As Dad got older, he played football, dated the cheerleader (my mom) and landed a partial scholarship to college. He went on to become an accountant. Happy middle class—that was my dad. Joining an MC didn’t make sense, but he did join and because of that decision he died.

As I watch the others standing in line laughing and chatting with their happy middle-class families, all I keep thinking is, that could have been me. I could have been the girl in the fuzzy blue sweater giggling with her jeans-on-dress-down-Friday-wearing father.

But it’s not me, and I doubt I’ll ever understand why.

The crowd on the bleachers erupts into cheers, and an air siren wails into the cool mid-October evening. The home team, my high school team, scored a touchdown. Standing in line beside me at the ticket booth, my brother, Brandon, bounces on his toes while shoving his hands into his jeans pockets as he strains to see the football field.

He’s one of the many people I love so much that it’s painful. He’s also one of several people in my life I can’t seem to stop hurting.

“Do you think that was Chevy who scored?” It’s the first words he’s said to me since we left school this afternoon. He’s mad I dragged him into the school’s office and showed the vice principal the bruise and cut on his arm caused by some jerk at lunch. My brother is a joke to most of the boys at our school, and Brandon can never understand why I can’t leave it alone.

It’s because of what happened at lunch that I was late to English today. Brandon was bleeding and I took him to the nurses’ office. The nurse gave him the option of calling Mom and going home, but I talked him into returning to class because Brandon has to learn how to keep his head high. Guys like the ones who hurt him will keep causing problems if they believe they’re getting to him. But guys like that also deserve to be punished, hence why I dragged Brandon into the vice principal’s office after school.

“I asked if you think it was Chevy who scored,” Brandon repeats.

“I don’t know.” I breathe out the ache Chevy’s name creates. Chevy used to be my boyfriend. He used to be one of my best friends. He’s also one of the people it hurts to love.

“I couldn’t hear who they said scored,” my brother continues. “Everyone was cheering. Do you think we can find out once we get in? Do you think someone will tell us? Can you ask?” Brandon scratches his chin twice, and his cheeks turn red against his naturally pale skin.

The line is long, and he’s flustered we’re late. The late part is my fault. Part of it on purpose, part of it beyond my control. Either way, Brandon’s angry at me. It’s not new. Brandon’s natural state of emotion with me is anger. I’m the one who sets rules and boundaries, while everyone else in his life is bent on either babying him or having fun.

Life is not fun and no one is doing either him or me a favor by trying to act differently.

Still, I love Brandon, and I hate that he’s mad at me, so we’re here to watch my ex-boyfriend play football. As I said, life isn’t fun. But Brandon deserves a moment of happiness, especially since there are so many people at school determined to make him sad.

It’s midway through football season, and tonight our small-town team is playing a big-city school. Two powerhouses battling for dominance. Though I seem to be immune, the excitement around us appears to be contagious. A sea of blue sweatshirts, smiles and high fives.

We move up in line, and seeing we’re two people away from the ticket window, I pull money out of my back pocket and offer Brandon a five-dollar bill while keeping a five for myself.

Brandon’s eyes widen, and he pushes the glasses sliding down his nose back up. “What’s the money for?”

“To buy your ticket.” I flash a smile, hoping he’ll see I’m calm and then he’ll remain calm. My brother is fourteen, a little over three years younger than me. I’m a senior and he’s a freshman. While there are many things we have in common, like our pale skin with freckles, our crazy bright red hair and our father’s blue eyes, there are also so many ways we’re different.

Our minds tinker differently. Not better. Just differently. Brandon’s a little slower on some things, a lot faster on others, and he’s often very anxious around people and in social situations.

“Can’t you do it for me, Vi?” Of course I’m Vi to him now, meaning I’m officially out of the doghouse, and I almost consider folding.

Almost. My brother needs to learn how to handle simple situations on his own.

“You can do it,” I encourage. “Just hand her the money, ask her for one student ticket, and then she’ll hand you your change along with the ticket. The whole exchange will take seconds.”

Brandon shrinks, and even though he’s as tall as me, he reminds me of when we were children and I held his hand as we rode the elementary bus because he was scared.

“I don’t like the way the lady at the ticket booth looks at us. I’ve seen her around town and she makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.”

My heart sinks, and my fingers play with the bracelets on my wrist. “Any dirty look she gives is for me, not you.”

That’s only partially true. The woman working the ticket counter enjoys giving both of us her evil eye. I could claim that’s her resting bitch face, but when she doesn’t notice me or my brother, she actually smiles.

We live in a small town. Brandon’s the weird kid, and after a picture of me making out with a guy made the rounds on social media, I’m the town whore.