It's Not Always Easy

It’s Not Always Easy

** Authors Note: Rated PG for some language and drug use**

I run into my room, slamming the door so hard it rattles the pictures on my wall. Damnit! My print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night gets knocked off the wall, therefore breaking the glass. I go down to pick it up, place the picture on my desk, and pick up the pieces of broken glass. I put them in my wastebasket, narrowly missing my fingers from being cut in the process. I flop on my bed, staring at the ceiling in a huff. Typical day for me, always storming in my room, flopping on the bed, angry at the world once again, and knew who exactly to blame it on… HIM.

I looked at the picture of us taken about a year ago. It was on my sixteenth birthday, in which my Mom and him planned a surprise birthday party for my friends and me. I was honored, until my friends spent the rest of the night not celebrating my birthday, but making googly-eyes at him and asking him all about life on the road. Again, it was all about HIM and not about me, even on my birthday. We seem so happy, like our relationship is so perfect. People say to me “Oh you are so lucky!” Try to live a day in my shoes, and you might think differently.

I have a good mind to throw that picture away. I do everyday, and did it on several occasions, only to find that Mom put it back on my night table. She says it’s just a phase to her so-called friends, probably the same so-called friends that I have, but I know the difference.

OK, time to forget. I look out the window, making sure no one’s home. Mom said she wouldn’t be home for a few more hours, so it gives me time. I reach under the bed to grab the tin box with the lock on it. I go to my night table, untape the key from the bottom of the drawer and put the key in the lock. With a click, the lock opens. I take the lock off and open the box.

I take one of the papers from the booklet and lay it down on the inside of the lid. Then, I take the small plastic bag and empty some of the dried marijuana into my hand, grinding it ever so lightly between my fingers. I pick up the paper and fold it in half, put the stuff into the paper, and roll the paper into a joint, making sure it isn’t too tight. I grab my lighter and light the joint until its smoking, then inhale it slowly. Ah, the way the smoke feels in my lungs, the way I hold on to it for the longest time as I am forced to exhale it slowly. There’s nothing like it. The one chance I get to forget all about my family, my life, and everything in between. The pot takes over my mind, and I’m in a different world.

Although Mom smells it in my room sometimes, I just tell her its incense. I make it seem so, keeping the incense burner on my dresser, and the box of the sticks right next to it. She says it’s “trippy…” whatever. I want to tell everyone, scream it to the press about the dysfunctional sister, making sure the world knows that his “loving sibling” isn’t all that she’s cracked up to be. I’ll show them all one day: my family, my friends, everyone that I have a voice and a mind.

I read in a magazine article about him, saying that, “My sister and I are the best of friends. She thinks it’s cool that her brother is a Backstreet Boy.” Cool? COOL! Ha! He doesn’t know what shit I have to put up with everyday. He doesn’t know that I can’t make any friends when they see the last name and ask, “Wait a minute, are you related to…” Yes, he’s my brother. “OH MY GOD! You’re brother is, like, the hottest guy on the planet!” Then the questions start: What was he like as a baby? Did you ever sing with him? Does he take you on tour with him? What are the others like? Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know he’s my older brother. No, I don’t have the talent like he does. Once. They’re cool. I had another encounter like that today.

Honestly, the only time I went on tour with him, he was so busy he didn’t have the time for me. I had to spend my summer with the crew and played video games on the bus with the back-up band. Everyday he said he would spend the day with me but it was always photo shoots, interviews, and meet-and-greets. The fans meant more to him than I did. I was the naļve 14-year-old, always thinking well, he’ll spend the day with me tomorrow. Boy was I wrong. He didn’t even say good-bye when I left, his PR person took me to the airport.

And the others are cool. Kevin, even though he’s related to me, I don’t have a lot in common with. With AJ, I have never seen so many women flock around a guy in my life. He hit on me, and then my brother informed him that I was off-limits. Two words: TOO LATE! Howie always looked out for me when I was on tour with them, making sure the others took care of me. Nick’s the one I have the most in common with. We played basketball a couple of times, and actually played video games with me too. He’s the one closest in age to me.

It was actually when I was on tour with him that I started smoking pot. I saw one of the roadies, Bruce, smoking a joint in the back of one of the arenas we were in, and asked me if I wanted a hit. I was, once again, dissed by my brother, so I was angry and he said it would make me feel better. It did. Made me forget about all of my problems. He gave me a joint and said there was plenty more where that came from. He was my main connection all that summer, until I left. Then he gave me the number of a friend in Kentucky where he got his stash. I called him when I got home and he’s been my connection ever since.

I put the box away and die out the rest of the joint in an ashtray in the drawer. I spray the Lysol in my room and open the window to air the place out. The feeling of exuberance comes over me, a feeling of strength that I love. I’m not the little sister anymore. I’m me. I can take on the world with one hand tied behind my back. Screw Backstreet; screw everyone.

I go down to the kitchen and grab a bag of potato chips from the cabinet. I wolf down the whole thing in record time, giggling because the world seems so comical. I go back upstairs and crash on the bed, practically passing out from the fullness in my stomach and the pot.

I awake to the closing of the door downstairs. “Honey you home?”

I go downstairs to Mom grabbing pots and pans from the cabinet. She looks at me and inhales. “Ooh, looks like you’ve been burning the incense again.”

I nod and ask her what she’s doing. “Good news, Brian is coming home for a few days. He says he wants some quality family time so I’m making some macaroni and cheese. He’s really excited to see you again, sweetie.”

Great, just great.

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