I stomped down Fifteenth Ave. My fists clenched, sweat made my T-shirt stick, but I kept going, my Docs pounding the sidewalk. Rage pooled in the shadows of huge trees. So mad at Mom, the world and myself. Mostly myself.
We got into it again before she left for her meeting. She yelled at me for not being ambitious enough, not having a clue what I wanted to do with my life and not wanting to go to camp or school this summer. I yelled at her for working so much and moving to stupid Seattle.
I hated the city with its gray, moldy days. I just wanted to go back to the sticks in Eastern Washington where it’s hot and I could be really alone, but I didn’t want to live with Dad. Ever since the accident he’s hated me as much as I hated myself. Mom, at least tolerated me.
Both Mom and I knew none of that was the real issue. The real problem was that two years ago my brother died. I loved him. Worshipped him, really. He was the golden boy. He was sixteen and I was fourteen. Chris was great at any sport, got good grades and everyone loved him.
I was just the geeky loner of the family. I still am, even though there’s no family left.