I parked in the driveway, and took a look to make sure my baby was looking beautiful before I went in the house. My baby is a '69 SS Camaro, black with an orange rally stripe, and it's my pride and joy. It was a gift from mom and dad when I turned 17 last year.
The sounds of an argument floated out of the house and I knew what was happening. Dad and my brother were at it again. Dad used to be sort of famous in the area as a race car driver, and he wants my brother to follow in his footsteps. Except he doesn't want to so much. He drives, and he's good, but it's never going to be his passion like it was Dad's, or, to tell the truth, mine. A girl driving race cars? You bet. My brother got sent to a top flight driving school at 16, and I went along with him. The instructors were pretty cool as Dad had spent a bundle for him to have private sessions, so they let me go right along with him. I was faster. In every aspect of driving. I made the mistake of telling Dad afterwards. "What? YOU want to race? You're girl!! You CAN'T race!" he raged. My arguments that I was as good or better than my brother fell on deaf ears, but I was allowed to continue working on his car.
That wasn't all of it, my little brother was a sweet guy, and he really wanted to get into high technology; computers were becoming the rage (this was 1986) and he felt that getting in on the ground floor would be a good move. Dad would have none of it. Me? I wanted to go to college, and get a degree in psychology and go from there. What did I need college for? I could just go to the local community college and meet a nice guy, settle down and have babies. Yeah, Mom and I didn't see eye to eye on much either.
To make matter worse, neither my brother or I was exactly popular, and while he'd filled out a bit of his 6 foot frame, I was still...uh, skinny. 5' 10", with a bustline that could barely fill a B-cup. Adding to that the fact that I was about as unfashionable as a girl could get, and I got really good grades, I was also good at one thing, volleyball. Except I was still skinny and uncool, while my teammates had their pick of guys.
Three and half years of high school had gotten me three dates while a sophomore with a guy who was part of the chess team, two dates with a guy in my junior year who only wanted to get closer to my teammate, and five other glorious failures of dates with guys who were as much of a misfit as I was. Brother Ricky wasn't much more successful. He was painfully shy around girls, and about the only time he could talk to them was at the racetrack where he felt more comfortable. In geometry? Not a chance, he'd clam up and shuffle his feet and mutter before leaving with a red face.
"Hey, Ricky! Wait up!, Wait!" My plea fell on deaf ears; he'd stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door. He wouldn't even open up for me. It killed me because I know he was crying and hurting, and there was nothing I could do. I could take a few jabs at my father, which I hoped would give Ricky time to calm down.
"At it again, Dad? When are you going to realize he doesn't want to be just like you?"
Dad whirled on me, furious.
"It isn't your business. It's between me and your brother. He still refuses to listen to good sense, he could be a star in just a few short years! He can't do that going to college to play around with stupid toys!"
"Computers are hardly toys, they're going to change the world. Ricky wants to be there and make his mark, he's good at it, let him be who he wants to be!"
"He can do that anytime, if he focuses, he can move up in a year or two, maybe Winston West, then in another year, he could be with the big boys, Allison, Waltrip, Earnhardt! He won't get there in a class room."
I shook my head. "Dad, he doesn't want to quit racing, he still wants to do it, and he's still proud to be your son, he just wants to do other things as well. Is that so bad? Or are you worried that he won't fulfill the dreams you never got to? You were great, a champion, but you never did make the move to the next level. You built a great business, and raised a family. It wasn't the big time, but it was pretty damn big to us!"
He looked mad.
"Look, I know you care about your brother, but don't try to use a lot of psychological bullshit on me! Why don't you give THAT crap up as well? Just go out on some dates, if you can find some, and settle down, and leave these things to the men?"
Ouch. Thanks, Dad. I know I'm not pretty or popular, but thanks for rubbing it in. You bastard.
He stomped off muttering under his breath. The man was impossible, but he was my father, I suppose my stubborn streak came from him. Let's see if I can get Ricky to at least open up.
"Hey, bro? It's me, Big."
Ricky's nickname for me had always been "Big". I was barely a year older, so technically I was his big sister, but except for about three months as infants, and a few weeks in his freshman year, he'd always been taller than me.
Ricky opened the door, and I was right, he'd been crying. I hate what that man does to you, little bro, you're too good of a guy to deal with this shit. I walked in and put my arms around him.
"It's all right, Ricky, it's all right. He's just...an asshole." It was meant to be sympathetic, but it worked better than that as Ricky giggled, and my own giggles followed. We both sat down on his bed feeling a little better.
"Why doesn't he get me at all, Big?"
"Wish I knew, I wish I did. It's not like you want to quit driving, right?"
He shook his head. "Nope, I still like it, I still want to do it. However, once I go to college, preferably far away from here, I just want to race during summers and the few school holidays during racing season. I don't want to shoot for a track championship where I have to be there from opening day in February through October. I won't be able to concentrate on my studies, and I'd have to go to a school around here. You know that's practically offensive in itself to them. You know how they reacted to you going away, but they couldn't argue with the scholarship."
