Broken ties

Chapter two

I hate mornings. I hate Emma's voice trying to sound like Mom's. I hate that she tries so hard, and I hate that I can't tell her why I'm really staying up late every night.

"Lucas!" There she goes again.

I stare at my ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars Dad helped me put up when I was twelve. Back when everything made sense. When Mom would make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs, and Dad would pretend to steal them off my plate while doing terrible prehistoric sound effects.

My phone shows 2:47 AM in my browser history. Another night of searching "how to deal with losing parents" and "what happens to minors if guardian can't cope." Not that I'd ever tell Emma I worry about her that much.

I drag myself out of bed, pulling on my uniform that probably needs ironing. Emma tries to fix my tie, and I pull away. I can't handle her mothering today. Not when she looks so tired, so much older than twenty-three.

"I can get ready myself, Emma. I'm not a kid."

The hurt flashes in her eyes before she can hide it. I pretend not to notice, just like I pretend not to hear her crying in her room some nights.

At school, everything's a blur of sympathetic looks and whispered conversations that stop when I walk by. Three months, and people still don't know how to act around the kid whose parents died.

"Yo, Lucas!" Mike, my best friend since seventh grade, jogs up to me. At least he still treats me normally. "Did you finish the science project?"

The project. s**t.

"Yeah, it's..." On the kitchen table. Where Emma told me not to leave it. "...at home."

"Dude, Henderson's gonna kill you."

I text Emma, hating myself for asking her to fix my mistake. Again. She's probably in the middle of the morning rush at that coffee shop, dealing with demanding customers while I'm here messing up basic things.

"What's up with you lately?" Mike asks as we head to first period. "You've been weird since..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Nobody ever does.

"I'm fine," I lie, the same way Emma lies when she says she's "just tired."

The truth is, I'm drowning. Every morning I wake up hoping it was all a bad dream, that Mom will be making breakfast and Dad will be reading his newspaper with his terrible dad jokes. Instead, I get Emma trying her best to fill shoes that are too big for anyone to fill.

In Mr. Henderson's class, I half-listen to his lecture about cellular division. Split, divide, become something new. If only people could do that - split themselves into the person everyone needs them to be.

My phone vibrates. Emma saying she'll bring the project. Of course she will. She always fixes everything, even when she's barely keeping herself together.

During lunch, I hide in the library, my usual spot now. The cafeteria's too loud, too normal. Too many kids complaining about their parents' rules or weekend plans. I pull out my phone and look at the last family photo we took, just two weeks before the accident. Mom's birthday dinner. Dad's arm around her, Emma rolling her eyes at something he said, me pretending to be annoyed but secretly loving it all.

The librarian, Mrs. Chen, slides a granola bar across my table. She does this sometimes, never saying anything. Today, there's also a pamphlet for grief counseling. I stuff it in my backpack, next to the others.

Emma shows up during fifth period with my project. Through the classroom window, I watch her hurher car, checking her phone - probably already late getting back to work. My chest tightens with guilt and something else. Pride, maybe. My sister, holding our whole world together with coffee-stained hands and determination.

After school, I walk home instead of taking the bus. Past Mom's favorite bakery, closed now. Past Dad's old office building where he'd sometimes let me do homework in his conference room. Past the intersection where...

I stop walking. Take a different route.

At home, I hear Emma's voice before I open the door. She's talking to someone, laughing even. It sounds so much like Mom for a second that I freeze.

"Lucas? That you?" The spell breaks. It's just Emma, on the phone with someone.

"Yeah," I mumble, heading straight to my room. But I catch a glimpse of her smile -the first real one I've seen in weeks. Whoever she's talking to, they're making her happy. Good. She deserves that.

I close my door and pull out my homework, but end up staring at the wall instead. There's a photo of Emma and me at her graduation last year. Mom took it. Dad framed it. Now it's just us, trying to be enough for each other.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mike: "Video games tonight?"

I type "can't" and delete it. Type "homework" and delete that too. Finally send: "Maybe tomorrow."

The truth is, I don't want to leave Emma alone tonight. Not after I've been such a jerk this morning. I hear her in the kitchen, probably trying to make dinner. She's terrible at cooking - that was Mom's thing - but she keeps trying.

"Need help?" I ask, stepping into the kitchen. Her eyes light up, surprised.

"Really? I mean, yeah. Want to chop these vegetables?"

We work in silence for a while. The pasta's overcooked, and the sauce is from a jar, but it's okay. We're okay. Or we will be.

"Hey, Em?" I say as we're cleaning up.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For the project today. And... you know."

She gets it. She always does. "Anytime, little brother."

Later, in bed, I look at those glow-in-the-dark stars again. They don't shine as bright as they used to, but they're still there. Like us. Different, dimmer maybe, but still hanging on.

I open my phone's browser to delete my search history. But instead, I type something new: "how to help your sister when she's trying her best."

Maybe tomorrow I'll let her fix my tie.