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I’d still be filthy, discarded trash on the inside.
I reach into a bag and pull out the next item, only to freeze the moment my eyes catch sight of the red and white fabric. Slowly, carefully, as if it’ll fall apart at my fingertips, I pull out the heavy letterman jacket and hold it to my chest. My eyes fill with tears, my heart heavy with longing, and I raise the fabric to my nose and inhale deeply.
It feels likeeverythingall at once.
Like pride mixed with pain and coated with punishment.
I stand up and rise to my toes, feeling around the back of my closet shelf until my fingertips meet leather. Without another thought, I grab the basketball and hug it to my chest, along with my dead brother’s jacket. I try not to remember when he gave it to me,howhe gave it to me, but the memories are right there, in the forefront of my mind—a penance for who I am and who he was. He’d found me at a party, alone in a bedroom and blazed out of my fucking mind, scrambling for my dress I couldn’t seem to find. Seconds earlier, Bryce Lynn, the school’s resident stoner, left the room, closing the door behind him. As soon as my brother saw me, he turned to face the wall, slipped off his jacket and blindly handed it to me. “Get dressed. We’re going home.”
I didn’t fight back. Didn’t argue. I simply did as he ordered and waited for the lecture. The disappointment. The shame. It never came. The only thing he said was, “Did he force you, Low? Or did he make you feel pressured in any way? Physically? Emotionally?”
I was halfway through buttoning up his jacket and paused, looked over at him. He stood rigid, his shoulders square, and even through the sounds of the party on the other side of the door, I could hear the heaviness of his breaths as they left him. “I wanted it,” I managed to say through the knot it my throat. It wasn’t a lie. I wanted to lose my virginity to Bryce, a guy I’d been seeing forone whole month. He was a senior—a year older than my brother—and I was a sophomore. What could go wrong? As soon as it was done, I could tellhewas done.
With me.
I kept my gaze low while my brother walked me out of the party, his head held high, and it wasn’t until we got to his car that he spoke again. “You deserve better,” he’d told me. “Guys… they’re only going to treat you as good as you treat yourself, and right now…” He didn’t finish his thought.
He didn’t need to.
What started as a way to seek the same attention that always seemed to surround my brother was slowly becoming mylife.
I was losing control.
But how could I not?
At home, at school, everywhere we went—my brother was the king, and I was the jester.
I close my eyes now, let the tears build behind my lids, and when I concentrate hard enough, I can almost feel him with me.
Beside me.
Above me.
All around me.
It feels like…
… likenothingall at once.
Like hopelessness and heartache and..
…feelings.
So many fuckingfeelings.
“Harlow!” Mom calls from downstairs, and I open my eyes. Wipe the tears away.
“Yeah?” I call out, rushing to hide the basketball and jacket in a trash bag.
“We have to go downtown to buy you a bike and figure out this bus schedule. Let’s go!”
I throw the bag up on the shelf and move things in front of it to keep it hidden. “Coming!” I call out, then check my face in the mirror, make sure there’s no evidence of my shame.
And my shame is this…
There’s one other thing I know about Jace Rivera.
I know where his basketball is…
