Knee Pads - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

My entire kitchen stank of alcohol.
I carefully poured an entire bottle of scotch down the sink, being as silent as possible so as to not disturb the ghosts or noisy family members, while my brother muttered incoherently somewhere behind me. I had become desensitized to these occurrences long ago and, at this point, this was just another regular Thursday afternoon for me.
Even the smell, fiery and strong like a goddamn punch to the gut, was just one of those things.
"I'm sorry," Jordan blabbered. That, too, easily faded into the background. "I'm sorry, Wren. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."
I knew he was. Like my mother always said, we couldn't expect him to suddenly know right from wrong or to stop doing things that greatly damaged his health—or whatever was left of it by now.
I also knew I sounded like the worst sister on the entire planet, but I still thought he needed to be held accountable for his actions. After the miserable summer I'd had, stuck in Sacramento for three months because of him, after the miserable years of my life I'd spent watching him go in and out of hospitals and clinics, I was slowly reaching my breaking point.
He'd fuck up, I'd clean up the mess, then he'd apologize. He'd swear he would never ever do it again and we'd all believe him. Rinse. Repeat.
Huffing through my mouth, so I wouldn't inhale the smell, I opened the faucet. The water gurgled inside the sink, easily blocking out Jordan's voice, and my fingers clenched around the bottle. It was one of those expensive ones, something I'd never consider spending my salary on, and there I was, emptying the entire thing.
"I don't know how long I can keep doing this, Jo," I eventually said. To keep my sanity, I also had to keep my back turned to him. The kitchen spun around me like a carousel, the bright-yellow cabinets blurring. "I feel like we're going in circles."
"I don't know what to do," he whispered, voice slurring. I sniffled, throwing out the bottle. Everything was so quiet I could hear him breathing, even from the opposite end of the room. "I don't know what to do anymore."
It took me half an eternity to find the courage to face him.
In theory, in blood, the carcass of a man sitting at the kitchen table was my brother, all right. Jordan Wu. I'd known him all my life, yet he had never looked more like a stranger to me than he currently did.
His cheeks were sunken into his skull, which, compared to the empty eyes, dark circles, and ashen skin, made him look like a corpse. Staying at my parents' house during the summer meant I had to see him every day and seeing him every day meant witnessing his decay—day after day after day.
The days quickly faded into one another, imprisoning me in an unhealthy routine of searching the entire house for hidden bottles of alcohol, invading my brother's privacy, and pretending I don't feel disgusted with the entire situation. I was the one who had to listen to him scream from the top of his lungs that he hated me, that I was ruining his life.
Everyone kept telling me he didn't mean it. He wasn't the one saying those things. He wasn't in control.
I was supposed to be the one in control of all the emotions that came pouring out of me whenever those things happened. I was supposed to not be hurt. I was supposed to compartmentalize it and not let it get to me.
Well, shit.
"Please don't tell Mom and Dad," he begged, voice cracking. I didn't know how to explain my scotch-coated clothes, or the splinters of glass woven into my hair to my parents. It wasn't one of my—our—proudest moments; it was, in fact, a whole new low. Until now, he had never gotten violent with anyone, especially not with me. "Please, Wren."
I didn't know what to do. Even though I knew he needed me, there was only so much I could do. I wasn't a therapist, nor was I qualified to provide any actual help. Everything about Jordan's situation fled out of my control, and I hated it. Wasn't I supposed to always have the answer to everything? Wasn't I supposed to fix things?
"I don't know, Jordan," I admitted, though it pained me greatly to do so. His face fell as he, too, expected me to know what to do or what to say. "I don't know what I'm going to do. You just threw a bottle at me."
"I didn't mean—"
"You just threw a bottle at me! I could have died, Jordan!"
His jaw clenched and I instantly regretted opening my mouth to raise my voice. It wasn't something I did often, as I was used to having people listen to me even if I spoke quietly, but I had already thrown all carefulness away.
What was the point?
"So you're telling them," he dryly concluded.
"I said I didn't know what I was going to do."
"And you think it's a good idea to hold that against me? So I have to be in a constant state of anxiety and worry about what you might do?"
