Victoria Scott - Fire & Flood

If my hair gets any frizzier, Ill shave it to the scalp.

Or light it on fire.

Whichever is easier.

I stare at my reflection in the pond and run my hands through the bane of my existence. For a moment, I seem victorious, my chestnut curls wrangled into submission. But when I drop my arms, the curls spring out, worse for the wear. I point an unmanicured finger at the water. I hate your face.

Tella, my mother yells from behind me, what are you looking at?

I spin around and grab a handful of my hair. Exhibit A.

Its beautiful, she says.

You did this to me, I tell her.

No, your father gave you curly hair.

But you dragged me to Middle of Nowhere, Montana, as a sick experiment to see just how hideous I could become.

Mom leans against the door frame of our craptastic house and nearly grins. Weve been here almost a year. When are you going to accept that this is our home?

I walk toward her and punch a closed fist into the air. Ill fight to the death.

A shadow crosses the deep lines of her face, and I instantly regret bringing up The Subject. Sorry, I tell her. You know I didnt mean

I know, she says.

I rise up on tiptoes and kiss her cheek, then brush past her to go inside. My dad sits in the front room, rocking in a wooden chair like hes two hundred and fifty-six years old. In actuality, I think hes a couple of years shy.

Hey, Pa, I say.

Hey, Daugh, he says.

Ever since my mom insisted we move out of Boston and into no-mans-land, Ive insisted on calling my dad Pa. It reminds me of those old black-and-white movies in which the daughters wear horrendous dresses and braid one anothers hair. He wasnt a fan of my new name for him, but he accepted his fate over time. Guess he thought I couldve rebelled a lot more following our relocation to purgatory, all things considered.

What are we doing tonight? I ask, dropping down onto the floor. Dinner at a glam restaurant? Theater in the city?

Dads mouth pulls down at the corner. Hes disappointed.

That makes two of us.

Humor me and pretend youre happy, he answers. Thatd be entertaining as hell.

Language, I tsk.

He waves me off, pretending hes the man of this house and can say whatever he damn well pleases. I laugh when seconds later he glances over to see if Mom heard.

Im going to my room, I announce.

Dad continues to stare outside like hes comatose. I know thats exactly what Ill do when I get to my room, but at least I can do it in private.

The floorboards creak as I head down the narrow hallway toward my personal dungeon. A few feet from my room, I pause outside an open bedroom door that isnt mine. I cant help moving closer to the bed inside. Leaning over his sleeping frame, I check to see if hes still breathing. Its my twisted ritual.

Im not dead.

I jump back, startled by my big brothers voice.

Shame, I say. I was hoping youd kick off so I could have the bigger bedroom. You take up way more than your fair share of space, you know.

He rolls to face me and grins. I weigh, like, a hundred pounds.

Exactly.

It kills me to see Cody sick. And it doesnt feel great ripping on him when what I want to do is ugly cry and beg him not to die. But he likes our back-and-forth. Says it makes him feel normal. So thats what we do.

You look old, Cody tells me.

Im sixteen.

Going on eighty. He points to my face. You have wrinkles.

I dash toward the mirror over his dresser and look. From the bed, I hear Cody laughing, then coughing. Youre so vain, he says into his fist, his chest convulsing.

Jerk face. I move to his side and pull the heavy blanket to his chin. Mom wants to know how you feel today, I lie.

Better, he says, returning the favor.

I nod and turn to leave.

Tell her to stop worrying, he finishes.

I doubt she seriously cares.

I can still hear him laughing when I get to my bedroom, shut the door, and sink to my knees. My breath whooshes out. Hes getting worse. I can hear it in the way his words quiver. Like speaking takes everything he has. In the beginning, it was just the weight loss. Then it was night sweats and shaking hands. Then the fun really started. Seizures. Thinning hair. Slurred speech that started one Wednesday and ended with a coma on Friday. He came around three days later. Mom said it was because he didnt want to miss a football game. Not that he played anymore. That died a long time ago.

Now hes down to this: pretending. Pretending to be the brother who swung a right hook in my honor. Pretending to be the son who danced a jig in the end zone that his dad taught him. Hes still the guy who isnt afraid to write more than his name in a greeting card. Still the guy who loves redbrick buildings and cars that growl and Cheez Whiz sprayed straight from the can into his open mouth.

He is still my brother.

He is not my brother at all.

I dont know why Mom thought this place would help. A dozen doctors couldnt figure out what was wrong with him, yet she thinks Montanas fresh air will do the trick. The look in her eyes while we packed the moving truck still haunts me. Like she was waiting for something.

Or running from something.

I pull myself up and walk to the window. Outside, I can hear yellow-headed blackbirds calling. I rarely noticed stuff like birds in Boston. In Boston, we lived in a brownstone that wasnt brown, and I had friends two doors down. Our family owned three floors of sparkling space, and we could walk to restaurants.

Here there are rocks. And a stream that runs near our home thats free of fish. The sky is empty of rooflines and overstuffed with cotton-ball clouds. There are no neighbors. No girls my age to discuss the joys of colored tights with. A single, lonely road leads from our house into town. When I look at it, I want to strap a bag to a stick and limp down it hobo style.

Tall pine trees surround our house, like their job is to hide us from the world. I imagine running toward them wearing a hockey mask, swinging a chain saw over my head. Theyd probably uproot themselves and squash me like a bug. Bury me beneath their twisted roots.

Thats how I want to go when its my time.

With a bang.

I slide the window open and stick my head outside. What I wouldnt do to see my friends again. To get a mani-pedi or a blowout. Or a Greek salad. Oh my friggin God, Feta cheese and kalamata olives. I wallow in self-pity for another moment before remembering my brother. Then I spend exactly three minutes feeling like the Worlds Biggest Ass.

Were here for him. And Id give anything to see my brother get out of bed and dance in the street like he did on Halloween two years ago. Or even just sit up for a few minutes without coughing.

I motorboat my lips and spin in a circle like a ballerina. I spin and spin until everything becomes a blur. When I stop, my room continues to rush past me, and I lunatic laugh that this is what I do for fun now.

My vision finally returns to normal, and my eyes land on the bed.

Sitting on my white comforter is a small blue box.

I snap my head from side to side, searching for someone in my room. But of course no ones there. Then I realize whats going on. Mom and Dad know how hard this relocation has been on me, and now theyre trying to buy my happiness. Or at least a break from my complaining.

Am I really this easy?

Please. They could have tied little blue boxes to the back of the moving truck and I would have chased after them until my feet bled.

I fly across my room and leap onto the bed, a smile spread across my face. Ive spent these last nine months with no Internet or cell phone, and right now I feel like a wild dog eyeing its prey.