Page 24 of The Breaking Point

“You coach fucking hockey!” Brady replied.

Dad made sure to tell Brady to watch his mouth. I wanted to defend Brady but knew it was a losing battle.

Later, I heard my parents arguing in low voices in the kitchen.

“I still don’t think it was fair to come down on him like that,” Dad said.

I heard Mom sigh. “You know as well as I do that with foster kids don’t get the benefit of the doubt. What happens if somebody calls the cops when he’s in a fight? He could get sent to juvie. And given how big he is already, somebody could mistake him for an adult.”

“So he should never defend himself? Or others?”

“He needs to learn to use his words, not his fists.”

I peeked around the corner. Mom was leaning against the kitchen island; Dad had his back to me.

“Or maybe he needs to channel that energy into something productive,” said Dad.

“I don’t want him playing hockey.”

“Why not? He’d be great at it.”

“You don’t know that.”

Dad sighed. “Baby, come on. I know you don’t like that hockey is more violent than other sports—”

“I hate it.”

“But at least hockey lets Brady channel his anger. And if he hates it, then he can do something else. Besides, he’s told me more than once that he’s interested.”

Mom’s mouth twisted. Then she laughed a little. “Fine. Fine! I guess you’re right. Better fighting on the ice than on a playground.”

“That’s my girl.” Dad pulled Mom into a chaste kiss, which made her laugh again.

So Brady started playing hockey. According to Ben, Brady was a natural. He learned to skate like he’d been born on the ice. And when Dad handed him a hockey stick, everything changed.

Now Brady spent all his time at the rink. I’d been a little hurt, which I’d known was stupid. But it felt like Brady was rejecting spending time with the family over hockey.

Or it feels like he’s not interested in hanging around a little kid like you,I thought. Even though I knew I wasn’t a little kid, Brady didn’t know that. He still treated me like a little sister on the few occasions he interacted with me.

Brady fascinated me. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to think my jokes were funny. I wanted him to hang out with me like he hung out with Ben.

But despite my best efforts to attract his attention, it never worked. Despite me teaching Brady to swim when he’d first joined our family, our time together had been limited at best.

I noticed that when Brady found me alone, like when I was watching TV or inside the tree house, he always muttered something and let me be.

I then tried to watch TV shows I knew he liked.But no matter what show was on, Brady never stayed to watch. Even when I’d catch him watching the same shows later.

It made zero sense. But it must be because he thought being around me was embarrassing. That was what Ben had told me, at least. Boys like Brady didn’t want to hang around girls like me.

Going to my room, I sat down in front of my mirror, gazing at my reflection. I’d grown two inches this year. Everyone always liked to comment how tall I was going to be. I didn’t have chubby cheeks anymore. I was covered in freckles from being out in the sun, my blond hair lighter than ever. My breasts were bigger, although they were still shamefully small.

I didn’t know if I was pretty. I wished I was. I wished I was tan and fit and that all the boys were in love with me.

I started putting on makeup. I braided my hair and then wore a top that was too small for me now. I put on some jasmine-scented perfume from the mall and waited for Brady to come home.

But when I went down to dinner, Dad was the one who’d come home, not Brady. He gave me one look and said, “Go take that off your face and put something decent on, young lady.”

Brady didn’t come home that night. It was weird because my parents didn’t seem worried about it.

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