A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother

by Blake, Abriella

  I close my eyes.

  His mouth works its dainty way down the front of my sweatshirt—and when he reaches my waist, he grabs two fistfuls of the grey material and slides the princesses up and over my head. He places his hands on my breasts, now bound only by an unfortunate, laundry-day-beige bra. He massages me through the padded fabric, so softly I can barely feel it. He lowers his head above me again, once again sucking the light from the studio.

  “Does that feel good, baby Jo?”

  I put my hands on top of his, I press him further into me. I relish the darting in his eyes as he succumbs to my insistence. This is a classroom in my high school, for god sakes. I want to be taken.

  Eric continues to knead my breasts, aided by my own palms and working fingers—and slowly, I begin to feel the goodness. It spreads across my body like a warm blanket. It relaxes my shoulders, and the backs of my knees, and the skinny vertebrae running up the back of my neck. Sinking into arousal, I move my feet along the art room cabinets, struggling to find purchase on a handle. When I find a place to rest the heels of my Converse, I press my hips upwards. Into his.

  He releases a soft breath in my ear, and I inhale a mouthful of his fancy cologne, tinged with Hazelnut coffee creamer. His hair falls against my neck. I buck harder against his pants, still pinned among the still lifes. His hands continue to rummage around my breasts. He kisses my neck, gingerly. In response, I plunge one of my hands downward, fingers rooting through the brief thicket that is his festive plaid shirt—until at last I find what I'm looking for. First, I trace the cool rectangle of his belt buckle. He coos into my ear. Then, I slip first one finger, then a second, under the waistband of his corduroys. He presses himself upward, straining towards the light of my touch. When I grip his familiar shaft, I breathe in sharply.

  But while I'm holding Eric in my coiled fist, while I'm rubbing him to the very tip of pleasure, while my own eyes are closed... the man I have in mind is (improbably, horribly, weirdly)...Trace. Trace's assertive, probing fingers on my chest. Trace's ardent kisses on my neck. Trace's thick cock in my sweaty palm. Just before Eric is about to come, I release my hand, and pull myself up onto the counter.

  “I'm so sorry, E. I can't.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  Trace's perfect, smooth, tattooed arms. How he'd hold me...

  “No. I just remembered a thing I have to go do. I'll see you at school?”

  I kiss my poor, blue-balled counselor on the cheek, bowing a little with shame and apology—but once I'm back in the hallway, I feel nothing but relief. I've never fantasized about another man while making love to Eric. To be perfectly honest, I've never fantasized about a man besides Eric (and, fine—Jon Hamm)—even when I'm alone. Zvc

  I readjust my sweatshirt on my shoulders, and try to fight off the images which have now taken over my imagination: Trace drawing that wife beater up over his chest, Trace leaning over me, so his early curls cast shadow on his forehead...Instead, I turn towards home.

  Shake it off, I command myself. You're a driven, sexual woman with a bright future. Don't buy into this puppy love crap. He's just a hot guy, who happens to be living under your roof.

  Yet this line of logic doesn't make the walk home any easier.

  If anything, I run faster.

  Chapter Three

  October 6th

  Trapped again in English class, I fume to my silent notebook. Krenshaw continues to drone at length about the literary devices at work in Hard Times, but I just draw pictures of devils in the margins of my tattered copy. Each and every one of my tiny Lucifers has the bushy brows and stern jaw of the (extra space) asshole formerly known as Trace Harter —henceforth and forever after to be referred to as... The Demon.

  I'll back up.

  So I came home from the art room liaison the other day feeling incredibly confused. After rushing out of sex with Eric (because it just felt too weird to lie beneath him while I was picturing another man...) and hightailing it home to attempt some kind of friendly conversation with Trace, I forgot my friggin' violin. And I've never left my violin anywhere. When I was in middle school, I slept with it on the second pillow in my twin bed, no joke.

  Anyways—after I'd rushed home, after I'd left my baby in the art room, after I'd been weird with my pseudo-boyfriend, I knocked on the garage room door, only to discover that...wait for it...the Demon was “busy.”

  And not with homework. Oh no-no-no.

  I waited for a few minutes, knocking and knocking like a possessed dork. I called: “Hey Trace, it's Joanne... I thought we could get to know one another.” Finally, I pressed my ear against the door—only to hear these insane yelling noises. At first I blush, I actually thought he was torturing an animal in there. Or at least watching someone torture an animal on TV.

  But then I remembered: we don't have a TV.

  When Trace finally deigned to answer the door, he did not look pleased. His skin was shiny, his breath was hoarse, his hair was tousled, and he actually had the nerve to stand there, look me in the eyes, and scream: “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?” into my face. And from the inner part of the room, I heard a woman's voice (also hoarse) cooing, “Boo? What is it?”

  I was so scared by the furious look in his eye, so embarrassed—I just turned and bolted. Went and hid up in my room like a big, stupid coward. Apparently, if you give one foster kid one nice place to live and an hour, he will fill these with prozzies. Ugh...just the nerve of some people.

