Young Writers Society

She stands there, on the green field, unsure of herself, trying to look like she’s confident, like she belongs there. She can’t think of any place she’d belong less, but she feels strangely at home. It’s a rather odd feeling, really. This place, it feels natural to her, like her own backyard, at least, the way her backyard felt back when she used to go out there, and use it. Now, her backyard is just what’s outside her window. She wonders why she never goes there anymore, what changed, when it happened. She thinks about the differences between her life then, and now, comparing, contrasting. She realizes that it’s her brother. Her older brother was always there back then, always willing to go out and play, to rake leaves, or play kickball, making up imaginary teams, so the two of them wouldn’t be alone. He was always happy to play on the swing set with her, to transform it into a pirate ship, or a tropical island, with just a twist of the imagination. He made it a special place for them, and when he was gone, something was gone from the backyard, too. Their secret fort in the rhododendron bushes was no longer safe from the marauding villains, in fact, there were no villains anymore. She remembers worrying about her beloved big brother, thinking that the villains must have followed him. She asked him once, he chuckled in his deep, soothing voice, the voice that used to crack, making her laugh. He told her that he could cope with his villains, he was sure she had some of her own.

Her brother, the guiding force in her life, the reason she soldiers on from day to day, the reason she stands on this field now, uncertain, but at home. She decides that she is at home because the whole place carries his presence, the way nothing at home has for so long. Uneasy, though, because of the people. People always make her uneasy. It’s not all of these people who are making her uneasy, they won’t all talk to her, except maybe to comment on the day’s events, comments to which she can reply with a murmur, a nod of the head. It is her own family group that she dreads. It would seem odd to other people, outsiders, unfamiliar with her family, but to them it is natural. It has been this way for a long time now. Neighborhood children frequently cross to the other side of the street when passing their house, not out of fear. She’s not sure what it is exactly. It couldn’t be because of her, she knows. She doesn’t dress all in black, pierce herself in strange places. Perhaps it’s the voices from inside her house, those treacherous sound waves sneaking out, under the door, bombarding the ears of unsuspecting children with whatever argument hangs heavy in the air that day. She reconsiders, realizing that no sound wave ever has to sneak out of her house. They are free to leave, almost encouraged to seek out victims, spread their news across the nation. She can’t remember a time when anger didn’t make its home in the walls of her house, when jealousy didn’t swing from the chandelier, when she couldn’t see her life falling down all around her, but she knows that there must have been such a time. How could a home such as hers produce a boy-a man now, she supposed, that was what they were here to witness, his rite of passage, almost-a man with sunshine in his smile, happiness and confidence seated on his shoulders, stretching out their airy welcome to all who met his eye? Her brother was the light in her life, in all of their lives, and he left. Gone, just like that. Before you could snap your fingers, or say Jack Robinson, or spell supercalifragilisticexpealidocious, or whatever that saying was supposed to be.

Her brother’s letters, arriving once a month from his chosen military school, four of them bound together, one per week, each one with an entry for every day, were like the light of the sun to her. She felt as though she were sitting at the bottom of the sea, looking up, wishing to be floating on the surface, with everyone else, but could not get up. She could feel her soul crying to those at the top, Look at me! Help me, pull me up! But none of them noticed, save for her brother. He smiled down at her, extended his hand, told her to come hold it, that he might save her. She felt herself reach for it, stretching with all her might, willing herself to float up. He reached down as far as her could, grabbed her hand, pulled, but she was too heavy. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be up there, come to think of it, where there were people, brightness, and things that she knew nothing about. The darkness was safe, the biting cold of the sea wasn’t so bad, she got used to it. He sighed, continued to hold her hand, promised never to let go. He was always so close, yet so far away.

