Whiskey and Wine

Chapter Five: Plutocracy

I remember waking up for school as a kid. It was, during my time as a child, the closest I'd ever come to torture. At six o'clock every morning, my Mum would wake me up and the school routine would start. I'd tumble from my bed like a dead man, more often than not stubbing my toe on the end of the bed. Misery. And then I'd skip to the kitchen where my cereal had gone soggy. Few things in this life taste worse than a soggy bowl of cereal. Hell. There were two years between my older brother and me. Those school mornings hit an all-time low when he hit his teenage years.

I don't know what it is about teenage boys that makes them so disgusting. There's just something in their DNA. I remember gagging down my soggy sugar puffs, choking on the spoon as my brother sniffed his shirt at the table, checking to make sure that he'd picked out a clean one. And then, maybe an hour later, we'd make it out the door. Torture.

My Mum would walk ahead of us to the car. In one hand, she'd be clutching the keys. In the other, she'd hold a coffee. Or as she'd call it, life's sustenance. The routine was the same every morning without fail. Josh—my older brother— and I would fight for the front seat. Most mornings were the same. Unless I could land a decent kick to his balls, my smaller height and slight figure had me riding in the backseat.

That little bitch and his nasty punches had made me the way that I am.

How my Mother managed to look so cool and collected as we kicked the shit out of each other was a mystery to me. It still is. I still think about it now.

In the same boat, I don't share her passiveness.

"It's my turn in the front," My youngest sister- the six-year-old- Maisie declares, kicking up a storm as she yanks on my door handle. She's a blonde dictator, spitting feathers the second something doesn't go her way.

"I already called shotgun," The fifteen-year-old, Stephanie, says with a scoff.

"That's not fair!"

"Life's not fair."

Soon, they're going to ask me to pick a side and I really can't be doing with this. I'll pick whichever side the traffic's coming from. Anything that might put me out of this misery. I can't deal with this. Not today. At least not without a coffee to get me going first. Or a bullet between the eyes.

Six months ago, I'd have just punched them—but now I have to be mature.

"You sat in the front last time," Maisie accused, blonde pigtails flying around her head like demon horns.

"That's because I'm older than you." And with the delicacy of an adult rhinoceros, Stephanie pushes away the youngest with a hand on her face. "Move aside, munchkin."

And here it is. I can feel it.

"Tell her Ally!"

"Tell her what?" I ask tiredly. At least now I understand why my Mum always came armed with a cup of coffee.

"Tell her that it's my turn!"

"Alright," I say, cutting in before Stephanie can swing her by the pigtails. "Here's how it's going to go. Whoever wins rock paper scissors gets to sit in the front. Whoever loses gets to control the aux."

It's a go-to trick of mine, now that I've figured out how to be a mature adult. If given the chance to control the music, Maisie would have us sitting through her nursery rhymes on repeat. Experience has taught me that there's only so much wheels on the bus a person can take before the urge to throw themselves in front of one becomes too tempting.

As anticipated, Stephanie winces, withdrawing.

"You know what Maisie," She says, giving my youngest sister an all too friendly smile. "I'm feeling nice, so I'll let you sit in the front today."