  Naturally, later that evening, when Sir Shags-a-Lot finally had the grace to come into my childhood home and demand dinner (what he actually said was, “Chow?”), I kind of gave Trace the cold shoulder. My parents were fluttering around like jolly beekeepers, murmuring about how great the new school would be and how much fun we were all going to have as a family and all the great things they'd heard about Trace...and the bastard just sat there, shoveling food into his face. Finally, after an hour of him literally saying nothing, Trace stood up and acknowledged us with a nod. “Thanks,” he said. “Great to meet all of you. And you know something? I've really appreciated the chance to adjust to my new surroundings in private.” These three sentences were sufficient to send Earl and Janice over the moon with glee, but I just set my chin. Which turned out to be the right course of action, because Trace lingered on my face a beat longer. “That's right,” he repeated. “Pri-va-cy.” Then he winked at me. Rude, disgusting jerk that he is.

  After this inaugural, humiliating dinner, I tried to give Trace a wide berth—but the indignities have only mounted. The other day I opened the door of the bathroom without knocking, and discovered him flossing while wearing only a towel. The room was muggy and humid from his shower, but there was just enough light streaming in that I saw his sculpted pecs and abs, and the trail of tummy fuzz running from his chest to his belly and down. His tattoos looked especially inky, when moist with sweat and water. And Trace caught my peeping gaze in the mirror's reflection before I could flee the scene.

  “Take a picture, sister. it'll last longer.”

  “Or you could friggin' lock the door.”

  “Oh. You wouldn't want that.”

  He turned around to face me fully, and it took extreme will to keep my eyes from roving his body below the shoulders. While we sustained eye contact, Trace winked at me. I felt bile rising in my throat. I knew I was supposed to move, and not just stare at his half-naked body, but it was like I couldn't rip my eyes away. Fury was pounding through my skull, but I still felt my body graining towards his slick skin, his damp curls. Whatever lurked beneath the towel...

  “Seriously, perv. Quit it,” he'd said then—though his gaze was still all teasing.

  I was so mad, I slammed the door and ran back to my bedroom. Behind my own closed door, I had to smack my stinging cheeks twice just to banish the image from my brain. That smug jerk. That smug jerk, and the rivulets of water sliding down his muscles, and the padded look of his bare muscles, and the creamy complexion of his jerk skin...

>   And while he's largely sullen at mealtimes, my parents have decided that Trace is just one big laugh riot—so they giggle at every occasional thing he happens to say. Even if it's as mundane as, “I met with my new career counselor today. Mr. Mahoney seems alright.” Well in retrospect, I guess it was a good thing that no one was paying attention to my face during this particular remark, but you get the idea—Trace will say something dumb, my parents will laugh, I'll roll my eyes, and then Janice will say something super embarrassing and terrible like, “Look at the way you two tease one another. You could be real siblings.”

  Back in English class, I stab my second demon doodle with the sharpened tip of a pencil, so hard it tears through the paper. Mrs. Krenshaw glances up from the chalkboard at the sound. I smile at her politely, so she knows it's just Joanna Prine the all-star valedictorian taking feverish notes—not the sex-craved, constantly livid creature I've become in the past few days. Eric has even said he's “not sure he can handle my desires” anymore. He said it half-jokingly, during our Monday closet liaison. But still.

  Through the single pane in the classroom door, I discern voices in the hall—the lucky kids, out on free period. I glance up, eager for a diversion. And whose smug little face should be pressed up against the glass, right when Krenshaw's back is turned? The whole class, Claudia included, titters joyfully at the joke. Behind him in the hallway, I see a bunch of the jock guys exchanging high-fives and thumping him on the back. Though it's only been days, the whole senior class has also spoken: not only is Trace Harter a bad-ass hottie with a body, but he's apparently funny and awesome, too.

  Through the window-pane, I watch a crew of the cool kids languish—Hank Gilmore, Leslie May, a few other cheerleader/ballplayer arrangements. They all appear to laugh at one of Trace's jokes. I hear someone bounce a ball against the tile. Though I'm straining to see them from my chair, Trace manages to catch my eye in the window. He blows out his cheeks again, at me, then crosses his eyes. Before I can reply with a well-placed eye roll, Krenshaw turns her hunchback and the bad kids scurry away down the hall, their laughter following.

  My foster brother is literally driving me insane.

  Everything about this life is a disaster, compounded by the fact that tonight—of all nights—is the Extracurricular Open House. The Douglass High Extracurricular Open House is this big splashy, after-school event for the teams and clubs, and everyone at school tends to dress up and make a big deal out of it. I'm annually tasked to run the Student Newspaper booth, where I show off the Gazette's accomplishments with my BFF and co-editor, Claudia. Tonight promises to be no different than every other year: a lame but necessary formality.

  By the time I get to our booth, moderately dolled up in my one little black dress and an old pair of Mary Jane’s, Claudia has established some ground rules. “Okay, first off,” she says, “We have to face facts. No one gives a flying fuck about the student newspaper. So we're going to spend this evening making some dope-ass paper airplanes.” All too happy for a diversion, I set to folding.

