Prissy Little Bitch

This is dedicated to all of the siblings out there that we love to hate and hate to love. This chapter is from my memoir, UNBECOMING, which I hope to get published one day.

Harry was the happiest kid. He was full of energy and constantly making everyone laugh. He got in trouble a lot for being mischievous, but his quick wit often saved him from punishment. When he was in a good mood, there was no one you’d rather play with. But there were times when his jovial attitude gave way to a darker side, and then hold onto your fucking hat, because you were in for it. Like the time we got into an argument in my bedroom, and the yelling escalating until BAM! Harry punched me square in the mouth. We were both shocked, and stared at each other wordlessly until finally I said, “YOU DICK! NOW THE TOOTH FAIRY ISN’T GOING TO COME.” We both dropped to the floor, surveying the carpet for any signs of a tooth, no longer brother and sister, but a team with a single goal in mind.

“I got it,” Harry held his hand in the air, displaying my tooth between his fingers. Phew! I would get a visit from the tooth fairy tonight. All was forgiven. This was often the dynamic, especially as we got a little older. Everything would be fine, and then, out of nowhere, he’d get pissed and explode. One day our mom walked into Mark’s bedroom to find him quietly perusing the DSM, the handbook used by health professionals to diagnose mental disorders. Mark was eight. She said, “Mark, what are you doing?”

He said, “I’m diagnosing Harry.”

“And?”

“And I think he has Explosive Personality Disorder.”

To be fair, I think my dad and I fall into this category as well, but I’m talking about Harry now. Whether it was playing basketball, badminton, ping pong or any other game, it would always end with someone getting hurt. A mundane game of basketball with our cousins, April and Ecky, would turn into an NBA championship. Someone would get fouled and then the four of us would be on the ground, pummeling one another, in a boys versus girls brawl. April and I were older so we’d usually win, but as we aged, our little brothers got stronger and the fights got dicier, until someone got the wind knocked out of them.

Most of the time Harry would kick my ass. He was naturally athletic and it pissed me off. Occasionally, I’d catch up and take the lead, only to notice a big grin on his face, followed by my noticing the ping pong paddle in his left hand instead of his dominant right. “PLAY NORMAL,” I’d scream, and he’d laugh even harder. He relished my anger and mocked me with huge belly laughs before serving the ball as hard as he could.

On rare occasions, I’d get into a zone and hold my own. If he was playing with his dominant hand, this did not go over well. The intensity would build with each exchange until we reached game point. We’d be sweating and panting, this game having become the most important thing in our lives. Then I’d win, and without so much as a second to celebrate, his ping pong paddle would come flying across the table at my face. He flung it like a huntsman with an axe, intent on killing his prey with one shot. I ducked under the table and flinched when his paddle hit the wall behind me. “WHAT THE FUCK, HARRY?” I jumped up enraged, but also cautious in case something else might come flying my way.

“FUCK YOU, BITCH!”

The intensity with which he said it made me crack up, as did he, and we’d start playing again like nothing had happened. I just needed to be ready to duck if I had another good game. Mark and I talked about this recently and he said, “Why didn’t you just let him win? That’s how I handled it.” For some reason, I never thought of that. But if I could go back in time, I’d do it all over again. No way would I let him win if I could beat him.

Sometimes we’d play doubles with Mark and our dad. If my partner and I were doing well, I’d high five them, except they’d never high five me back. It didn’t matter who it was, none of them would reciprocate. They’d reach out like they were all in for a good five, and then pull away at the last second and laugh. To this day, they still do this. Etched on my tombstone will be the words, “All I ever wanted was a high five.”

