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Aurnia
His name was Conor. Conor. I knew his name and it was Conor!
Even though I had just been essentially kicked out onto the curb with nothing more than a thin jacket, a muddy backpack, and a broom, I couldn’t help but smile. The alleyway was lined with dumpsters teeming with rats, but I was smiling. Those moments were rare and so I wasn’t going to spoil a good thing.
With an almost childlike glee, I rushed back at the door after Conor slammed it shut. I didn’t hope to pry it back open; I knew he’d locked it the second the hinges had stopped rattling enough to allow him. But heart beating and eyes wide, I wanted to hear what was being said inside. I pressed my ear to the grey metal door covered in gang tags and closed my eyes, fingers next to my head like I was dreaming.
Was this what it felt like to have siblings? To have older brothers who shoved you out of their room and didn’t want you around their “cool” friends? With my eyes closed I could almost imagine I was in a carpeted hallway with those streaks you get when your mom vacuums. Could almost feel the crappy band poster on the door I was snooping at. That it wasn’t piss and stale beer I was smelling, but instead Dad’s famous meatloaf cooking downstairs and my brothers’ horrible body spray, applied heavily in lieu of a shower.
I laughed a little because the fantasy was all a little ridiculous. I mean, Mason wanted to fuck me (that wasn’t happening). Rian probably wouldn’t remember my name the next day. And Conor? Well…Conor had literally thrown me out onto the street three times now. They were also all almost twice my age.
I guess what made me feel the way that I felt was because they were a family. An odd, created family, but a family, nonetheless. I’d known it the second I saw the three of them together, how they seemed to communicate with one another without speaking, without me knowing what was going on. I’d just wanted to be a part of that, to insert myself into that. It wasn’t their fault that I was fucked up.
It didn’t take long for the three of them to raise their voices loud enough for me to hear them.
“None of that matters,” I heard Conor growl, “all that matters is that I don’t want her here.”
This didn’t hurt as much as one would think. I mean, it wasn’t exactly hot-off-the-press news at that point.
“But why?” Rian asked. “You still haven’t said why.”
“And I don’t fucking have to,” Conor replied.
I covered my mouth to conceal a burst of laughter. They sounded like old hens bickering at one another. With the granny decorum of the parlour, all the three of them needed was a set of hand-woven shawls to complete the image.
“Is it because I want to bang her?” Mason asked.
That wasn’t exactly news either. I wasn’t sure Mason even knew the word “finesse”. His game was a full-frontal attack. I preferred a bit of a slow burn. A chase. Tension building and building till…
“Wait,” Mason said, interrupting my thought, “wait, is it because you want to bang her?”
“No one is banging her,” Conor snapped. “She is seventeen years old. The reason she is not working here is because I said so.”
I pressed my ear tighter to the door.
“That’s not a very good reason, Conor.”
“No?” Conor said. “Well, I don’t care.”
“You’re such a dick sometimes,” Mason said.
“At least I don’t think with mine all the time,” Conor shot back.
I heard something break against the wall and then laughing.
“How fucking old are you?” Conor said with humour in his voice before asking, “Is Miss Last Night still asleep upstairs?”
“I like the ones that come down and make us pancakes,” Rian said. “Is this one going to make us pancakes?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Mason laughed. “It’s a miracle if I even remember their names.”
“One of them made a smile in the pancake,” Rian said. I could hear that there was a smile on his lips. “That was nice.”
“Susan,” Mason said.
“Sally,” Conor said.
“I wonder what else you could draw on a pancake,” Rian said. “Do we have flour?”
