When my dad pulls into the driveway, we all shuffle out of the car. I can already hear the screaming through the open windows.

“I said take them off!” Jordan yells.

“It’s my house too,” my brother hollers back.

My parents look at each other and roll their eyes. Dad knocks on the front door, and as soon as Sam lets us in, Jordan storms out of their bedroom with a set of Detroit Lions bedsheets, wrinkling her nose like she’s holding a dirty diaper.

“Those are three-hundred-thread-count sheets,” Sam says. “Who cares what’s on them?”

“You are a traitor not only to the Titans, but to the entire state of Tennessee!” Jordan throws the sheets onto the rug.

Dad lets out a low groan. When Sam and Jordan aren’t making out, they’re screaming at each other about sports. Growing up, they were both Titans fans, but during the time my brother went away to college in Michigan and Jordan went to school in Indiana, he became a Detroit Lions fan.

“The Titans are still my team,” Sam will say, “but I root for the Lions when they’re playing. Unless they’re up against the Titans, of course.”

Jordan’s response is usually, “It’s sacrilege!” She refuses to let him watch the Lions on TV. She even canceled their DirecTV package so he could only watch local games. One time, Sam snuck out to watch a Detroit game at a bar, and Jordan showed up and made a scene, dumping a beer on his head before storming out. My brother has a job working for the Titans, so I don’t think he’s actually a Lions fan. He just likes riling Jordan up.

I honestly don’t see what the big deal is, because I’ve never understood the appeal of sports. Growing up, Sam was a football and baseball star. He even got a scholarship to play football in college. My little sister, Anna, who is tall and buff like Sam, is the best player on her elementary school basketball team. I’m barely five feet two, and the only muscles I have are from holding my guitar and plucking the strings.

My family always shows up for my performances, and I know they love me, but I get the sense that they would rather be tailgating at a football game. Then again, I’d rather be listening to music than watching a game on TV with them. And don’t even get me started on how Mom tries to make me wear clothes that were made this century.

It wasn’t until I formed my band that I felt like I really belonged. At first, anyway. Now I know I didn’t fit in at all. Friendships come and go—I don’t hang out with the same people I did in elementary school or even junior high. But I know that other people have managed to keep their friends. What am I doing wrong? Why don’t I belong anywhere?

The minute my brother sees me, he knows something’s up. “What’s wrong?”

“Just tired,” I lie, and he furrows his eyebrows. Sam has always been a protective big brother, and I know if I told him what happened with Nate today, Nate would get an ass-whooping. And as enjoyable as that sounds, I can’t take any more drama this weekend.

We all head into the kitchen and sit at the breakfast bar while Sam and Jordan start fixing supper. Sam hands Mom and Dad beers, which they take readily following the Detroit Lions Sheet Incident, and Dad turns to his phone to check the Braves’ score.

Jordan cracks an egg and lets the yolk plop into a mixing bowl. “We’re having breakfast for dinner.”

“In Michigan, we called it brinner,” Sam says.

“Well, in Tennessee, we call it breakfast for dinner,” Jordan snaps back. “And if you want some, you better call it by its proper name.”

“Brinner,” he teases.

Jordan throws an entire egg yolk at him, and he flips pancake batter at her. Then they kiss in the middle of their food fight with egg and batter on their faces.

Gross. I shift uncomfortably on my bar stool.

“You’re disgusting,” Anna tells them, and Mom doesn’t even scold her.

Now that Jordan’s teaching and coaching football at Hundred Oaks, I have to watch her being all lovey-dovey with my brother and then go to school and listen to her talk about safe sex in health class. Cringe.

We all usually sigh at Sam and Jordan’s craziness, but secretly, I’m jealous. I hope I have a relationship like theirs one day. A relationship where there’s love and happiness, but also the freedom to fight and say what’s really on your mind. And, most important, trust.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay, My?” Sam asks. “You’re not usually this quiet.”

I shrug. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”