I had to remind myself this wasn't him. I wanted to believe that so bad, with every fiber of strength in my being, but my knees were already buckling. My brain wanted me to run away, out of fear the next bottle would hit me, but I was growing roots in front of the kitchen sink.
I was a goddamn coward.
"I'm going to my room and clear my head," I muttered. "I need . . . I need to take a shower."
He just nodded. I exited the kitchen, inhaled the smoke, and fled towards my bedroom, stomping my feet against the staircase. It felt like a thunderstorm, both thanks to the noise and to my paralyzing fear of thunder, combined with the incessant, stubborn pounding of my heart.
In the safety of the four walls of my bedroom, I finally allowed myself to breathe. That didn't stop my hands from shaking, rendering me unable to hold on to something to keep my balance, and I eventually fell to my bed. My phone, resting next to my pillow, lit up with a notification.
THEO, 4:11 PM: Wanna come over?
I frowned.
Out of every moment Theo could have used to text me, that was the worst one possible. Timing had never been our strong suit, so I supposed I shouldn't be that surprised, but I still barely found the courage and the energy to pick up the phone and reply.
ME, 4:12 PM: Probably not. It's not a good day.
THEO, 4:12 PM: Do you want to talk about it?
Theo had plenty of great qualities, and being a good listener was one of them. However, I wasn't sure whether it was the right thing to open up about family problems or not, as Jordan was pissed off enough as it was. Making things worse by getting Theo involved would not be a good idea.
I did, however, need to blow off some steam. Sex with Theo, no strings attached, as we always did, would help.
ME, 4:12 PM: Family problems. It's no big deal.
THEO, 4:13 PM: So . . . come over? Mayhaps?
ME, 4:13 PM: Jordan problems. Not gonna happen.
Theo's response was quick.
Shortly after sending that text—giving her enough time to read it, process it, realize what I meant by 'Jordan problems'—my phone vibrated with another notification. Now, she was calling me.
Hearing her voice should be comforting. As soon as I picked up and heard that 'Wren', I collapsed.
"I just don't know what to do anymore," I whispered, after explaining the entire thing, contrary to my best judgment. I could hear the melody of a song playing softly in the background, on her side of the line, but she wasn't even humming along to it. "I don't know what to tell my parents. Jordan is going to hate me forever if I tell them."
"Babe," she said, almost begging. We weren't together, so she wasn't under any obligation to be that sweet or use those nicknames when it was just the two of us (not that she was if we were, in fact, dating), but it felt like a hug through the phone, one I didn't even know I needed. "I think you need to be honest with them. It's a dangerous situation, both for you and for Jordan. Are you safe? Should I drive there?"
"No, no. No. Don't come over." I gulped, eyes glued to my bedroom door. Everything was silent and I knew Jordan was in no condition to walk quietly. If he were to walk up the stairs, I'd hear him. "It's fine. I'm okay. My parents should be back anytime now—"
"Wren, it's dangerous." She lowered her voice. "I know he's sick, I know he has a problem, I know he's your brother, but I can't just let you stay there like that."
"I know." I sighed, running my free hand through my hair. My fingers weren't as shaky anymore and my vision was slowly going back to normal, but there was no way of slowing my heart rate. "I know, Theo. Just . . . don't come over, okay? I'll be fine."
"Call me," she pleaded. "Call me as soon as your parents get home."
"I will," I promised.
I did. We never spoke about it again, and I drove to her house right after.
It was easier that way.
▂ ▂ ▂ ▂ ▂
The bad news came a week after The Incident.
I hadn't opened my mouth to tell the truth to my parents and, considering Theo and I never spoke about it, I was determined to forget about it and move on with my life. Jordan stayed silent as well, refusing to acknowledge that afternoon, and I hadn't spotted a single bottle of alcohol around the house ever since.
To me, that was progress. It was good. My life was slowly falling back into place, my world returning to its axis.
Then, my parents sat us both down in the living room.
"We'd like to talk to the both of you about something important," my mother carefully began. She twisted her hands around each other, both set over her lap, as though she was scared of something. She thought about her words carefully. "We understand it's not easy and everything coming forward won't be, either, but, if we want to move forward, we'll have to do so together. Everyone has to be on board for it to work."
Jordan, who hadn't said a word to me all week, shifted in his seat.
