Ivory Angel #2

He looked so thin and skinny in the red, red robes, wearing the ivory dragon hemp necklace I’d made for him this morning, dashing off to buy beads between finals. His fingers stuck out like tiny twigs as he reached for his diploma, and everyone in my family clapped in dignified aplomb except for me, who stood up and screamed and yelled because he is my younger brother and he is graduating from high school today. And I love him.

There is mint cookie ice cream and dark chocolate fudge that’s sitting on the stove so warm so hot and playing with the fire when camping and getting dirt smudged all over your nose or sometimes paint when you’re out on the car roof with a beer and a brush trying to match the red of a sunset and looking at a crisp, new fifty-dollar bill that you got for a tip and saying I earned this before folding it over and tucking it in your purse and taking it out again to buy that shirt you've been oogling for a week…


He’s not very old. Just 18. But that’s old enough to be breaking out on his own. He had his first experience with alcohol the other day. The problem with growing up Mormon is when you decide you’re suddenly not you have to learn how to be nasty in the right way, and you have to do it all from scratch. It’s like the very first caveman having sex with the first cavewoman. It probably wasn’t very good, especially considering there were no beds or their beds were full of rocks. Just call me Fred Flintstone cause I can make your bed rock. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one and damnit, it's not funny anymore! But the point is that the caveman and cavewoman had the instinct but lacked the technique. So when my younger brother goes to a party and drinks for the first time, one can forgive him the fact he didn’t know you have to wait a bit for the alcohol to kick in and so he had like seven shots in forty-five minutes and had to go vomit all over the bathroom. But he still thought it was fun.

There’s feinting and scoring a point in fencing on the best kid in the class who’s like ten inches taller than you and the thrill you get from sledding down a hill and the pictures from that Halloween party where your best friend’s roommate (male) went as Ms. Scarlet complete with dangling pearl earrings and staccato heels but you hardly noticed because you spent the entire time being hit on and telling the story of the guy at the bus stop who saw you dressed up as a prostitute and said, “damn that’s a nice skirt…would you like a free bible?” and you brought it as proof and gave it to the host as a housewarming gift where it bore witness to someone taking sloppy seconds from you which is wonderful because it means that people still love you, even when you’re drunk and silly and all warn out from playing with the boy who lives sixteen blocks away…

I saw all my old teachers. They told me my younger brother had an especially good year. Apparently, they tell me, his self-esteem was raised a lot by his SAT scores. More particularly, by the fact that he beat my SAT scores. Both verbal and math. I wasn’t really expecting that, and I must say my smile tightened a little because teachers he didn’t even have this year knew that he was smarter than I am. Test scores don’t prove anything, I tell myself. And I believe it, too. But still, I’m proud of him for being who he is. I think he’ll live a happier life than me just because he’s one of those people who doesn’t need anything. No matter where he is or who he’s with, he’s where he wants to be and thus happy. Or “jolly” as he says. Anyway, I got him back later by telling this girl he knows that oh, he’s told me all about you! He’s a shameless gossip. The best thing in life is knowing that you still know how to make your younger brother blush.

Stars on a clear night and playing freeze tag around the swing sets and finals ended today thank god and curling up with a book you’ve read six times and you know how its going to end but you cheer for the hero anyway and playing the Pirates of the Caribbean drinking game or Worms Armageddon with your boyfriend and a massive stash of napalm or shaking somebody’s hand when they hand you a trophy even if their palm is all sticky and they don’t even know you, but hell, at least you're not one of those poor also-rans who is sitting there clapping lamely…


I still play with my younger brother. We still jump on that big trampoline in the Summer and settle down for a round of Magic the Gathering almost every day I’m home. It’s unusual for families to be this close, but I’d hardly call my younger brother normal. He practically breaks my spine with his bear hugs and likes to tattoo things on his arm in pen while he’s sitting in Gos class and lets girls paint his nails black during lunch break. Oh, and sharpening them with a file. And he wants to be a bisexual chef when he grows up. I wouldn't call that normal.

Sliding in between clean sheets still warm from the drier and convincing your father to vote for Nader instead of George W. Bush and window-shopping with your best friend (she’s wearing a blue feather boa) and making fun of Ross Perot’s ears and watching dumb television and wrapping a hot guy up in a plethora of pink scarves and taking an hour-long shower or dip in the hot tub with a glass of peach schnapps at your right…

He’s not old enough to be doing this. Graduating. It feels like the home you left behind is supposed to stay the same forever, but soon you’re standing in your old gym listening to that dumb “Raider Fight Song” that you never liked anyway, thinking about how you don’t fit in anymore. What was once home now feels small and is full of people you don’t know, the echo of friends who you haven’t seen for two years. And now there’s your younger brother, standing there with this silly grin on his face throwing his hat in the air and wondering if he picked up someone else’s by mistake. No, no, he’s not old enough to be doing this. I can still remember the time I told him that his invisible friend “Talky the Talking Treasure Chest” had died forever and was never coming back. Please forgive me for that. I was an awful big sister and I wanted to make you cry. I’m sorry and I promise I’ll never hurt you that way again, I’ll never take something we’ve created together and destroy it, I'll betray your trust like that ever. In return, please swear you’ll stay young forever, that I’ll never have to watch you get wrinkled and old and grow out of playing Magic the Gathering.

It just goes by so fast. It makes me feel hungry for just a little more.