I had not only been accepted at UW, but I'd gotten a scholarship that would completely cover my freshman year, living expenses included. The folks had acted like I'd personally shot them both in the chest for going 1000+ miles away for an education, but when I told them I'd go closer if they'd pay for the whole thing, they didn't argue too much after that.
"Why can't they just accept that we're both different and let us be who we want to be?" he asked plaintively.
"Shit, they're both old fashioned, and you're supposed to be just like Mommy and Daddy and do the exact same things, just like they did, and their parents before them and so on, back a zillion years. Meanwhile time marches on and progress is made by the intelligent people, which sadly does NOT include our parents."
We both laughed at that and after directing a few scathing comments towards our folks, and we decide to head out for a bite. We take Ricky's absolutely flawless 68 SS Chevelle, his 16th birthday gift, and off we roar. Despite the fact that our parents are kind of assholes, they don't stint on material things. I don't think it makes up the difference though. Maybe that's just psychobabble as Dad calls it, but I know I'm right. I've done very well in school, and psychology is calling to me. Maybe even psychiatry, would do wonders in helping us understand why we're both messed up. One of my teachers told me that my chosen field is often of interest to those who need help the most. Not exactly thrilling news, but hardly surprising.
I suppose I should say that we've never, ever been physically abused other than a decent swat on the butt when we were very little to learn how to stay away from fire, etc. but the emotional abuse has been rough, especially the last few years as they try to force us to be them.
We enjoy a good, greasy burger at a favorite hangout and oddly enough, Megan Holloway, one of the prettiest girls in school openly flirts with Ricky. She makes it clear she wants to talk to him outside, and he looks at me. I motion to him to get out there and talk to her, and he finally catches on. He's not stupid, just not incredibly socially aware.
I look out from time to time as their conversation gets a bit animated, and then she hugs him and takes off and he comes back in grinning.
"Bro, you look like the cat who just fell into the cream. What did the ever popular Miss Holloway have to say to you?"
His grin is a thing of joy to see after the rough spots earlier.
"She asked ME out! Me!"
"Very cool. You did accept, right?"
"Um, yeah, we're gonna go to the drive in. The drive in."
"Uh, sounds fun."
"It sounds scary as hell!" he replies.
"What's so scary?"
"Um, Big, you know I've never, well, you know..."
"Me neither." I say, with only the tiniest trace of bitterness.
"What if she, uh, wants to? And I don't know what to do?"
"Hmm. I've heard that you wouldn't exactly be her first, so I imagine she'd be happy to give you a few pointers. Make sure you have condoms. And I doubt that drinking will help, so don't do that."
Our father seems to have a bit of a fondness for booze, so we've both steered pretty clear of it. Hasn't really helped our popularity much.
"Oh jeez, I just hope I can act somewhat cool."
I pat him on the head with affection, "Just be yourself! Pretend you're dealing with a trophy girl."
As he's been winning a few races here and there, he's had to pose for pictures with the trophy girls and kiss them. It's done wonders for his confidence.
He lets me drive back home as his car has a little more top end than mine, and we take the looooong way home. Dad bitches at me for driving his car, and even though Ricky tells him it was his idea, Dad still makes us feel guilty. Whatta guy.
Two nights later, Ricky details his ride, makes a mix tape, and puts on his best clothes for his date and I wish him well. Mom and Dad are out of town as Dad is opening a new store three hours away and wants to oversee the grand opening personally. I'm hoping there's something decent on HBO and making sure we've got enough snacks to maybe cover up my loneliness. I don't seem to gain weight, but naturally it's hell on my skin.
Oh goody, a slasher flick. This ought to be fun. I settle in to enjoy it and send out wishes that Ricky has a great time. It is not to be. Not tonight.
I hear the roar of the Chevelle in the driveway and the screech of brakes. Not a good sign, he knows better than to cut loose in the driveway or street. I don't even make it to the door before it flies open and he stomps in, angry, but there are tears on his face. Oh shit, what's gone wrong now? If Megan did something to him I'll beat the shit out of her in front of everyone and I can do it.
"Ricky, what's wrong? Ricky? Ricky!!!!" I'm shouting but he's up the stairs and into his room as the door slams with a crash.
Not good.
"Bro, what's wrong? Open up, you know I'm not gonna hassle you. I just want to make sure you're OK."
"I don't wanna talk about it!" he rages at the closed door. The emotion is plain to hear in his voice. This is killing me now, I can't just let him suffer, even if he thinks he wants to be alone. Luckily I learned a trick to opening the doors in our house, even if they're locked, and I pop it open and walk in. He's face first on the bed and shaking. Must have been pretty rough.
"Hey," I say, and gently put my hand on his shoulder as I sit down next to him, "what happened?"
He looks up and whatever it was, it was hell as he looks terrible.