"After receiving some . . . not so great news," she continued, "we've finally decided to put our money where our mouths are and do something we should have done a long time ago." She glanced at Jordan, then at me. I knew what it was—I knew what had triggered this conversation. My stomach churned. "We want to help you Jordan, we do, but there are certain things . . . there are certain things we can no longer enable. Certain actions."
Jordan buried his face in his hands, while I stared at my parents in disbelief. My mother was usually the one who made all the important decisions, so I wasn't surprised to hear her talk, but I wasn't thinking about that the most.
I was overcome with a wave of betrayal, my phone burning against my jacket's pocket. The worst thing about being stabbed in the back was that you had to trust the other person beforehand; knowing I had confided in Theo, just to have her act behind my back, left me sick to my stomach.
"Jordan, we love you," my father said. "That's why we've . . . we found a clinic. A really, really good one, this time. The reviews are positive—very positive—and we think this might be the one. The only problem . . . is that it's in, well, Connecticut."
"Connecticut," I echoed.
"Connecticut," he confirmed. "Like your mother said, this is something we all have to go through together. Family-based therapy is a foundation of the treatment they're offering, and we can't do it if someone's missing. We're handling your college situation," he added, as soon as I opened my mouth to point out exactly that, "and you won't have to worry about missing out on anything. We'll be okay."
Connecticut.
Connecticut was literally all the way across the country, so far away from my sunny, warm California, and I didn't want to give up on UCLA. My academic career meant the absolute world to me, after I had spent years and years of my life building up my school resume to turn in the perfect application.
I was on top of the world when I got into the college of my dreams. Now, even that was being ripped out of my hands as if my hard work, my life meant close to nothing.
It was . . . catastrophic. Between Theo's betrayal, Jordan, and the prospect of losing UCLA, I couldn't tell which of those factors was stealing all the oxygen left in my lungs. There were barely any pain receptors in the lungs, so all the pain, all the shortness of breath had to come from somewhere else.
My heart. Probably. That was, quite likely, what a broken heart felt like—the emptiness, the numbness, the aching pain that didn't reside where you wanted it to, the sense of despair.
"I'm going to kill Theo," I said. "I'm going to kill her."
"Theo was worried about you, Wren," my mother argued, "and rightfully so! Why didn't you tell us? In fact, why didn't any of you tell us about what happened last week?"
I glanced at Jordan, who never returned the gesture. He stayed there, right where he was, whimpering like an injured dog. My chest was heavy, like there was an anchor weighing me down.
"She had no right to do that. I begged her not to—"
"You could have gotten hurt, Wren!" my father insisted, while stinging hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. "Theo was just being a good friend—"
"She's not my friend, Dad! I've been seeing her, no strings attached, for the past year and a half, and neither of you ever cared enough to notice!" They eyed each other. This wasn't how I ever meant to come out to them, but, since we had all decided to be absolute jerks to one another, there I was, too. "Now you know! I'm gay. Shove me into a—"
"We don't care if you're gay, Wren," my mother muttered, with all the patience in the world. "We just want you to be happy, safe, and healthy—both of you. Please don't think everything we do, every decision we make is to make you angry or to hurt you. We know you love UCLA"—I looked away from them, knowing damn well I wouldn't be able to stop crying if I ever started—"but maybe you'll love Connecticut, too."
"What's in Connecticut, anyway? Just a bunch of mean people and old trees—"
"Well, there's Yale."
"Yale."
"We know . . . a few people on the board. They were impressed with your application and—"
"Oh, so now you want me to go to Yale because you pulled a few strings with the board? How do you think that makes me feel?" I sprung up from the couch. "I didn't earn that. I earned UCLA."
"I'll go," Jordan said, finally breaking his silence, and we all turned to face him. "I'll go. If Mom and Dad can afford it . . . if it's good . . . if it helps . . . I want to go." He dropped his hands and looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. "Please, Wren. Please."
I couldn't argue with that. Everyone in the room knew that. I wasn't going to be the one to hinder my own brother's recovery—not after everything we'd gone through.
That wasn't going to be me. I wasn't going to end up like him.
"Fine," I acquiesced. "I'm still going to kill Theo."