Harry was better at everything than I, except school, which he hated. He would do anything to get out of going, except get good grades. We’d come home with our report cards and my mom and dad would say, “Straight A’s again, Rachael and Mark. Great job.” And then they’d look at Harry’s report card, “C’s? That’s fantastic. Let’s put this one on the fridge.” One year in particular was especially bad, and Harry had to go to summer school. I was annoyed because I was the one who had to drive him. I said, “Couldn’t you at least get D’s? You hate school and now you have to do it all summer. That doesn’t make any sense.” It got to the point where our parents didn’t know what to do anymore, so my dad made us all pile into the minivan for a family therapy session. I found it painful. The psychiatrist made us do a bunch of weird things like take turns arranging each other into different configurations to show how we perceived the hierarchy within our family. Worse than that was sitting in a circle to discuss why each of us thought Harry wasn’t doing his homework. This, followed by what did we think about the session? When it was finally my turn, I was furious. I was here instead of hanging out with friends, which was all that mattered to me in high school. I said, “Personally, I think this is stupid and a waste of time. Harry is just lazy and doesn’t like homework, and now we’re all suffering because of it.”

My dad LOVED this. It awakened his arrogance and superiority, and he lived vicariously through me when I said this. He’s brought it up many times since, which makes me feel proud and horrible at the same time. If I could go back in time and apologize to this therapist for being so disrespectful, I would. But I’d still feel the same way about that ridiculous session.

When we were in elementary school, Harry made friends everywhere he went, unlike me. I was shy and introverted. He was an extrovert. He would look out the window, see a kid walking down the street, and say, “Hey, I bet they want to play with me.” And then he’d run out and ask them to play. I envied him. I wished I had his self-esteem. He knew I wasn’t as secure, so when he’d get mad at me, he’d use that against me. “No one likes you, Rachael. Not Mom, not Dad, not Mark, not even Isabel.” I’d look at our dog, and I swear Isabel would roll her eyes at me. Shit, he was right, she probably didn’t like me. She did let me dress her up in my clothes, though, even my First Communion dress, which was a feat to pull over the body of a chocolate Labrador retriever, so she must have at least liked me a little.

When Mom and Dad would leave us with a babysitter, though, Harry and I became a team. That meant that for about a year, 6-year-old Mark would practice throwing knives at us. As soon as our parents were out the door, the babysitter, Harry and I would lock eyes with Mark, who’d transform into an assassin. He’d pivot toward us like a wild animal ready to pounce, then start target practice. We’d duck behind furniture, somehow averting the knives. Thank God he had horrible aim. I asked him the other day if this really happened and he said, “Yeah, I think it’s because we were watching a bunch of inappropriate violent action movies back then.”

He had a point. I do remember teetering around the couch when I was just three years old, catching glimpses of Fatal Attraction. Though that wasn’t as scarring as when they left The Handmaid’s Tale in the VCR and my cousin and I watched the whole thing while the babysitter sat in the other room talking to her boyfriend on the phone. Jude always hired the worst babysitters. At her wits’ end with the three of us, she would drive around the neighborhood with her window down, calling out to random teenagers on the street. “Do you babysit?” She’d drive to the next street. “What about you? Do you babysit?” We’d be wide-eyed in the back of the car, wondering who the next victim would be. Because to be fair, we were not the best kids to babysit. The sitters my mom found would barely lift a finger, so I’d end up changing the diapers and taking care of my brothers. Just a kid myself, I had no idea what I was doing. I’d use an entire roll of paper towel to change one diaper. No way was I getting their gross poop on my fingers. I needed as much paper between me and their butts as possible. I once got so fed up with one babysitter in particular that I locked her in the basement. Unfortunately, she had a phone down there and called my mom.

Harry and I were closest during our high school years. We liked to party. When we were both in a good mood and on the same wavelength, we had a blast. We’d drink, smoke weed, and hang out with each other’s friends, laughing until it hurt.

But we were either really good or really bad, and that changed from moment to moment. I’d drive us to school each morning and we’d pick up our cousins, April and Ecky, on the way. Harry and I would walk out to my car and things would be going fine. Then he’d do something like set his Mountain Dew on the roof of my car and forget it. We’d pull out of the driveway and the cup would fall and spill sticky green liquid all over my windshield. I’d slam on the brakes and yell at him, and he’d immediately yell back. I’d say “Get the hell out,” and he’d get in my face like he was going to punch me and say, “YOU get the fuck out.” He said it in such a violent and threatening way that I’d whisper, “fuck you,” slump down in my seat, and drive on, defeated. We’d turn onto the main road after a few silent, angry streets. Then he’d turn his head to see if anyone was coming from the right, blocking my sightline. His giant noggin irritated me every time, and he loved it. He laughed as soon as he heard me sigh and then I laughed, too, that is until we turned onto the road and I noticed him starting at me smiling. “What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

And then I smelled it. “Oh Jesus, Harry, that wreaks. At least roll down the window.”

