Lilah Tov (NaNoWriMo)

nine

nine

           “I hate rain,” Charlie declared suddenly, watching as the water dripped down the windowpane.

           “Charles, hate is a rather strong word, don’t you think?” my mom backhandedly criticized his word choice.

           Charlie flipped to the next page of his book, even though he hadn’t actually read anything for an hour. “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged, “but it’s rain, Hillary. How you can you not hate it?”

           “I don’t hate rain,” I said, glancing up from my own book to view Charlie’s reaction. Sometimes I did that—said stuff just for the heck of disagreeing with Charlie. I came from a family of lawyers. It was in my blood to argue.

           “Well, that’s because you’re weird, Will,” Charlie told me resolutely.

           “Charles,” warned my dad in a stern tone.

           It was Charlie’s turn to defend himself: “What, Rob? I could’ve used a much more severe adjective! You should be happy that I didn’t call him queer—I almost did, but I didn’t!”

           “Your brother is not queer, Charles,” my mom informed him. I smiled at Charlie smugly, glad that my parents were taking my side for once. But then my mother decided to tack on a modifier that was even worse than queer: “He’s just sensitive.”

           Ah, yes. The Big S. Sensitive. Charlie was athletic and the perfectly blunt and direct son who my dad occasionally took hunting, and I was the sensitive one who stayed back at the house with my mom and read books. Except sometimes I got to go golfing, because that was a thing that “sensitive” boys did. My parents had this perception of Charlie as the strong one who was always goofing around. And then when it came to me, I was the serious one who cried when a girl didn’t like me back instead of going to hook up with her best friend as retaliation (as Charlie sporadically did). I didn’t, actually, cry, but because I was the “sensitive” one, my parents thought that I was really in touch with my emotions. I wasn’t. I just liked to think a lot. Charlie didn’t think. He just did. I was the thinker; he was the doer. And unfortunately, I was also branded the “sensitive” one. Shit, even the word made me want to puke.

           “You’re totally right, Mom,” Charlie said agreeably with a nod of his head, “Will’s just sensitive.”

           “I’m being victimized, so I’m going to leave,” I declared, taking my book and plodding over to the door.

           “Will, you’re being melodramatic,” my mom sighed. “Sit back down.”

           I didn’t say another word and just left the room. In all fairness, I had spent the past two hours in there with them, so it wasn’t like I was ditching Family Time after ten minutes. I paid my dues, and now I could leave. So when I came to the main corridor of the house (we were all bonding it up in the reading room), I headed for the stairs, but then stopped when I heard the ringing of the doorbell. And because I was right there, I went up to the front door and opened it.

           Standing beneath the awning with an umbrella in her hand and rain boots on her feet was a very soaked girl who went by the name of Lilah Tov. She wore a sheepish smile and greeted me with a, “Hiya, Will! Lovely weather we’re having, don’t you agree?”

           “Uh, come on in,” I invited, because I couldn’t stand to see Lilah standing outside with the treacherous rain as a backdrop.