If I Should Be Quite Honest

2

It was my turn to do the dishes and Jae's turn to dry them. It was a system. Quite smart too. It excluded Pasha and Amara though. They're "too young."
It's the kid that comes after you that dries the dishes. Jae is after me. He doesn't really look like me though. It's hard to tell we're related.
Firstly, because he has a full head of Sandy blond hair.
"How was school?" I ask, like I didn't go.
"Good," he says, "It was good." That was a lie. School was never good. Especially for him.
"Great," I sigh, "Did you even stay?"
He hesitated, then turned to me and I could just see the guilty smirk on his mug without even looking at him too.
"Don't tell Ren," he said, calmly, but I knew he was pleading with me. I didn't really want Ren to shout at him again.
"You have to go to class," I tell him, "Or you might as well fuck off somewhere else instead of letting you ride in the car and contribute to the lowering of the tire pressure."
"I don't want to go; the teachers hate me," he said, placing a plate in the drawer.
"They don't hate you."
"Well, they don't like me," he claims. I can see this. He's probably not lying. There was a small selection of teachers you can get today. The try hards that nobody really listens to, the bitches and dicks who think they're above you, the old, seasoned ones who speak like they're fresh out of Gone With The Wind, and I'm wondering when the wind will have gone out of them, or the nice enough ones, who swear in class and let you swear too, and actually get your work marked on time.
"Which ones?" I ask him, finishing and wiping the sink.
"Mr Frazer," he mutters. What a dick, "Mrs Holden," Bitch, "Miss Oliver," Boring hack, "Mr Brown," Try hard, "Miss Dray," Try hard, "Mrs Quince," Bitchy bitch, I never liked her, "Mr Gordon," Prick, "Mrs Ali," Ew, "And Miss Goldstone." She wasn't too bad, so I asked.
"Miss Goldstone?"
"She said I need help."
"Help?"
"Help," he nodded, "She keeps trying to make me go to extra lessons and shit. I'm not stupid."
I look at him and sigh. He looks hurt, wiping that plate shiny as hell, with purpose, "I know," I reassure him, and I tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, "But you have to go to lesson to prove that."
"I don't want to," he told me, firmly, brushing my hand away, "School sucks."

Poetry.

He was just fourteen, he didn't need to figure it out yet. But he had yet to realise that. As far as I knew, only half of us stood a real chance: Jacob, Remy, Haven and Amara. Evie was a tricky one for me. She was more smart-mouthed than smart. She had random pieces of knowledge stored up, ready to make us all look like fools, but I don't know if I can call this intelligence or just being a bitch.
Amara was top of her little class. She was seven, and she could spell any word you threw at her.
I couldn't count myself because I didn't want to, because I wasn't smart anymore and frankly, because it's cocky as fuck.
I hadn't had a plausible thought since year eight. That stint in the newspaper was something I revelled in for about ten minutes, before Jayden, Jae and Ollie's dad jetted.
And my mother was a mess.

She's still a mess. Oh no.

I sit with my siblings in the family room. A small, cramped space, with a computer, computer chair, an armchair and a couch, a rug from Egypt, which our grandmother sent us, a tv from 2007 and a sliding glass door to the balcony. Remy sits on the armchair today, surrounded by Amara on his lap, Pasha on the arm and Ollie on the other. The rest of us make use of the couch. Jacob, forever the caring older brother, offered to sit on the spring protruding from the worn material of the chair, Evie next to him, Ren next to her, with her arm around her. Haven sits with her leg over the other and I sit beside her, on the end. Jae lays across the floor, like a corpse, but his head is bent at an unholy angle as he stares up at the Tv.

Sometimes, I take a moment to look at us like this. In this way. I don't smile. Only because it won't always be like this. One day, one of us will leave and that only means one thing. The Domino effect. Then someone else will leave and so on and so forth and then we won't speak to each other again.
I say this because who the hell wants this?
It's cramped and uncomfortable. There's no privacy, so everyone knows your shit.
It's not so bad though, like I said. Haven takes my hand and kisses it, holding it to her chest. For no reason. I love her. I love my siblings, but what does love make you do? If you love something, let it go. Or, love makes you do unspeakable things. Or love can get too much, to heavy, too...real.