One Last Thing

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    MY FISTS POUND on the door for the umpteenth time this morning. I swear my knuckles are going to fall off any minute now as I brace myself against the doorframe. "Open up you little shit, or I'm canceling our Hulu subscription!"

    "Moooommm," Tucker whines from inside the comfort of the bathroom that I've been waiting to use for the last thirty minutes. The wimp locked it too, so I can't murder him in cold blood. Yet. "Julia's bullying me!"

    All that comes from the kitchen is a half-hearted, "be nice to your brother!" and I snort. Even she knows he's full of shit.

    I yell over the sound of the hairdryer, "If you're not out in the next ten seconds, Tuck, I swear to God you'll never be able to finish The Bear. No more Jeremy Allen White for you. Gone. Poof."

    A distressed sound comes from the other side of the door. "You wouldn't."

    A smug smile pulls at my lips. I've got him now. "10...9...8...7...6—"

    The door swings open, and I stumble back before I can dive headfirst into the ground. His brow is pulled and his face is desperate when he says, "I'm begging you. Anything but Hulu."

    I take in his appearance. His usual dusty hair that looks like it hasn't seen a comb for days is actually styled for once and the white button-down he's wearing is ironed without a wrinkle in sight.

    Our school has a tradition that athletes dress decently on game days, something about keeping up sportsmanship rapport, and today's the first game Coach Henley is letting Tucker play for varsity after being on the JV team for most of the season.

    It's crazy. Just yesterday it felt like he was chasing me around the house with spiders he had found outside in his Monsters Inc. pajamas, and now he's a head taller than me going on dates with girls and playing for the varsity football team.

    Of course, that doesn't mean I've stopped treating him any differently than the gangly immature kid who used to cry every time I would hide his video game controller. He hates whenever I dote on him or when I treat him like the baby brother that he is, but I can't help it. Watching him grow up right in front of my eyes is something I don't think I'll ever fully be able to accept.

    I whistle lowly. "Looking fresh as hell," I say, only half teasing.

    "Shut up," he says, but he's smiling. "And nice hair, loser."

    I scowl and reach out to smack his shoulder, but he dodges me with a laugh.

    For my birthday I decided to treat myself to a haircut the day before. Little did I know the hairdresser was a scissor-happy psychopathic 40-year-old and cut off nearly a foot of my hair, bringing my waist-length chestnut waves to just below shoulders. I'd asked for a trim.

    And yes, I did tell her that it was perfect and then cried in the car all the way back home.

    I fuss over my new hair in the mirror for more time than I'd like to admit before I force myself to get ready. By the time I reach downstairs, Tucker's already two waffles in and the scent of blueberries waft through the kitchen. Mom is sitting on the island stool in her nurse scrubs, scrolling on her phone and drinking her coffee.

    "Eggos are in the toaster," she says without looking up over the brim of her mug.

    "Morning," I lean over to kiss her on the cheek.