Obsessive Love Disorder

4

September 27, 1996
Charlotte

There's another school a ten minute walk away from Woodsboro High. It's much smaller, since there's so few kids in this area, but it's big enough to hold about 200 kids from ages three to thirteen. That's where my brother, Davey, goes to school. And I can currently see him pushing open the doors with his backpack hanging limply from one of his shoulders. A pencil bag is precariously close to falling out of the open pocket.

"Davey, close your bag, your things are about go everywhere," I sigh. He rolls his eyes and greets me with a one-armed hug. Out of pure habit, I ruffle his hair, which he hates more than anything. 

"Ack, don't do that, Char!" He pulls away quickly, laying his hair back down and glaring up at me. It puts a rare smile on my face, watching him look around anxiously to see if anyone saw the embarrassing display. 

Davey is ten years old, and is honestly the closest thing I have to a friend. It's slightly humiliating, my only friend being a ten year old boy, but he and I have that sibling connection that triumphs over everything else. Plus, we've got some strong shared trauma. 

Every day after school, I walk to Woodsboro Junior High School and meet Davey out front. Then, we walk to our house, which is about a thirty minute walk. During that time, he'll usually tell me about his day or complain about homework while I listen. I don't have much to say, after all. Today is just like any other day, the two of us side by side on the sidewalk as we walk through Woodsboro. Davey's going on about some project he got assigned in his science class — he wants to build a volcano with baking soda and vinegar, and I cringe at the though of having to clean that mess up. 

The thirty minutes goes by quickly, and before I know it, I can see our house down the street. It's  miniscule compared to some of the mansions around here, with just a basement and a ground floor. The roof is falling apart, and the grass hasn't been taken care of in years. It's the kind of house you'd see in a horror movie. The front porch has buckled in the middle due to all the weight that's been placed on it, the door hinges squeak no matter how much I grease them, the rose bushes below the windows are dry and dead, I could keep going. I know every damn problem with this house by heart, and it would take all day to list them (plus a small fortune to fix them).

Davey swings open the front door and slumps onto the couch, throwing his bag on the carpeted floor. His pencil bag finally falls out, colorful pens and chewed-up pencils spilling all over the floor. 

"You gonna pick those up?" I ask, already knowing that he's definitely not going to. 

"Later," he replies, pulling out a book from his backpack, which he promptly starts reading. I take that as my cue to give up before I even start. 

Stepping into the kitchen, I begin opening cabinets and scanning their contents. I don't know why, I already know there's nothing useful in there. 

"Any ideas for dinner?" I ask, looking over my shoulder at Davey. Without turning, he asks, "Pizza?" 

My heart sinks. This is the fourth day he's asked if we could get pizza for dinner. And every time, I have to respond, "We don't have the money." And I say the same thing today. Watching him deflate into the cushions makes the pain worse. 

Even though I know it's not there, I check the small envelope pinned to the bulletin board next to our phone, which is labeled Monthly Allowance. As soon as I lift the flap, I wince. There's about 600 dollars left. Which is just enough to pay rent at the end of this week. 

"I'll go to the store later this week, but it looks like we're going off of scraps tonight." I look over at the couch, and Davey is staring directly at me. His face is carefully blank, but I can see the look in his eyes. Whatever's left of my soul has just crumbled to pieces. But I don't let him see that. I just put on a grin and start pulling out random ingredients, trying to formulate a makeshift recipe that can feed us. Over the years, I've gotten pretty creative when it comes to making meals out of nothing. 

Davey quietly packs up his things as meanders to his room. I can tell he's trying not to make me feel bad, but I can feel it all the same. I'm tired of disappointing this poor kid. 

My eyes follow him down the hallway until he eventually disappears into his room. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and sigh heavily, my gaze settling on a small frame hanging next to the fridge. If there is some higher power watching over us, they really fucked us over. 

The photo is unfamiliar to me. Two adults, two kids. All smiling. No one in the picture is recognizable. There's a thirteen year old with long hair, tied into two braids. She's wearing a blue and yellow striped shirt and denim shorts. Her smile isn't forced. Her mother's hands rest on her shoulders, and her father's arms are wrapped around everyone. Her brother has crooked teeth that, to this day, haven't been fixed. Their grins all match each other, and sunlight pours over their faces. 

I wish I was thirteen again.

I reach up and grab the frame off of the nail and start prying open the back. The photo slides out easily, right into my hands. I don't know these people. So what's the point of having a photo of people in your house if you don't know them?

The photo makes its way from my hand to the plastic bin underneath the sink. I'll find another use for that frame, I guess.