CHAPTERONE
THEN
Once upon a time,there was a guy with a sister three years younger than him. They were raised by their loving parents on a farm in a rural area of Nebraska.
Which is a redundancy, because most of the danged state is rural area and populated by farmers. Average, ordinary farmers.
One day, for some stupid reason, this guy decided he wanted to be president of the United States. Even more stupidly, he told everyone his plans.
Oh, I should add that this was all long before he eventually realized he was unquestionably gay. As a result, he buried himself deeply in the closet.
Like, Mariana Trench-deep. Because he knew he’d receive negative pushback from his family if he ever came out. If they didn’t disown him outright.
I know, there’s alotof info missing from my tale. Sorry about that.
Except I’m not so good at telling stories like this and I’m getting a little ahead of myself, aren’t I?
Everyone assumes I’m a doting older brother to my only sibling. Isn’t that how big brothers are supposed to be? Especially with their little sisters. Be loving and loyal, protect and ride-or-die them, right?
Yeaaah.
See, the problem is to have that kind of dynamic, and for it to be a functional, healthy dynamic, the little sister needs to be a loving, loyal sibling in return.
Otherwise, the guy is just some poor dumb schmuck who keeps getting tossed under the bus by his sister, or used by her and her friends for shits and giggles. Or he’s used by her and her friends to advance their careers.
Until one day the guy finally realizes he’s always going to get the short end of the stick in that relationship, finds his spine, and manages to put his foot down. And keep it there.
Wait. There I go again, getting ahead of myself.
See? I told you I’m not skilled at spinning tales. I enjoy a good story as much as the next guy, but when it comes to the writing of stories I am in no way talented in that department, much less an expert. Damned sure not an author.
That’s why I majored in economics in college and not literature.
I wasn’t much more than a toddler when my parents told me I would soon get a little sister. There was no jealousy on my part to discover I wouldn’t be the only child any longer. Heck, I was looking forward to having someone around to play with and take care of. Mom and Dad told me I was getting to be a big boy, and it’d be my job as her older brother to help look after her.
One of my earliest memories is a neighbor taking me to the hospital where Mom and Dad were, and Dad scooping me into his arms and holding me so I could see the tiny swaddled baby cradled in Mom’s arms where she laid in her hospital bed. When I was older they told me that when I first saw Stella I pointed at her and called her “my” baby.
I helped Mom take care of her as much as she’d let me.
As Stella grew older I guess none of us changed that dynamic. Stella quickly transformed into a spoiled and contrarian kid. Oh, she did chores, because that was one thing my parents were sticklers about. We wouldn’t get out of doing them unless we were literally so sick we couldn’t get out of bed. Farmers don’t have the luxury of taking sick days for piddly crap.
Unfortunately, my baby sister became a master manipulator at a very young age. I think I was maybe seven or eight when I started to realize all the pitifully desperate attention I paid Stella would never be reciprocated. More times than I could ever hope to count I watched her turn on the waterworks in front of our parents and just as easily shut them down again when she thought the coast was clear.
Usually to my detriment, getting her way with our parents and shafting me in the process.
As the years passed Stella only grew sneakier and craftier. Just when I’d think she made a breakthrough and was starting to mature and desire a genuine relationship with me, she’d fuck me over without a second thought.
Or apology.
Like one time when I was fifteen. Stella and her bestie from school, Grace Martin, were horsing around in the living room, practicing cheerleader moves after Mom had specifically told Stella not to do that in the house. Of course as soon as Mom stepped outside they started doing it again. In the process they accidentally broke Mom’s favorite vase.
Stella and Grace blamed it on me, when I hadn’t even beeninthe house. No, my ass had been outside working in Mom’s garden while those two were supposedly doing homework.
Naturally, I got punished for it.
It was just the latest incident in a running, hidden war between the two of us that for many years I didn’t even realize was being waged at the time.
Stupid me.
