One for the Team

3| before

I live in a small house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and everything second-hand, things rescued from garage sales, or thrift shops, sometimes even the side of the road. I suspect ours is the oldest house in the neighborhood. There are cracks everywhere on the walls and my mom insists on letting the plants take over. They climb all the way up to the red tiles that make up the roof as if the house is theirs and no one else's. Sometimes I dream of the whole thing collapsing in on itself. Almost always with us in it.

The sun is gone by the time I walk up the front lawn. My dog jumps on me as soon as I open the door, a stray my father brought from the animal shelter when Archie was born. I suspect he wanted the dog more than my brother, but I've been keeping it to myself ever since the thought came to me.

Achilles had a broken heel when we first met him, and I had been reading about Greek mythology at the time, so I chose the name accordingly. He's healed since. He's good enough to race me to the living room and jump on the couch with me.

My brother's been home from school for hours. I used to pick him up every day, but he's convinced our mom that he's old enough to take the bus on his own. He's a twelve-year-old with Down Syndrome, so I didn't think so, but he has since proved me wrong.

Usually he can't wait to rub it all over my face that he made it home yet again, but today he doesn't say a word. He just keeps looking around the room for something. I almost laugh when I remember what.

"You're not gonna find it," I tell him. He wants the remote, but I hid it last night after he refused to turn off the tv and go to bed when I told him to. It took me hours to get him to sleep and then some more to get him to wake up for school in the morning. 

He stops in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. I think he'll tell me all about the school paper he has to write on his favorite cartoon and why he needs to watch all episodes again to get it right, but instead, he frowns, and asks, "What happened to your face?"

"Oh," I say, touching my lip where it feels warm and sore. Then I lie, "I got hit in the face in gym class."

"Like a loser?" he asks, smirking.

I smirk too, "Pretty much. How was your day?"

"Good." He shrugs. "Where's the remote?"

I have no energy to fight him, so I point at the plant dying in a corner.

He frowns some more, "You put it in the dirt? What's wrong with you?"

"It was either that or throwing it against the wall."

He rolls his eyes and gets the remote from under the dirt, shakes it, and then wipes it on his t-shirt like an idiot. I let him put on his cartoons again, and when he throws himself on the couch, I let him put his head on my lap. Achilles licks his face and then nudges me to pet him.

When dad calls, I pick up. I know exactly what he's going to say. We go through this exercise of parenting every day, like I'm a language he's trying to learn.

"Hi, kid," he starts, "What are you doing? Watching cartoons?"

"No, I'm –"

"How about you go walk the dog?" He stops me. This is part of the exercise, a show of authority, so I don't forget he's in charge even when he's not around. Sometimes he'll call and tell me to take out the trash even though there's no trash to take out. Or tell me to mow the lawn when I've already done it the week before. Or make dinner when there's still leftovers.

I look at Achilles, "Yeah, I'll do that."

Dad says, "Now."

"Right," I say, but I don't move. "I'm going."