15. Anthony
fifteen
anthony
“You’re doing that wrong.”
“Says the guy who doesn’t know the difference between a box wrench and a socket wrench.”
My little brother, Grant, huffs a laugh and crosses his arms over his chest, widening his stance as he watches me line up the tip of the caulk gun with the wall.
“You’re going to end up with a huge glop of sealant, and then I’m going to have to clean up both of your messes.”
I huff, tighten my grip on the caulk gun, squint an eye, and pull the trigger.
And then, I watch in horrified frustration as a massive glop of caulk rushes over the elbow joint of the ductwork.
Grant laughs, his light, airy, carefree sound, and is immediately at the ready with a damp rag to clean up my mess. As soon as it’s finished, he slaps a dry towel over my shoulder, an indication for me to finish the job. Crouching beside me in a catcher’s stance, he tilts his head, gives me a grin that says I told you so , and holds out his open palm for the caulk gun. Sighing, I admit defeat, and hand it over, falling in a slump onto my ass and taking a water break while my little brother finishes the job.
On my house.
We’ll be losing good weather as fall approaches, and I want the insulation and drywall finished so that we’re not freezing our nuts off while we work this winter. Which means that after school hours have consisted of late nights on the property—which translates into too much confined time with my brothers.
Grant is the youngest of us. He just turned twenty-four, and has absolutely no direction in life aside from getting phone numbers at bars on weekends. However, he’s insanely smart, and honestly could take over Dad’s business by himself while Ian’s arm heals.
Ian and I are four years apart, and with the way that he seemed to take to construction from the womb, there was no question about who would take over for dad upon retirement. There’s no one better for the job—one I wouldn’t have wanted anyway. Of course, he had to go and fall off a roof and mess up his shoulder in the middle of his transition to head of the business. The now ever-present blue sling has only made his typically foul mood worse.
Ian and I are four years apart, but somehow, he’s the more mature of us two. He’s more level-headed, more reserved, more responsible in every way. While I was sneaking alcohol from my parents’ booze fridge for high school parties, and spending too much of my after-school time in detention for dumb shit, he graduated a semester early.
I envy the ease at which life came to him. I envy the way that he was my parent’s do-over, after my dad came back into the picture, married mom, and decided to “restart the family.” They never said those words outrightly, but sometimes, that’s how I feel.
Especially with how perfect my younger brother is. Especially with how our roles—as first and second born—are essentially reversed, with him as the faultless one and me as the self-proclaimed screw up. Especially seeing how close Dad and Ian are, with Ian slated to take over the business as soon as his arm is healed.
“You two are going to give me an aneurism.”
The grump himself comes out of the shadows, the only contrast to his all black attire the nylon blue sling that houses his broken shoulder.
“You just can’t help not helping, can you?” Grant smirks from his place on the ground where he’s just finished caulking the rest of the ductwork. Ian grinds his molars, his brows knit together in a harsh line. He grunts, turns on his toe, and stomps away, running his good hand through his thick, dark hair as he goes.
Grant joins me on the ground after ensuring the caulk gun is closed. He swipes my plastic bottle of water, finishes the rest of it in a few gulps, and then starts twisting the bottle to pressurize it before sealing the cap back on it.
“If you pop that thing at me, I am not responsible for the damage my fist will do to your pretty boy face,” I say, pointing my finger at his chest.
He snickers, points his weapon at me, then shifts it slightly over my shoulder before uncorking it and sending the bottle cap flying across the vacant interior of my soon-to-be dream house. It clatters on the unfinished floor.
“You are as bad as my students.”
I shake my head, then take the bottle from him and toss it into the nearby trash can, Larry Bird style.
“Speaking of, how’s the new gig?”
I choke on air.
No one knows that Penelope and I are teaching together. For all intents and purposes, nobody knows that Penelope and I exist, outside of my parents knowing that we’re bunking together.
“Fine,” I say, wishing I hadn’t chucked the bottle so that I could have something to fidget with. “I stepped in as a sort of assistant principal, actually.”
“No shit? They let you be in charge?”
Grant’s expression is more brotherly teasing. He’s the youngest of three, and is still living in his best fresh-out-of-college, bachelor boy lifestyle, which makes it easier for me to test the news on him. I’ve always been apprehensive to share my accomplishments with my family. I’ve always blamed the bees in my brain for my stupid decisions and “Oh well!” shrugs. I don’t want them to see me fail.
I explain the skeleton of the situation at school to Grant, and tell him a few stories of the behaviors I’ve already dealt with.
“I couldn’t do what you do, bro. A room full of kids all day? No way.”
“You get used to ‘em. I kind of like the more challenging behaviors. It’s almost like solving a puzzle. None of these kids are inherently bad . They come from crap situations, and I get to try and lead them into the light for nine months out of the year.”
“Okay, Gandhi .” Grant snorts, stands, and picks up a hammer. “Less inspirational chats. More putting holes in walls.”
I take the hammer from him and stick it in my back pocket.
The HVAC system and insulation are the last two steps before we put up the drywall. My goal is to have it finished and functioning before Halloween, so that I can spend my winter break really filling out the place. Growing up basically inside of a construction company means I can install flooring, cabinetry, countertops, you name it, by myself if I have to. At the very least, it will give me a much needed reason to be out of the house.
