “It’s fine, Mr. Hedgewick.” He scoots out his chair and stands to his feet, head locked on Brooke. “I believe me and my fiance need to have a private conversation in the other room.” He holds out his hand, waiting for Brooke to take it.
She goes for the sandwich instead. “You know, Mom,” Brooke says through her mouthful, “this heavy wheat bread really isn’t all that bad once you get rid of that loathsome crust.”
Mom’s mouth opens like she wants to say something back, but it’s Dad who replies, “Brooke, do not be a brat. Brian is asking very nicely to speak with you.” His voice is stern; his eyes narrow.
Brooke glugs down a big swig of milk and wipes away the mustache.
We all hear Brian’s sigh. He drops his hand and glances down at his watch. With a tsk, he tells Mom and Dad, “I’m sorry Mr. and Mrs. Hedgewick, but I think we’re going to have to leave a little earlier than we expected today.”
“Nonsense!” Dad replies. “There’s an Aggie game on at one, and you are more than welcome to stay another night if you want, Son, and…”
“I have to be at Cooperville for a seminar at four on Monday, and I would really appreciate a day of downtime after our trip home, and–” Brian rubs his eyes, really trying to keep his patience. “–it seems me and your daughter have something to talk about. As to what, I do not know.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Brooke replies. “We can do that here.”
“Come on, Brooke.” Brian tugs at her arm. “We can talk on the trip home.”
She just lets her arm flop back down onto the table.
Then Brian does this thing where he grabs her just under her armpit. His grip’s not hard, but it looks to be just enough that she can’t wiggle out of it. He starts to pull her to her feet. This time, she moves. And when she moves, a scene replays in my mind: Right after the slumber party, Brian was loading Brooke into the Escape, and he had that same grip under her arm. And me, I was doing burpees or something in the backyard, watching it all from afar. Him and her drove away, and I never even got to say goodbye.
Ever the lifelong bitch, Mason.
I see it this time, too. As soon as Brian grabs under her arm–and it’s almost a physical thing–I see all of Brooke’s moxie drain away. Her posture slumps. Her pallor whitens. She’s like a cat who just got snatched up by the scruff of her neck.
But she did stand up to him. She made her intentions known, and everyone just ignored and steamrolled over her.
That really upsets me.
I push my chair out. I stand up–here, I’m a robot. I tuck my chair back in. Turn. Take three steps to my left until I’m right behind my sister, right at her back. I absolutely tower over Brian. He’s athletic, certainly, and not a small guy, but I am fucking huge.
I reach out, slow and easy. My enormous fist fist clamps clear around Brian’s wrist, and I begin to squeeze.
“It’s fine, Brian. We can talk here,” I say. Robots don’t smile.
He tries to pull away, but his arm might as well be stuck in concrete. It doesn’t even budge.
He withers and pales. His wrist must be the scruff of his neck, or perhaps when an average guy is staring up at a two-hundred and twenty pound lineman, everything about him is weak.
I can’t recall ever having rebelled like this. It feels good–really good. It feels powerful. There’s an intoxication about it, and I think I want to take things further. Maybe I’ll–
“Mason, sit the fuck down.” That’s Dad. He doesn’t even yell, doesn’t ask, either. He just states my next actions.
And my body listens, too–just for a second. I did loosen my grip, almost let go entirely, but Brian’s mouth pricks up into this smug grin, and there must have been some primal lizard brain thing that ticked off–like it’s a challenge over a mate, something that goes even deeper than the conditioning to obey my father.
I crush his fucking wrist. Or, I try to. He’s small to me, but he’s not so weak that it turns to dust or anything that grandiose. There is a Pop! That’s for certain. Then a squeal: His. He kneels, bows in front of my sister and far below me.
I’m still holding his arm. There’s a clatter to my left. I ignore it. It’s inconsequential to Brian below me, curling into himself, shock still, slack jawed in a twisted pain that he can’t believe. I think I’ll hurt him further.
And Brooke, she’s looking up at me. I swear she smiles. Then her eyes go wide. She starts to yell something, but I don’t hear it. All of the air wheezes out of my lungs. es from my lungs, and just as soon as I’d found my shred of power, I’m already doubled over.
Something hit me right in the solar plexus. Can’t breathe. Gasping, gagging, tearing up, silent whimpering. When I can, I look up. Dad lords over me. His face is boiling fury. His fist is clenched. I think he’s about to hit me again.
Yup.
A flash black. Pink static. He got me right on the cheek. That’ll be a shiner.
The biggest damage he does isn’t physical. His rage is radiant. It reaches out and grabs my heart. It feels like it’s clenching it, trying to keep it from beating, but my heart fights back erratically. Patta-ta-ta-ta-patta-patta
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