Group Politics

"You two should really make more friends," Mabel said, putting two plates down on the fake-marble counter with an inelegant clack.

"We have friends," Brent, my twin, countered.

"Yeah," I said, "two."

"You have me, a seventy-one year old," said Mabel, "and a homeschooler who bathes bimonthly."

"Hey, I got Haz up to weekly," said Brent, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite as Mabel sat down on the stool opposite us.

"I just want what's the best for you two," said Mabel, "and I can tell you two get lonely."

"We're not lonely," I said.

"Nope, not at all," Brent said, through his sandwich.

"Maybe a little time apart for you two," Mabel said, more to herself than to us, but plenty audible.

"Definitely not," I said.

***

"Britt, Britt," a voice huffed in my ear, a heavy hand shaking my shoulder.

"Ge'roff," I mumbled, turning over.

"You leave me no choice," he said, and then my brother pulled me off the bed and onto the floor. I shrieked, hitting the floor hard. "Hey, you have to wake up."

I opened my eyes, blinking in the harsh light of the lamps. "School is an illusion."

"Yeah, okay," said Brent. He was already dressed and ready to go, his hair gelled and his clothes straightened. He offered me a hand and helped me pull myself to my feet, and then he said, "I'll go make some breakfast."

By the time I'd dressed and made my way down the stairs, the scent of bacon was filling my nose. Brent is actually a really good cook and always has been, which is good because Mom and I could burn water. I walked up to him at the stove, and looked at the goods. Brent kicked my foot. "Get plates," he said, poking the bacon on the pan.

I got out two plates and pulled bagels from the toaster that had popped but hadn't been removed, setting them on the plates. I put them down on the counter next to the stove, and Brent distributed the rest of the food onto the plates. He turned off the stove and put the pan in the sink, grabbing some utensils for both of us to eat with. I took mine from him and set my plate on the counter island, not bothering to sit.

"It's good," I told Brent.

"Duh," he replied, as our mother scooted into the kitchen.

"Is there any left?" she said, taking a sniff.

"Nope," said Brent. "Hey!" he yelled, as our mother walked past him and plucked a strip of bacon from his plate, eating it with her fingers as she slammed her briefcase on the kitchen table, which was cluttered with books and school papers from last year and candy wrappers because nobody ever ate on it.

I snorted, but finished my bacon as quickly as I could, and setting to work on the bagel next.

"Junior year," our mom said, rearranging somethings in her briefcase. "Hardest year of high school."

"I think it'll be a breeze," I said through my bites of food.

"You two should work a bit harder," our mother said. "Start thinking about college."

"Mom, we're straight A students," Brent said, finishing up his bagel and setting the plate in the sink with the pan.

"You need more than that now," our mother said, "Clubs. Community service. Letters of recommendation."