57. Then

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"Drink it," my father held the glass to Matty's lips, his other hand gripping the back of his neck. Matty's head jerked in resistance, the rim of the cup colliding with his teeth.

Smack.

Matty knocked the glass from his hand. Orange juice splashed across the table, wetting my dress. "I told you I don't like it. I don't like orange juice after I've brushed my teeth. It's disgusting!"

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Orange juice dripped from the table onto the tile floor below.

"Clean this up!" My father roared.

Matty put his hands on his hips.

"No," he refused, darting out the kitchen door before my father could get his hands on him.

Crack. Shatter.

My father threw the glass against the wall. I flinched and covered my head.

I slid down from my chair and snuck out of the kitchen the other way, through the family room, and out to the yard.

Thud. Splat. Thud. Splat. Thud. Splat.

Matty pulled oranges from our tree and hurled them against the wall. Some missed, sailing over the wall and into Mr. Jacobs' yard.

Thud. Splat. Splash.

Into Mr. Jacobs' pool.

I ducked under his lifted arm and pulled a small orange off its branch. I threw with all my strength, my short chubby arm flailing ridiculously. It landed a few feet away from me and rolled to a stop. Matty laughed. He laughed so hard, his whole body dipping forward, then back. He laughed until tears streamed down his face, collapsing to his knees and holding his stomach.

His laughter turned to sobs, and he bent his face down toward the grass. I knelt in front of him and scrunched my fat fingers in his soft, golden hair. He unfolded his arms from his abdomen and wrapped them around me, pulling me onto his knees and hiding his face against my shoulder.

"I hate him," he whimpered.

"Me too, Matty."

"I love you."

Me too, Matty. Why couldn't I just fucking say it? Why?

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