A much needed break from her .
I’m avoiding her right now—being at the house all day to work, and for family dinner and the Sox game on TV with my dad, my brothers, and a case of beers—when I should take an hour or two to sit down and sketch out what we want our classroom to look like. But that would mean sitting close to her, breathing in her coconut scent, being near enough to see the freckle that’s tucked behind her ear, the one my mouth and tongue became acquainted with while we were on the beach until sunrise, and I just don’t think I can take it quite yet.
I’ve been blessed with call-outs from teaching. The misbehaving kids have been my respite from watching Penelope Barker in action. But living with her is an entirely different story.
One where I can see the rotation of different pajama sets that she wears to bed, and know what kind of toothpaste and shampoo she uses. It’s a story that tells me what life might have sort have been like had I had the balls to tell Avery we were done when she showed up on my front porch. If I had showed up to the date I planned for Pen instead of leaving her out to dry. If I’d allowed her into my life for real after she single-handedly reached into my chest and rearranged the pieces so that they finally fit the right way.
If I keep allowing myself to live in the fantasy of what could have been, I’ll start believing it’s attainable again.
“Ian, when do you go back for your follow-up appointment?” Mom asks, sending the first shepherd’s pie around the table. With three growing boys and a husband who gave them their appetite, she learned early on to just make two.
“Tuesday,” Ian huffs at the mention of his ruined shoulder. He’s been grumpier than usual lately, being incapacitated.
“Hopefully it’s good news!” she says cheerfully.
Ian grunts.
“Ant, when do you think your place will be ready?”
“Hopefully livable by Thanksgiving. I want to spend a lot of my break fixing up the inside.”
“It’ll give you a break from playing pretend principal,” Grant chuckles, taking nearly a third of the serving dish onto his plate before passing it to me. The rest of the table eyes him skeptically, while I eye him in warning. When they all turn their attention onto me, awaiting an answer, I exhale, hyping myself up as I break the news.
“With the way that they had to split the schools, administration was kind of all over the place. River Valley’s principal quit, and, well, I stepped up. Their assistant—Nathan—stepped in as the interim principal, and I’m helping him out in the in between while they wait on our AP to come back from maternity leave.”
I’m usually a little on the jittery side, but this bouncing knee is all nerves. There’s heat in my cheeks and a churn in my stomach, because for once in my life, I want someone to be proud of me from the get-go.
“Aw, that’s nice that they’ll let you step in until the real assistant principal gets back!”
I know she doesn’t mean for it to sound patronizing. My mother is a saint, and she’s just responding to the face value truth of what I’ve said. But that comment alone, and its ability to open up the floodgates for my brothers and my dad to get in their following jabs, is a cannonball to my hot air balloon.
“I mean, I was skeptical when they put you in charge of any kids, but the guy doing the disciplining?!” Grant laughs. Grant. The brother who already knew this information. I could suck it up and remember that we all like to pile on each other, but I was actually hoping for a different outcome this time.
“Hard to believe, considering you were always the one in trouble growing up, Ant,” Dad chuckles. “But hey, that’s great, son. Congratulations.”
Dad reaches over and slaps me on the shoulder, and I do my best to focus on that instead of the razzing. I know that my brothers and I have always dogged on each other. I just wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like the compliments are the afterthought instead of the upfront.
Deep down, I think I might have a lot going on inside my head that I’m not ready to dig through. At least, I wasn’t, until Penelope Barker stole it out of me on that Florida beach—where it then stayed buried.
We make it through the rest of dinner in surface level conversation that mainly consists of my dad’s new gym, my mom’s new charity project, and Grant’s latest string of Tinder dates, that he apparently doesn’t mind sharing about at the family dinner table.
Watching the Sox game is easy. There is a language that is particular to baseball, and it does not at all involve deep down emotions or, really, words other than curses and grunts. By the time I make it to my temporary home, I’m exhausted both from keeping things in and from letting them out. Hopefully that’s what drags me into a deep slumber.
Except, I have a roommate. A roommate who, upon me entering the house, stops me in my tracks.
Entering the kitchen, I see that the table is set for two, and she even bought my favorite beer. And hunched over the table is a bruised and defeated Penelope. She lifts her head when she hears me step into the dining area. The pockets beneath her eyes cut me almost as deeply as the pain spidering over them in red.
“Uh… hey.” It comes out like sandpaper against my windpipe. “What, uh… What’s all this?”
“I made us dinner. I thought we could talk.”
She shrugs, and her cheeks tint in a color I only saw when we both drunkenly confessed that we had been checking each other out all week. A mixture of shy embarrassment that I once thought reminded me of the sunrise on my best days.
I deflate, leaning over onto the kitchen table. It’s well past dinner time. I wonder how long she’s been sitting here waiting for me.
I wonder how much I’ve let her down this time.
At least, this time, I didn’t know I was doing it.
“Pen, look, I’m sorry?—”
“Nope, not your fault. You didn’t know. I’ll leave it in the fridge.”
I stay hovered over the table as she hurriedly puts away dinner, shoves it in the fridge, and rushes off to her room. The door doesn’t quite slam behind her, but I sort of wish it would.
Once the house is quiet, I slide the leftovers of whatever she made into my lunchbox for tomorrow, and call it a night.