[Manic depression. I’m listening to Jimi Hendrix expressing his thoughts on making and breaking.]There’s the girl. Six years old, not tall enough to reach the cupboards but playful enough to break all the cups and curse her brother.
There’s the boy. He comes home with an oversized black jacket, wearing a grey hoodie underneath, and smelling like cigarettes. She knows what kind of misdemeanours he’s been up to. His two friends, the older-slightly chubby and more badass- one calls himself Sam. The younger one, the blond, who knows he will get all the girls in about five years when (and if) his facial hair grows as he plans,always brings her treats. They are listening to the Thriller.
Not thrilling at all to the girl, you see. She is secretly in-love with the blond, understanding that by the time she grows up he will probably be married or in love.
They boys are in his room, laughing, probably smoking by the window. So dangerous, aren’t they.
She knocks on the door, the boy comes and slightly opens it, barricading the room.
“Can I come in?”
“No, you can’t.”
“But why not?”
“Because you’re a girl. A little girl.”
And he shuts the door in her face. Her eyes are tearing up but she is too proud to let him hear her sob. She runs outside to the backyard. Starts kicking everything. Thinking, “I’m not a little girl. I’m strong too. I’m all grown up. We used to play all the time...”
She starts kicking a tree. She bruises her knees. She starts punching the tree. She cuts her knuckles.
...
Grade four.
Crowds are cheering. Her skin is consumed with the smell of chlorine. She has won the second place in the swimming competition. Her family is not amongst the audience.
The boy is in trouble: parents are at the station.
...
Grade 12.
Where is the blond?
...
Two-digit, out-of-teen years.
“How’s it going sis?”
“Not bad. I’m just studying. You?”
“Me too I have a lot to do. What are you doing tonight?”
“Going out probably, you?”
“Yah me too. Let me know where you’re going.”
“For sure.”
They meet up later. Drinking, smoking, hugging, hitting on eachother’s friends. He takes her best friend home. She calls up her own blond.
In her bed, somewhat drunk somewhat tired, the blond curiously asks: “So, what does your brother do?”
She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again. She twirls around, looks at him playfully.
“I don’t know really,” she says with a smile. She extends her arm to the night table and grabs the bottle, gulps down the now tasteless liquid.
“He thinks he knows what I do. But..you know...I’m just kicking and punching.”
