I just ate dinner in front of the television with my mother and brother.
My mother walks over to the sink and starts to wash her plate off.
She tells me in an irritated voice, “Carmella, you need to look at the list I made for you. How about you start by cleaning off your desk.”
I am playing Angry Birds on the family Ipad, and I still have two more birds to throw. I make a small groan and launch a bird into a wooden fortress. I kill one pig.
In a similar voice of irritation, but much deeper, I hear, “Carmella, why don’t you get up and do what you are told.”
I look up from the Ipad to the armchair next to me. It’s empty. A few seconds ago my brother was sitting there lazily stretched out, pants unbuttoned, and twirling noodles into his mouth.
I look into the kitchen and my brother is helping my mother load the dishes. That’s odd, I think. He steps over to the list my mom has written for me.
“Let’s see what you’ve done so far,” he says.
“What the fuck is your deal?” I interject.
My anger is immediate, which is unlike me and especially unlike me if I am directing it towards my brother. In the past, he would still be in the armchair, rubbing his belly, and looking for another Colbert Report on DVR. In the past, we would groan in unison and begrudgingly lift ourselves up from the armchairs.
He scans over the list.
“It looks like you haven’t done much of anything this week.”
“I cleaned out my shower, so you can cross that off,” I respond.
“No, you haven’t.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
“I was just in your shower.”
“Why the hell were you in my shower?”
“I was looking for you. Mom and I had no idea where you were.”
My mom brings a bowl to the sink and starts washing it.
“Yeah, we came downstairs and we had no idea where you were,” she says to me, “your car was still here, so we thought you were abducted by aliens or something.”
“I was walking the fucking dog!” I scream.
I normally don’t swear this often. I haven’t said fuck this much in concentration since my car broke down on the highway because my gas tank was empty.
My brother looks at me with disdain and says, “You are just trying to make an argument so you can avoid getting up.”
“I mean, really, Carmella,” my mother says in a tired voice, “guests will be here in a few days, and I really need your help.
I am fuming now. My brother is standing there, dishrag in hand, smugly looking at me. We are only two years apart but somehow he is acting the part of rational adult and me the screaming teenager.
The longer I sit in the chair, the more selfish I look. I can’t argue myself out of cleaning. I have to help my mom clean to get ready for all my relatives to come to my graduation, but I know if I budge from that chair I will give my brother authority paramount to my father.
I sat there in disbelief and in anger. I know my brother as the one who would risk anything to avoid sweeping the kitchen floor. I know my brother as the one who would dirty every pot and pan in the kitchen to make macroni and cheese, and when asked to clean it, his response would be, “fuck it.”
I point at my brother and say, “I’m not fucking listening to you.” Then I turn to my mom and say, “What do you need help with?”
“Why don’t you start by cleaning you desk, like your brother said.”
“Oh my god,” I groan. I storm off down the hallway. As I do this, I realize I am fulfilling another teenager cliché.
“I’ll be checking your progress in a few minutes,” my brother calls out.
“Fuck you!” I yell over my shoulder.
Now I am at my desk. I have moved some papers around, but other than that I have spent my time writing this.
It’s as if my brother stole my dad’s script for the evening---the tone, the words, the reasoning, everything. Since when does he care what my desk looks like, let alone care where I am? He struts around with the belief that “I’m the adult, so I can tell the kid what to do” just because he is two years older and living on his own.
My whole life my brother and I have been equals—equal in our resistance to chores, and equal in our punishment. Yet today he was handed parent authority, while my mom looked on proudly with a glimmer in her eye that said “you are my favorite child.”
I just keep thinking, I’m his sister after all, he’s supposed to be on my team.
