Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
He’s not lying. I got in. I exhale, smiling as I feel like I’m floating all of a sudden.
I got in. I got into an Ivy League school with a great theater department.
I’m going to Dartmouth.
I squeeze the paper, kind of wishing I could hug someone right now. But I’m the only person in this house happy about this.
“But what do I know, right?” Macon continues. “I’m just a poor, dumb redneck who’ll never be more than this. I should be lucky to learn from you.”
My smile slowly falls, and I look up, meeting his brown eyes. We’re the only two kids—the first and the last—who got our mom’s eyes, but that’s all we have in common. I respect my oldest brother greatly. He takes care of things. He’s reliable, honest, and strong.
I don’t really like him much, though. He doesn’t want me to go to Dartmouth. He doesn’t talk to me other than to parent me.
“You’re the one who pushed me,” I tell him, setting the letter down. “You wanted me to get out of here. ‘Be someone’, you said. ‘Be remembered’. That’s what you said.” I can’t help the scowl spreading across my face. “Dartmouth is ten times the school Florida State is, and you’re still not happy.”
It takes me less than three seconds to get angry at my family, but Macon just cocks his head, playing with me. “And what are you studying at Dartmouth?”
I shake my head. I’m not giving up the theater. It’s my life, not his. “You want me close so you can reel me in.”
“And you want to fly out of arm’s reach where I can’t.”
He thinks theater is stupid. He thinks I’ll wind up a middle-aged failure and realize too late that I can’t go back and make the conservative decisions he thinks I should make.
I’ll be a failure if I stay.
“Eighteen won’t make you an adult, Liv.” He stares at me. “You still need raising. I was twenty-three and I still needed raising.”
I fall silent, tired of going around and around with him about this. His situation was completely different. No one—no matter what age—would be ready to lose both their parents within two months of each other, and also get saddled with raising and supporting five younger siblings.
Over the years, I became in awe of Macon, slowly realizing as I matured what it must have been like for him. He was a Marine, off seeing the world and living his life only for himself. He had freedom and opportunities.
One day, our dad had a heart attack that left him weakened until he finally passed one night. Two months later, my mom followed.
Macon had a choice. He could let us be split up and sent off to foster care, or he could be discharged and return home to pay more bills than he was capable of, feed bellies that were constantly hungry, and be chained to people who would continue to be dependent on him long after they’d turned eighteen.
His life was over, but he didn’t hesitate. He came home.
Wailing hits my ear, and I let out a breath, bringing my mug back to my lips as the crying gets louder and louder.
Here comes exhibit A of what dependency looks like.
“You gotta take this kid,” Army whines, coming into the kitchen and swinging his son over my shoulder and into my lap.
I shoot back, setting down my coffee, the scorching liquid sloshing onto my hand before I grab the kid and hang on to him.
I glare at my second oldest brother as he passes me and heads to the fridge, no shirt, and his jeans hanging looser around his waist, because his five-month-old son still doesn’t sleep through the night, and my brother forgets to eat just like he forgot to wear a condom.
“Army, come on,” I bite out, hefting Dexter up and holding him close. “I’ve got chores and practice.”
Army’s brown hair, a couple shades lighter than mine, is matted on one side of his head, and bags darken the skin under his eyes. “I just need a shower,” he assures. “Please? I’m dying. Damn kid cries all the time.”
I meet Macon’s gaze, both of us finding silent agreement in this one area. Army is twenty-eight, three years younger than Macon, and one of the most irresponsible people alive. We told Army that woman was no good, and now he’s raising a kid alone.
Correction: Not alone. We’re helping him.
Which is why Macon will never be free. Who else will help my brothers pay for their weddings, support their kids, bail them out of jail, have a couch to crash on when their wives kick them out, or keep up the ancestral home?
A drop of water hits the kitchen table, and I look up at the leaky ceiling and move my coffee cup under the leak.