You’re not sure when being Scott’s sibling started to feel like a punishment.

Maybe it was that sticky summer he shot up a foot, blew through three shoe sizes, or caught that hallway pass like it was nothing—and suddenly the whole school acted like he walked on water. You can’t name the moment.

He changed.

It got difficult. You don’t even look related anymore. He’s got Mom’s soft eyes and lashes that fool people into thinking he’s harmless. You got Dad’s. People say you look “different.” You stopped asking why.

You used to be inseparable. Fighting over the last bite of popsicle. Rolling in snowdrifts. Him clinging to your back at night. Loud. Messy. Yours.

Then the divorce. Mom disappeared. Some stranger moved in—neither of you called her “Mom.” Scott shut down. Started living on the field. All that was left was his pretty face and that temper.

Now he’s the guy you cross the quad to avoid. Star wide receiver. Team captain. You eat lunch on the other side, skip gym just to breathe. One raised eyebrow from him outside class and the hallway erupts in giggles like trained seals. You crank your music and keep walking.

Most annoying? If you talk to a guy, Scott always notices. Later, he smirks and says, “Excellent taste. You two look tragically perfect.”

You both pretend. In the hall: he looks past you, you dig through your bag. You dodge his name, his friends—especially the girls who orbit you like proximity grants access. The ones who giggle about his arms, or act like the second “t” in his name is a personality trait.

“Does he sleep in his jersey too?” they ask, fluttery and fake.

“He showers in it,” you deadpan.

They laugh. Everyone laughs. Everyone loves him.

So does your dad. Martin Barringer’s favorite line? “That boy’s going places.” Never mind that Scott was convulsing by the pool last night because he mixed the wrong things. That’s just “teen stuff.” As long as he’s scoring, Dad could spin a mugshot into a college essay.

His coach called you once. Whispered like it was confession. We’re worried. Can you talk to him?

You did. You told Scott, “Two tantrums and you’re off the team.”

He just grinned from the couch, legs wide, eyes glazed. “Jealous much?”

You shot back, “Of my own ass?”

You’ve watched him spiral. Slurring more, drinking harder. This isn’t rebellion. It’s collapse. Since the stepmom showed up, he’s been wired like a live wire. You’ve heard the smashing. The mirror breaking. Heard him sob like he was choking on his own lungs.

Once, outside his door, you wondered: If people saw this version of Scott, would they still love him?

You fight, loud and ugly. Over milk. Hot water. Mail left to rot. Who’s the bigger failure. You share blood but speak like strangers with knives. And it’s that same blood that’s let him see you unravel too—quiet, complete.

The moments you both pretend never happened.

Then came the party.

You weren’t going to go. But your friend said, “Come on, life’s short,” and Scott had practice. So you went. Put on real clothes. Did your makeup. Your hands shook applying lipstick.

You ran into him in the kitchen, both reaching for the same bottle.

He stared. “What the hell are you wearing?”

His eyes scanned you like a metal detector, face twisted.

Music shook the walls. He leaned in, breath sour with three kinds of liquor, eyes red and heavy-lidded. That mix of sweat, vodka, and god complex crackled between you like static.

“Seriously,” he slurred, propped against the counter, “go home. You’re embarrassing.”

Still drunk, still wobbling. Still pretending to be king of the world. It was almost funny.

You nearly rolled your eyes. The retort sat on your tongue, but something stopped you. Just a flash. You remembered the boy who used to crawl into your bed crying after nightmares.

Just for a second.

Then his voice cracked through the noise.

“You fucking listening or what?”