Since her mouth is set into a firm, angry line, Melody’s squeal rumbles more in her chest than my ears, but it’s still felt, nonetheless. “You, Brandon James McGee, are impossible.”
After throwing her hands into the air like she just gave the performance of her life, she makes a beeline for the window she only crawled through mere minutes ago. I assume she’s going to get her backpack so we can study, so you can imagine my surprise when she commences climbing through it.
I tap on her shoulder before asking, “Where are you going? I thought we were going to study?” I stop just before I mentioned the movie-date I set up in the corner of my room at the start of my banishment. 10 Things I Hate About You is already loaded in the DVD player, but I don’t want to appear desperate, even if I am.
Melody continues clambering out my window as if I she didn’t see the frantic movements of my hands.
I stomp down three times, shouting her name. “Melody.”
Once she’s on the other side of the window frame, she peers at me beneath lowered lashes for the quickest second. I put her brief glance to good use. “Mellowy.”
That stops her in her tracks. It does every time. Although I had no issues signing her name when talking around her parents, I called her Mellowy as I couldn’t pronounce my Ds—which I’m ashamed to admit lasted until I was ten. When her parents explained why they were laughing, Melody smiled the biggest grin I had ever seen. Ever since then, her nickname stuck. It’s part of the special signing signals we developed not long after her eighth birthday.
“Come back inside and talk to me.” When she remains standing firm, I beg, “Please, Melody. I don’t want us to fight. We have not had a single fight in over a decade. Don’t make today of all days an exception. We had a win this afternoon. We should be celebrating.”
A familiar boom-boom, boom-boom sounds from my chest when she slowly paces my way. Her eyes are as wet now as they were during the many drills her father made her endure during her childhood. She’s just too brave to let them fall, and indisputably, too pretty. Her courageousness the past twelve years has convinced me you can be both pretty and brave, and she’s the prettiest of them all.
I’m about to tell her I’m sorry for reflecting my anguish onto her, but her confession stops me. “Connor Eckhart asked for my number today. He was the most popular guy at our school, and he can also sign.”
I knew who Connor was before her glowing dossier. He’s a friend of Madden’s, which shows his low standards in friends, but I dislike him even more now. Furthermore, the admirable glint in Melody’s eyes is way too bright for my liking. A guy like Connor doesn’t deserve to be a casual acquaintance of Melody’s, much less her friend. She’s big-hearted and kind. Connor is not.
My back molars become friendly when Melody continues to confess, “I was flattered. He had the attention of another four girls today alone, but he only asked for my number.”
This is proof she has no clue how beautiful she is. She catches the admired eye of many. She’s just been taught to assess the motives behind the flattery. Usually, by the time they get close enough to notice her lashes are so long they touch her cheeks every time she blinks, they’ve lost interest. If Mr. Gregg didn’t scare them away, Melody determines that they’re not worthy to discover how her eyes can share a lifetime of secrets without her needing to speak. So, I’m not surprised Connor noticed her. Everyone notices her.
I just happened to notice her first.
The annoyance tainting my blood switches to excitement when Melody discloses, “As giddy as I was about his attention, I didn’t give him my number.” Her eyes dance between mine. They’re glistening more with hope now than anger. “Do you know why, BJ?”
I want to say because a wannabee playboy doesn’t deserve her, but since that would direct our conversation straight into the path of a tornado, so I shake my head instead.
I thought my less controversial response would ease the tension bristling between us, whereas all it does is douse the hope in Melody’s eyes. “Then I guess this isn’t your problem to solve. Is it, Brandon?”
After a tight smile, she spins back around and recommences her descent down the old oak tree. This time, I let her go. Not because I’m a coward, but because I know she only ever calls me Brandon when she’s really, really mad.
No matter how you communicate, talking when angry never serves you well because more times than not, insecurities are voiced before anything else. My solution for anger will always be silence. I’m sure it frustrates Melody, but I’d rather seek her forgiveness for my silence than words I can never take back.
7
BRANDON
T he next morning, I’m about to gallop down the stairwell of my family home, but a partially open door halfway down the hallway stops me. This is the first time Joey’s bedroom door has been open this early in months. Usually, it takes the sweet smell of French toast to get him out of bed before ten o’clock.
I suck in a big whiff of air through my nose to ensure the cold I had last week isn’t still messing with my senses. Once I’m certain the air is free of anything remotely close to sugared-up eggs and toast and my nasal cavities are clear of germs, I pivot, climb the three stairs I just galloped down, then head for Joey’s room to see if he needs help getting out of bed.
Joey has cardiomyopathy. It’s a disease that affects his heart muscles. He’s had it for a few years, but it has only slowed him down the prior twelve months. Lately, just getting out of bed causes him to become breathless, and his legs often swell to the point he looks like he skips arm day at the gym.
“Joey…” His door pops open another two inches when I rack my knuckles across the wood. “Are you decent? I don’t want any more incidents recorded on your ledger.”
Joey may be sick and essentially classed as an adult since he turned eighteen almost a year ago, but he’s still very much a teenage boy. His antics are as adventurous as Madden and Phoenix’s, they’re just not as crude.
A grin tugs at my lips when Joey permits me to enter his room after the clunk of a magazine dropping to the floor to be shoved under his bed sounds through my ears. I’m doubtful he’s reading one of those fancy-schmancy magazines our father purchases our mother with the hope it will glam her up before he commences his bid for Congress, and I’m just as confident despite its high price tag, there’s barely anything inside it to read.
Joey flips the bird at me when I mutter under my breath, “Do you mark masturbation down on the movement activity sheet Dr. Giorgio makes you fill in?” Laughing, I flop onto the lower half of his bed not taken up by his long legs. Even with him only being a year older than me, he’s four inches taller. “It will save her trying to work out the spikes in your pulse.”
I nudge my head to the monitor next to his bed. Although my ribbing is returning his heart rate to a safe level, there’s no missing the large valleys on the printout Dr. Giorgio doesn’t need to physically assess to scrutinize. Joey’s equipment is so advanced, it relays everything directly to his doctor’s servers. “She might give you a bit of leeway if you say you were batting off to her.”
“Does that work with Mr. Gregg?” I act stumped by his reply, but Joey knows me too well. Probably has something to do with the fact we’re only eleven months apart. “Does he give you a bit of leeway when you tell him you choke the sausage over his daughter every single morning in the shower?”
