Jelly Beans

It's been four hours since I last came out of my room, and several more since I've eaten anything substantial. A growling noise erupts from my wendigo of a stomach, filling the room and bouncing from wall to wall before returning to lash at my eardrums. I take that as my cue to get up.

Climbing down from my loft bed is, you could say, a rather tall order when the ceiling fan is running, so of course, it's turned off. If it wasn't for my window fan (which isn't really in the window), it would be ninety in here.

It's still, like, eighty-nine.

I ignore my sibling and the associated pings and incomprehensible rambling that come with her obsessive game-playing and step over piles of her trash and belongings to get to the door. She pauses.

"Is dad sleeping?" she inquires, speech somewhat slurred and words oddly formed, a curse caused by autism that follows her and makes it hard for others to understand her.

Not me, though. I've been with her for fourteen years, going on fifteen. I know her speech patterns better than most, maybe even better than our parents.

I roll my eyes. "No, he's not sleeping."

"Oh," is all she says in reply. There's a pause, and I wrap my fingers around the doorknob. Just as I begin to turn it, and the ever-present, always unpleasant creak begins to sound, she says, "Mom be home soon."

I don't reply, instead throwing the door open the rest of the way and taking quick steps into the hallway. I can hear it hit the mound of miscellaneous toys behind me, making a tremendous racket, and the muffled sounds of the television grow louder, more defined as I come closer.

Not a minute has passed, and I'm in the living room. I'm just passing through. I don't spare my dad even a glance as I quickly round the corner into the kitchen- in fact, I purposely avoid eye contact. Still, out of the corner of my eye, I see him, hear him, pause his show and shimmy forward so he's leaning over, resting his arms on his knees. I purse my lips as I back-track, grabbing the bowl of dry cereal from earlier this morning off of the coffee table. I'd hardly touched it, so it was a suitable meal.

From the corner of my eye, I see him open him mouth to say something, and immediately, dread courses through me and my mood sours. I tense, but I try not to show it as I open the refrigerator and grab the milk, casually turning away to set it on the counter.

There. Now you don't have to face him, I think.

His voice is loud but quiet, calm in a false sort of way, casual in the way that you know you're in for an argument. "What happened to the black jelly beans?" He asks, and I know I should lie, say I don't know-

"I ate them."

- but I can't. Why not? Why do I always end up telling the truth? Is he right when he says I look for trouble, that I argue for the sake of it?? I wonder these things as  I curse myself in the moment, and yet I do not know. I do not know the answers to these questions, and at the same time as I know that that's why I ask them, I get frustrated with myself for not knowing the answer.

He curses, and I am alert. I am ready to fight- only verbally, of course, it'd never go further than that; no, he wouldn't, because that could send him to jail.

"All of them?!"

There were only seven, I think, exasperated. "Yeah?" I reply, feigning casualty. In reality, my heart is beating too quickly, my muscles are too tense, and my mind is racing too fast and yet, at the same time, far too blank, for this to be a real, casual interaction. I pour milk on my cereal and quickly screw the cap on, drawing a breath before spinning around to face him.

Well, not really him; I just needed to get to the refrigerator. I take a few steps toward it, the floorboards creaking beneath me as a constant reminder that A: our house is crap, and B: everyone in my family is, er... has a little bit o' chub. Especially me and my mom, according to dad.

I know he's wrong, though. Because he almost always is. According to him, I am the biggest bully of the house. According to him, mom is the most controlling. According to him, he's the only one without anger issues in this house. Ha! I'd laugh at the irony in his idiocy, about how he says I always think he is wrong and I am right, but then I'd be accused of something or other.

I grab a spoon, making sure to close the drawer when I'm done, and immediately munch on a spoonful of cereal. We go back and forth for a while, most of the words spoken coming from his mouth, with only a few sentences in defense leaving my own. Dad is still going on about how selfish I am by the time I'm on my fifth spoonful, and at this point, as he says something about how selfish I am- the nerve of him- I can't help but snort. He stops, and on one hand I know I've made a mistake, but on the other, I am just so damn sick of letting him go on about my supposed inadequacies.

"What?" He snaps.

My lips twist into something between a smirk and a grimace, and I stare him down, eyebrows raised, before directing my attention to my bowl of cereal. I swirl the spoon a bit as I slowly articulate just what my mind found to be so amusing into something he could understand verbally.

"I just think," I start, lifting a spoonful of cereal to my lips, chewing for a second, then speaking around it, continue, "it's funny that you think I'm just generally selfish and rude," I swallow. "When I've only just committed a very minor act of selfishness."

I see him bristle- not in a literal sense, but close enough that it might as well be- and he basically bellows, "Justify it however you want, but you're clearly growing up to be greedy, selfish, and rude. And just because you don't care- which you obviously don't- doesn't mean I have to like it!"

And with that, he mutters something to himself and heaves himself off the couch, lumbering over to the front door, undoubtedly to go take a smoke break and think about our argument a little. He's not very good at coming up with sick burns on the spot, so he likes to go out for a cigarette and meditate on things to say to shut me down. I don't think he realizes how ineffective they are; no matter what I say to him, he'll repeat himself, say I don't understand because I'm young and apparently simultaneously stupid and a smartass, or that I "always think I know better than him, even though he's the adult and therefore has more wisdom".

I sit at the too-small dining room table, one knee hugged against my chest, the other crossed beneath it. I quietly eat my cereal, relishing the rare silence I hear in the house, and wait until he comes back in.

Much to my surprise- not- once he comes back in, he ignores me at first. He always does this. I think it's supposed to build up tension and apprehension? Who knows. He loves those intimidation tactics, though.

Much to my surprise- legitimately this time- he continues to ignore me, instead picking up the phone and dialing my mother, who's at work. I raise an eyebrow as I consume the last of my cereal, barely listening to the conversation. I can tell he wants me to hear what he's saying, despite his volume, thanks to the tone of his voice.

Phrases such as "I'm just so disgusted" and "that's besides the point" reach my ears and I sigh. I stand, cracking my knees, back, and knuckles before padding over to the sink, where I wash my bowl and set it down. I turn to leave, again looking straight ahead of me in a very purposeful attempt to avoid eye contact.

Once I reach my room, I gently pull my door closed with a silent sigh. My sister looks up and asks, "Is dad asleep?"

That's the only time we get peace with him around.