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I scream out again. “What the fuck?!”
He shoved my entire underwear drawer into the trash can. All my brand new lace panties are now sitting at the bottom of the bag.
“Colin!” I scream out.
I hear racing sounds in the background on the TV in his room, aggravating me further.
“Colin!” I scream even louder.
“W-what does Pickle need?” he finally responds from behind the door.
“Get your ass out here, now!”
My nostrils are flaring, my breaths coming out in hot waves. I'm at my limit.
“No,” he says softly in the distance. “No.”
“Colin?!”
“No,” he says decidedly. “Pickle’s mad. I’m not going to bring myself out. Pickle’s mad.”
My patience with him is beyond tested. It’s hard for me to not strangle him the way I’d like. So instead of strangling him, I do him one better. I march into his bright ass room, kicking away another Happy Meal box as I do, and stand directly in front of his TV.
“If you’d move, I could see my races. If you’d move, Pickle.”
“Why are you touching my underwear again?” I seethe through clenched teeth.
He refuses to look at me. Instead, he looks down at his favorite yellow-striped button-up shirt, straightening out the edges of it and patting them down as he leans back into his oversized reclining chair. The same one he sleeps in every night.
“Answer me, Colin, or I swear to God, I’ll pour Sprite all over your racing tapes!” I warn, my eyes wide in a crazed madness, holding up a half-empty McDonald’s cup from the stand near his old-fashioned television with the tape deck.
“Thongs aren’t healthy, Pickle,” he says, still looking down. “Thongs are a bad idea. You can get infections from spreading your feces into your vagina. It...it’s not healthy. I want you to be healthy.”
“First of all—” I begin, pointing my finger at him.
I stall, because how fucking disgusting is it to have your older brother say feces and vagina in the same sentence? “Clean this shit up, Colin!” I yell instead, tossing a packaged toy car at him. “And stop touching my underwear! Final warning!”
Frustrated, I march into the kitchen, pulling all my new underwear out of the trash and putting them into the washer immediately. I pull out a new bag and begin grabbing garbage from the counter, shoving it inside.
He walks towards me, twisting his fingers until they all cross and then uncross, showcasing just how stressed out I’m making him with my attitude.
“Y-you’re mad,” he says. “I made you mad.”
I take a deep breath and slowly blow it out. Sometimes I just need to take a minute and calm down with him.
“I’m upset, yes.” I wipe my hands down my face. “You spent more than your allowance, Colin. We have to be careful with money. I've told you this.”
He dips his head down, not wanting to look at me.
I sigh again. “You shouldn’t be eating this crap anyways. We’ve talked about this. It’s not good for your stomach, all this grease.”
“I-I just…It’s NASCAR at McDonald’s. They’re...it’s NASCAR, and I really like NASCAR, and I want, or what I mean to say is, I really need to collect the NASCAR from McDonald’s. It’s from McDonald’s.”
He twists and untwists his fingers again, finally looking up at me and making eye contact before dropping his gaze back to the floor. He peers back up at me sheepishly, and I give him a quick, reassuring grin.
“NASCAR, huh?” I drop my hand to my hip, pressing the other to my forehead. “They’re promoting the races this month?”
“Yes, NASCAR. I wanted to collect all the cars for my collection. NASCAR. I’ve got four of my five favorite stock cars already, but I’ll need another Happy Meal to get the 1987 Ford Thunderbird, the onetheBill Elliott drove on the Talladega Superspeedway that reached 202.198 miles per hour and is still the—”