But he’s here now, standing on the other side of the field. He’s almost like that dream, the one where she runs and runs and runs, but can never catch up to him, can never escape from them. The worst part is waking up, because they are still there, he is still gone. At least in the dream, she can lie to herself, pretend she can catch him. She wants to prolong today forever, because tomorrow he’ll be gone again, a wisp of dream-cloud, passing through the dark sky of her sleep. She looks at him, staring across the wide expanse of perfect but not perfect grass, just uneven enough to feel natural, like a backyard. She wants to memorize every detail, so that in her dreams, he’ll be perfect. She tries not to think about the fact that she may not see him for a long time, she tries to live in the moment. She’s never been very good at that. She’s always preferred to wrap herself in another world, one that she has invented, where she can make sure that there is always a happy ending. That’s not good today. Today she tries to banish the other worlds, the friends she created for herself long ago, when real people stopped liking her. She tries to throw down the walls she’s built around herself, soundproof walls, walls that let her see only what exists on the page in front of her, walls that only let words out in their inky forms, dripping across the page, or flying across the keyboard. She tries to lay them all down for her brother, and it feels like when she used to pull off scabs, when she used to get scabs, when she used to play outside. It pains her, the walls are as attached to her inner self as scabs were to her skin, but she tears them down anyway, letting the cool morning breeze come and touch her face, letting the band’s big brass sound, muted by the distance, enter her ears.

He looks so grown-up over there, in his crisp, clean uniform with the shiny brass buttons, talking to a man and a woman in formal dress, just like she is. She wonders absently who they are, whether she’ll meet them, what they’re like. How interesting it is, she thinks, that you barely get a glimpse of someone one day, but in twenty years, they are central to your life. She refocuses, turning her eyes back to her brother, but they soon flicker back over to the two strangers. Despite her usual fears, she wants to meet them, probably because her brother is talking to them. She wonders when he’ll notice her standing over here, alone, ignoring her mother fluttering about, trying to make it seem like they are here as a family, trying to make them all stand close together. She is sure, even though she can’t see, that her mother is avoiding her ex-husband, but not so much him, as the other two people with him. It won’t work, the girl knows. It never does. The numbers are all wrong.

Her brother looks up, spots her. He flashes a smile, a ray of sunshine reaching out to brighten the dark sea of her life. He beckons to her, a small gesture, only for her. She shifts her weight from where she has thrown it onto one hip thrust sideways, and walks forward, to her brother. She resists the urge to run, to throw herself into his arms. It is a very difficult urge to resist. She compromises by wrapping her arms around him as soon as she gets there, paying no attention whatsoever to the other people.

He smiles, folds her into a bear hug. He’s talking to her, perhaps saying something important, but all that matters to her is that she is safe. His arms, muscled from countless push-ups, probably some weight lifting, too, are a protective cage, not keeping her in, but keeping everything else out. She knows that other girls her age think about being hugged this way by a guy who loves them as a girl, not a sister. She knows because her friends used to tease her about it, in the first year or so of his absence, when she still had friends. They laughed at her, said she must have a crush on her brother, she talked about him so much. She didn’t care. He was the only good thing ever, and if they could talk about the good things in their lives, then she could talk about the only good thing that had come into hers.

She looks at the sky, past the brim of his hat, to the clouds. There she sees her friends of more recent years, the ones who never let her down, who always come when they say they will, who whisper secret things in her ear, make her promise to write them down. The ones who make the ink flow from her pen like water over a waterfall, who chase her fingers across the keyboard, calling Faster, Faster, but loving her always, as friends should. She sees them up there, past his hat, some sitting on the clouds, some made of cloud. They wave at her, smile, and for once she does not wish she could go up and join them. It is enough, for her, to be with her brother, her brother who loves her, who always has, who always will. Her best friend whispers excitedly from the clouds, Is this him? The brother you’re always talking about, writing letters to? Yes, she smiles back, Yes, he is.

His deep voice is chuckling now, at something the man has said. It is like a symphony, she thinks. There is her brother, with his smooth, sliding trombones, deep, throaty tubas, making the beat of the music find its way into her stomach, which seems to vibrate with the beat of the bass drum. The other man is a curious instrument-it takes her a moment to figure him out-he is a euphonium, a baritone, a few assorted saxophones. The woman speaks very rarely, but when she does, the flutes and oboes trill joyously. She wonders where the clarinet is. The music, especially the bass section, soothes away years of unhappiness. Should she be listening? She listens a little closer, just in case. Her eyes stay on the clouds, on her friends, who are swaying, dancing to the music.

Then, something in his voice registers. She snaps her head down, away from the clouds, looks intently at her brother, hardly daring to believe her ears. He nods at her, the instruments slow, ready for a soloist. She takes a deep breath, and the clarinet comes in.