Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser Page A

for support.
    He lights a cigarette, takes a drag and blows smoke in your face. “So, what is it?” he says, like we were in the middle of a conversation. “Does she not give you a hard-on or something?”
    “I like her as a friend.”
    He looks at you like you just ate dog shit. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You’ve known Julie for years, been hanging out with her every day this summer, and you like her ‘as a friend’? Are you ten?”
    The orange tip flickers as he takes another drag. You don’t like smoking. The smell makes you sick. But when he offers you a drag, like he always does, you take it. Like you always do.
    “She’s nice. That’s what I mean.” But you know he won’t let this go. What are you supposed to tell him? That even if you did think a girl was pretty, there’s no way in hell you’d tell him? That dating someone close to your age, dating in general even, makes you want to throw up and you don’t know why?
    He blows smoke rings and then spits on the ground, and this makes you think of Julie and you smile.
    “Nice?” he says, and your smile is gone just like that. “That’s all? Well, you can fuck nice, can’t you?”
    When you were younger, you thought he was God. Maybe not God, but someone like that, someone important, someone big. He was all you had after your mom gave up on being a therapist and connecting with you through index cards. When she decided ten was too old for hugs, when she thought she looked too young to be anyone’s mom, and instead hit the gym to get back the body she claimed she’d had before she met your dad. She tried to get back that life, too, and it didn’t include you and your brother.
    But she didn’t just leave you. That would have been better. She was still there, sometimes cooking meals, usually leaving cash for delivery men, all the while looking for something better. And you knew it. With each want ad, each informercial, each outfit that looked like it belonged more on the girls your brother brought home than on a forty-year-old woman, you knew. So you had Alex and he watched out for you and you thought he was right. You thought you owed him. But as time went on, and he called you fag, and pussy, and hit you a little too hard, you started to hate him.
    Then there was Sarah. You didn’t think she was everything. You didn’t know what she was. But she stopped you from being numb. Kissing her made you less scared. And Alex can claim she wanted him all he wants, but you know she liked you. Not that it matters. Not that she’ll ever talk to you again. All because of Alex. After that, your hate for him grew stronger. So that’s where you are now. Hating him, in the woods, with him and his putrid cigarettes, hoping he will just shut the hell up. But he doesn’t.
    “Shit, kid, all the girls you kissed were on my coattails. Except for Sarah. And she was definitely someone’s sloppy seconds.” He pauses. “And thirds and fourths too.”
    He laughs, and you’re in the red bubble again. This time it’s harder to talk yourself down, and you’re not sure you want to. The woods turn red. You aimlessly throw the rock. You hear shouting and pick up more rocks and keep going. Then it’s just black and pain as your arm is twisted behind your back. His breath is right by your ear. “Are you fucking crazy?” he asks. “You could have hit me.”
    Now you laugh. Did he think you cared if you did?
    He pins your arm tighter to your back, and it’s just you and him in the woods. No colors, just pain. “Are you done, psycho?” he asks. The pain is bad. You nod and he lets go of your arm.
    “What the hell was that ? I was just trying to help. What are you going to do when I move out and can’t look out for you anymore?”
    Fucking celebrate. “I don’t need you,” you say quietly.
    “Please, little brother. Who the hell else do you have? You think mommy dearest is going to pull a Julia Roberts and bring home some millionaire daddy who loves