“You know you like the smell of my brand.”

“Ugh, I’m going to throw up.”

We’d get to April and Ecky’s house and Ecky would run out, throw his backpack in the back, and get in his seat. “Where’s April?” I’d ask.

“Oh, that bitch? She’s coming. She’s taking forever as usual.”

April would come out and yell at Ecky about something that happened between them that morning. And that was our morning routine for years.

***

After college, Harry, Mark, and I all found ourselves back home as we looked for jobs and figured out what to do with our lives. It didn’t take long before my dad had had enough of this situation. He came home from work one night, looked at us, and said, “There are too many adults in this house. You two, go out and find a place to live.”

“Us?” I said, pointing at me and Harry. I was pretty sure he was motioning towards us because Mark was a few feet away in the kitchen.

“Yeah, and don’t come home until you have an application for an apartment.”

“But I can’t afford an apartment on my salary,” I said. “And I haven’t made any friends down here yet who I can room with.”

“I can’t afford one, either,” Harry said.

“Well then, it looks like you’re moving in together,” my dad said. “Harry, I’ll help pay your part of the rent until you get a job.”

Harry and I drove around and found the only place that seemed affordable. It was on the edge of a crappy neighborhood, but it looked nice enough. We couldn’t believe that we had to live together. Never in a million years would we have envisioned nor wanted this, yet here we were.

We both describe that year as the worst of our lives. We were both depressed as we struggled to adjust to adulting and the harsh realization that our carefree, party days might be behind us. We tried to make the best of it, or rather, Harry did. I was shocked to discover that he was more of a homemaker than me. Maybe shocked is the wrong word, since, like our mother, I didn’t have a domestic bone in my body, but I was surprised. He’d bring home a Christmas tree and hang stockings on the mantle and even string lights on the balcony. He would decorate for every holiday. Sometimes he’d also make me budding beef sandwiches, a favorite of my parents,’ who continued to buy this 49-cent lunch meat even when they were no longer poor. They never seemed to grasp that they had money – that they were wealthy, even – so they maintained most habits from their past lives. When I moved home after four years of eating ramen noodles and fast food, my mom said, “I just went to the store, so we’ve got lots of food in the house – ramen noodles, White Castle burgers in the freezer and all kinds of other stuff.”

“And Spam,” my dad added.

“Gross. I’ve been eating that crap for the last four years. Except Spam. That’s disgusting. What’s wrong with you guys? You have MONEY now. Why can’t you buy good food?”

“That is good food,” my mom said, sounding shocked. My dad nodded in agreement.

I feel bad looking back that I didn’t appreciate Harry’s gestures to help make us a happy home. He was trying to make the best of it and I was a moody bitch. But, in my defense, Harry could be a moody bitch, too.

Like when my dad gave him money to buy us groceries. I stopped by my parents’ house for a quick visit one day and my dad said, “Hey, I know you’ve been buying the majority of the groceries, so I gave Harry some money to get you guys some stuff for a change.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Just out of curiosity, how much did you give him?”

“About a hundred dollars,” he said.

I smiled and said, “Good to know.”

When I got back to the apartment, Harry was putting a loaf of bread on the counter.

“Hey, what’s up?” I said.

“Hey, I got us some groceries.”

“Oh cool, what did you get us?”

“Well, I didn’t have a lot of money, so I just got us this bread, some Budding Beef, and this bag of oranges. Oh, and a gallon of water,” he said.

“Oh, really? Well, I just talked to Dad and he said he gave you $100, so nice try.” I was pissed. I knew he’d pull this shit. I picked up the bag of oranges and held it like I was inspecting a rare specimen. I spun it around slowly, then dropped it on the counter and said, “These oranges look TERRIBLE. You might as well have thrown your money in the trash.”

