Siblings
fight. It’s inevitable, and it’s
part of life. Little Brother and I
were no different. Being two years
apart probably didn’t help either.
And when I say two years apart, I mean almost to the day. Two years and three days apart. So we shared everything. Toys. Friends.
Birthdays. Yes, even our
birthdays were conjoined.
Up
until the ages of six and four mom dressed us alike. Our clothes always matched right down to the socks and shoes
we were wearing. And people always asked if we were twins. I remember even as a six-year-old
thinking that was a moronic question to ask about two children with an obvious
height and age difference, but there must have been just as many morons back
then as there are now.
Aside
from sharing all the aforementioned things, Little Brother and I also shared a
room up until I turned thirteen.
So privacy was never a luxury
either of us had. We might as well
have been twins.
But
I’m getting off topic.
Fighting. Right.
Little
Brother and I were notorious for getting into fights. Especially when mom and dad weren’t looking. And then as soon as they were looking, we were best friends.
We
were actors in a sense. When mom
and dad were around the curtain was up and we were on stage, our roles
complimenting each other’s perfectly.
Sure we’d squabble and bicker, but nothing too much past a PG rating.
But
when we were left alone, and I’ve mentioned plenty of times before that neither
of us should have ever been left alone, the act was over, the scene ended, and
we were mortal enemies once more.
I
remember one time in specific that was truly a horrifying experience. It still makes me cringe to this day.
Little
Brother and I were about twelve and fourteen respectively. It was summertime, and mom and dad had
just left for their Wednesday afternoon Bible study.
Now
typically, during mom and dad’s absence on Wednesdays, Little Brother and I
would join forces in evil and do things we knew we weren’t allowed to do when
mom and dad were around. For
example, we weren’t allowed to watch the television show Charmed for the fact that it was a very risqué show with very adult
themes that our parents didn’t really want us exposed to yet.
Well,
on Wednesdays, we watched Charmed. It was our pact. Neither of us would tattle on the other
for simple fear of getting in trouble themselves. We felt in control.
We felt so bad.
Once
again, I’ve digressed. Fighting!
One
Wednesday afternoon, during Bible study, Little Brother and I got into it over
something.
I
really wish I could tell you what we were fighting over. I wish I could tell you it was over
something important. Something I
never forgot. But in all honesty,
I’m not that petty. Plus I’m
pretty sure it was over something extremely insignificant.
So
we got into a verbal argument.
Names were called. Insults
were thrown. Doors were slammed.
Then
it escalated.
The
next thing I know we’re pushing each other.
Then
we have each other by the throat and we’re shoving each other around the house.
See? Preacher’s kids really are evil.
All
of a sudden, we both hear a crack as I shove Little Brother into a wall in his
bedroom.
Our
eyes grow wide as we come to the realization of what has just happened.
At
that moment, an unspoken truce was formed.
And
this wasn’t like the Charmed
truce. This was much more
important. This was a truce to
save our lives.
I
don’t think my brain has ever worked that fast in my life. Not before, not after. I could’ve kept up with a supercomputer
with ease.
I
looked to Little Brother and said, “Mom keeps the paint for the walls under the
sink. You go grab that while I
grab the spackle from the kitchen closet and a paintbrush from the drawer. Meet me back here when you have the
paint.”
I
don’t know how I knew the word “spackle.”
I don’t know how I knew where everything was. I just knew. My
brain accessed all the background information stored somewhere in the recesses
of my mind and used it in a time of great need.
Unfortunately,
even with all the knowledge in the universe at our command, we were unable to properly
repair the eight-inch, horizontal crack in the wall.
So
we did the best we could with what we had readily available.
“That
Star Wars poster wasn’t there when we left,” dad said in that tone.
Dad
must have the knowledge of the universe at his command all the time.
“We
thought it would look good there,” I said quickly.
He
didn’t respond. He didn’t ask any
more questions. He just took the
poster down and saw the crack.
Dad
and mom both said they were really impressed we were able to come up with a
plot to use the spackle and paint like we did. They couldn’t believe we actually were able to think of it
all on our own.
We
still got in a lot of trouble.
