Page 8 of Between the Lines

“…don’t even understand how he was accepted into the STEM academy in the first place,” she continues as we lightly bump over the curb into the driveway of our two-story suburban home. “Nepotism at its finest. He’s going to drown once we take high school placement exams. It’s completely unfair that I have to put up with him for two more years.”

I put the car in park, the motion sensor illuminating the garage cramped with memories of sports escapades past and present, and tilt my head toward my sister with a soft smile and lifted brows.

“That’s the bitch of it, kid: life’s not fair. Sometimes, you have to take the hand you’re dealt and do your best with those cards.”

I reach over to cup her cheek; a year younger than her peers, she’s a ticking time bomb to teen acne. Her baby-soft skin warms my thumb until she rolls her eyes and pulls away,Can I have my headphones now?her parting words to my free wisdom. I hand them over, glance in the backseat at a sleeping Oliver, and sigh. I’ll give him five more minutes before I head inside.

Besides. That’ll give me five more minutes before I take the chaos back from Michael, who has been on duty since I picked up Ollie, Zo, and her cello Bruno an hour and a half ago.

After three attempts at rousing my sweet angel, I end up hauling him, still dead to the world, from his car seat through the connected garage door. All attempts to shush the rest of my siblings are futile.

Zoey is shaking an empty box of Chick’n Biskut crackers wildly at Michael—who more than likely finished the box ofherfavorite snack and then replaced it in the pantry just to torment her—while Ryan furiously erases something on Harper’s apparently still unfinished homework. Why he is helping her with second grade math is beyond me, considering he couldn’t add single digits until the end of third grade—I would know, since I spent thirty minutes a day tutoring him in every teaching method imaginable until something finally clicked. Our dog—my best friend in the world, the lovable golden Sonny—has his paws up on the island around which everyone is congregated, and has a full stick of butter nearly nudged to the edge.

“Guys! Butter! Sonny!”

They barely react. Zoey whacks Michael with the cracker box,Harper chucks her eraser at the countertop and starts crying, Michael grabs Zoey by the hair andshestarts screaming, Oliver wakes up in my arms andimmediatelystarts yelling for fruit snacks, Sonny succeeds in toppling the butter dish off the counter, and I?

Have no other choice but to roll with the punches. Same as I always have.

Luckily this time, I have reinforcements.

Penelope got me a teacher lanyard with a badge holder and whistle for the start of the year—You can’t be a teacher unless we can hear your keys clacking against your stomach from down the hall!—and I get to practice it on my siblings.

The deafening screech halts even Sonny in his forever quest to eat any and all butter-dipped objects. For the second time today, all eyes are on me.

“Status report?”

“What are we, soldiers?” Michael asks, his shoulders hunching up to his ears as his eyes narrow to that typical teenager,What do you even mean, bruh?stature.

“With the way you’re acting like hooligans? I might need to whip you into shape like ‘em.” To punctuate that thought, I tighten the slack on my lanyard and circle the whistle around my fingers. Oliver covers his ears and shoutsNo, Cware!, and Sonny dips his head and whimpers.

“All of my homework is finished,your majesty.”

Michael punctuateshisretort with a sarcastic bow.

“And these two?”

He shrugs.

“Ry said he had it covered.”

“And he clearly does not?”

I cross my arms, indicating to Harper’s math worksheet that now has a hole in it. Michael exhales and rolls his eyes, muttering,I’ll take care of it,and swipes the worksheet in his direction to assess the damage.

“Lunches for tomorrow?”

“Made, except the sandwiches.”

My job, since apparentlyMichael doesn’t know how to make them and yours are always the best, Claire!Hey. I’m no gourmet chef, but I’ll take it.

“Okay. Dinner consensus?”

When the overwhelming answer is veggie pasta, I am not at all surprised. I’ve been sneaking these knuckleheads vegetables in their pasta sauce since Ryan threw broccoli at my head like he was trying out to be a pitcher for the Sox.

“Okay. Zo: shower. Michael and Harper: math. Ry, can you handle PJ’s for Ollie?”

“On it, Sarge.”

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