And then something unleashed in Harry. His whole body transformed. He stood tall and strong, as if he’d turned into an Ultimate Fighting Championship wrestler, his 6-foot-tall body towering over me, and said, “THEN DON’T EAT THEM, YOU PRISSY LITTLE BITCH!” He lunged at me like he was going to throw me down in the ring, then run and jump off the side of the ropes for a full body slam.

For a minute, neither of us said a word as we faced off…and then we both burst out laughing. Our family quotes that line to this day. If I do anything remotely annoying or prissy, somebody dusts off that line.

Since we were both depressed, we didn’t keep the apartment in tip- top shape. And since we were siblings, we had no incentive to ensure domestic harmony by creating a fair division of labor. And so, the trash accumulated until it became overwhelming. Eventually, Harry would cave and say, “Okay, there are too many bags to carry down. How about I pull my truck up to the curb, and you throw the bags over to me, and then we can drive them to the dumpster.”

Sounded like a plan to me. I tossed them, one by one, from our second-floor balcony, sometimes as many as 10 big black trash bags, Harry would toss into the back of his pickup. I’d run downstairs to help him finish the job, and as soon as I reached for the passenger door, he’d pull forward slightly so that my hand would miss the handle. He did this several times in a row until we’d covered an entire street, creating a spectacle for anyone who might be watching. I’d eventually yell at him, and then he’d drive faster and pretend like we were a hillbilly couple, screaming things like “Get in the car you, dumb bitch! Get in the fucking car!” I could have killed him.

I started grad school while we were still living together, and would go to work from 9 to 5, and then school from 6 to 9. My drive home was about 20 minutes – 30 with traffic – and I’d be deliriously tired by then. One evening I called him to see what he was up to, and he said, “Oh, you’re hungry? Well, good news, I got us a delicious sushi dinner.”

“You did?” I said, surprised and delighted.

“Nope,” he said, and busted out laughing.

“Goddammit, Harry. That’s not funny. I’m starving.”

“I’m just kidding. I did get us food.”

“Oh, phew, I was thinking that was a dick move,” I said.

“Well, then you’re not going to like the fact that I’m lying again,” Harry said, and laughed even harder.

“Fuck off.” I hung up.

When I got home, I walked in the door and he was sitting there, not with sushi, but with a pizza box on his lap. I was relieved. He did get us food.

And then I noticed the lid of the opened box said: “Rachael’s pizza. Do not eat.” That jerk was eating my leftovers.

I said, “You better have saved some for me.”

He turned the box around towards me to show me the inside, which was empty, and he laughed until his eyes teared up.

He also liked to embarrass me, like the time a guy I was dating long-distance came to town for a visit. I had a huge zit on my chin, so big that no amount of concealer could hide it. Harry, Brandon, and I sat on the porch and Harry dealt the cards for a game of three-man Euchre. He dealt first to Brandon, then to me, then to himself; then he smiled and said, “Should I deal your other friend in too?”

I looked at him, confused. “Who?”

His smile broadened as he touched his chin with his finger. “This friend.”

I didn’t look at Brandon to see if he noticed. I was red-faced and mad, but I also found it hilariously clever.

More embarrassing still was the time he and my mom drove to the local university where I worked to pick me up for lunch. They pulled up in the parking lot and I walked over in my little Banana Republic suit and heels, feeling particularly confident that day. Harry leaned out the driver’s side window and yelled, “Rachael, hurry up!” I started running, thinking there must be a reason, and then he added, “You’re gonna be late for your colonoscopy!”

Harry and I were either the best of friends or the worst of enemies. When it was good, we laughed our asses off, partied the night away, and were totally in sync. I will always remember going to a bar with our friends, drinking a few too many beers, and heading to the bathroom. Staying Alive was playing when I exited the bathroom, which happened to be precisely as Harry was exiting the men’s room at the other end of the hallway. We stepped out, turned towards each other, and performed the synchronized dance from Saturday Night Fever, pointing our arms up to the right and then down across our bodies to the left. Nothing could ruin this night.

Not even us.