Chapter 24 Home Sweet Home #2
The red-hot anger that cooled as I drove here returns, but when I speak, my voice is calm and rational.
Selfish? I don’t think so. Our whole family dynamic rewards fucking up.
Every time Jordan messes up, we rally around to fix his problems. Here’s my solution: Let him solve this himself.
If he’s entrepreneurial enough to start his own drug business, then he can figure out his own legal defence.
He’s nineteen years old. Still a child in many ways, my mother protests.
Nobody has ever said that about me, I reply. I’ve been looking out for Jordan since I can remember, and I’m only one year older.
But you’ve always been the mature one, my mother replies.
Yes, born old, as your grandmother always says. But the charm in my father’s voice isn’t moving me anymore.
There are consequences to what Jordan did. And I think he should face them, I insist.
Oh, so easy for Miss Perfect, my brother mutters.
I lean towards him. Do you know what happened to me today?
I had to go to the clinic and give urine and blood samples in front of witnesses.
It was fucking humiliating. I’m suspended from the team until those tests come back, and I’m going to miss our first playoff game.
Why? Because my brother used me as the marketing campaign for his drug deals. So, fuck you, Jordan.
My mother straightens. Wait. I didn’t know anything about this. Sean, did you?
My father waves a dismissive hand. It’s a terrible thing, Clee. But, in the bigger picture, it’s not the most important thing. Not important to him, clearly.
What exactly happened? my mother asks.
I wait for my dad or my brother to answer, but, predictably, neither does.
Jordan and Nick said that I was the proof that using ephedrine worked since I was leading my team in scoring, I reply. So, now I’ve been suspended for suspected drug use. Me. Someone who never even drinks coffee or Red Bull before a game.
Jordan, that’s terrible, Mom scolds, her face pale and drawn. Her shoulders sag, like she can’t bear the weight of any more bad news.
He barely shrugs. Wasn’t my idea.
This is so typical of him; denying any responsibility. Nobody says a word for a moment, then my father starts up again about the stupid fucking lawyer.
Wait, I interrupt. Isn’t there something anyone here wants to say to me?
The three of them look at me blankly.
I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, Cleo, my mom says.
I look between their puzzled faces. Does nobody here see what the fuck is wrong with this picture?
How about an apology? I finally say.
My mom nods. Yes, Jordan. That’s the least you should do.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine. I’m sorry for fucking up your perfect life. He spits out each word, like it’s costing him to say it.
Perfect. My whole family does what they always do: negating what’s important to me and how I feel, ignoring my needs for Jordan’s. But I’m officially giving up hope that anything will ever change.
If anything in my life is good, it’s because I’ve made it good.
Everyone in this room knows exactly how hard I work to be good at hockey; how much I train and drill and practise.
But in this family, we don’t respect hard work.
Instead, all of you take me for granted.
Cleo does a good job? No big deal. We don’t bother to go to her games.
We don’t celebrate when she becomes captain.
I built up a good reputation at school, but you guys made me ruin it for my brother.
I had to bullshit the men’s hockey coach and say that Jordan wasn’t a racist asshole—just so he could make the Monarch team.
And he promptly blew that opportunity by getting kicked out for being a total cancer in the room.
My dad keeps trying to interrupt, but I roll right over him. I’m never the one who gets mad, so they’re all shocked by my angry rant.
I don’t know how or when my brother became a prejudiced, selfish asshole, but I do know that neither of you has ever corrected his beliefs. And here we are once again, rallying around Jordan after yet another fuck-up. News flash: It’s not working.
I stand up and lean my hands on the table.
Everyone in this room owes me an apology.
Mom and Dad, after you split, you made me look after my brother when I was barely older than he was.
And you’ve given him way more money and attention than I’ve ever gotten.
Jordan, I don’t even know where to begin, but I’ll tell you the thing that hurts most: When you posted photos of me playing hockey, I thought it was because you were proud of me and you loved me.
And all the time, you were just trying to make me the poster girl for your drug empire.
Don’t be such a little bitch, he mutters. The insult is not a surprise; the real shocker is how long it took me to see through him.
I’m out. Out of all this fucking bullshit. And the best part is that all I feel is relief, because all you guys do is take: my attention, my energy, my love. I’m better off without you.
As I leave the room, I can hear my dad sputtering and my brother calling me a drama queen. My mother follows me to the door and tries to placate me, but I’m flying high. My insides are churning, but I feel like I’ve done the right thing. Maybe for the first time in my whole life.