  “Atta girl,” Claudia says. “Hey—this is nice. I feel like we haven't spent any quality time together in weeks. You're so busy with apps and sheeyit.” I smile up at my buddy through a curtain of hair, and try to nod convincingly. Because here's the real reason I've been so AWOL and terrible friend-y of late: Claudia doesn't know about Eric and me. He was the one who insisted I tell no one, lest we both get in serious, career-ending trouble. I've never kept a secret from my best friend for this long, and the effort is actually making me avoid her.

  “You want to make the wings symmetrical, dummy,” she jokes now, tossing her own dark, long mane in a way that snags attention from some of the boys at the Robotics Booth, catty-corner to us. “And this girl's a favorite for Dartmouth? I don't know.”

  Claudia and I are pinging a paper jet back and forth, having a minor blast, when who should saunter by but Eric Mahoney. And who should be on Eric Mahoney's arm, but the alarmingly lovely-in-person woman who can only be his wife. The Miranda of myth. I try to look away from them, but curiosity gets the better of me.

  She's taller than he is, and way prettier than I am, and she looks about ten years younger than him (/older than me). Miranda Mahoney's hair is the color of honey, and it's pulled back into a tight, lovely chignon. Mrs. Mahoney's engagement ring and wedding band shine on her ring-finger, and each are exactly as eye-catching as her husband's band is drab.

  “Look, honey!” Miranda Mahoney trills, as she swishes by our booth in her plum-colored wrap dress. “Remember how we met on the student newspaper? Oh, this looks like such a lot of fun.” She proceeds to give me and Claudia this condescending grin, like we're toddlers she's babysitting. “Keep it up, you girls!” I can feel myself turning beet-red—the appropriate color-counterpart to the shame and sadness and humiliation I'm feeling. My hair is suddenly oily and slick, and my dull black dress and gooey eye-liner are childish. I look to Eric, hoping he'll throw me some kind of sign—a vague gesture, perhaps. Something that says, hey, don't freak out. You're not an awful person. This had to happen eventually, blah blah blah...

  But Eric doesn't even really look at me. Instead, he fixes his ice blue gaze on a point in the center of my forehead, and says: “Claudia and Joanna, you know you're supposed to be representing the school. Maybe cool it with the kid stuff.”

  He doesn't reprimand us in a voice mean enough for his wife to parse—Miranda Mahoney just smiles kind of apologetically at us, then swishes on to the next booth. But even once she's out of earshot, Eric doesn't change his expression. Not even a little bit. He could soften something in his eyes to let me know that this has all just been an act and he hasn't meant to hurt my feelings, but instead he just looks at me like I'm any other student. Like I'm a stranger, really.

  The rest of the night, I sit huddled in our booth. I give three interested students fliers, and then I close us down early, because Claudia wants to get good seats for the Drama Club's presentation: a snippet of South Pacific. I just want to get to some secret corner, so I can cry without being seen.

  But right as the evening is winding down, right before I turn to leave—I see the demon lurking by the basketball team's booth, joshing around with a few of his new friends. The weird thing is, when he catches my eye, he smiles this sad, pitying smile at me—and this is the first openly kind expression I've ever seen cross his face. I actually look around to see if there's some hot sophomore standing behind me who he's really looking at, but no dice. When I turn back around to verify that it really was my egotistical lout of a foster brother smizing at me across the gym, he's gone. So I figure this is another joke at my expense—like the garage prostitute, or the way he teased me in the bathroom.

  Yet another reason Trace is a DEMON. But I guess it turns out, all men are basically scum.

  Chapter Four

  October 9th

  Even though Eric apologized for “being weird at the fair” at our Wednesday afternoon secret meeting, I haven't felt quite the same since. I even dreamed about his wife the other night. Her pretty hair, her long legs. In my dream, Eric gave her a massage. That was it: no funny business, no nothing. I just witnessed this very tender, intimate moment between two partners that seemed to go on forever.

  Ugh.

  Thursday night, Claudia comes over for a study session. I almost never get to have people over (since Trace set up shop, my parents don't like the idea of a bunch of “new elements” invading my “brother's safe spaces”) but when I explained it was for the English mid-term, Janice and Earl gave an inch. They even let us party in the living room, taking their books and knitting and assorted dweebery up to their bedroom way before the usual time. And I have to say, it was really nice just hanging out with a lady for once. No dudes, no distractions.

  Claudia is basically my one and only cool friend—which is to say, she smuggled over some wine coolers, in her purse. We abandon our flash-cards about an hour after quinoa surprise, and then sit around talking shit about peo
ple, which is always fun. Claudia's one of those girls who always seems to be caught up in some huge, improbable drama. Tonight in particular, she's yammering my ear off about how she made out with a girl at a kegger the week before, and now the girl's boyfriend is mad because the girl has developed feelings for Claudia, but meanwhile Claudia now has a crush on the boyfriend...I'm serious. I couldn't make this shit up.

  “I think we're all a little bi-sexual,” my friend says. “In the future, everyone will have sex with whoever they want to, and it will be a beautiful, Dionysian, pleasure culture.” She takes a swig of cherry cooler. “Don't you think so, Jo?”

  “I couldn't really say, crazy. I've only been with dudes.” (Well. A dude.)

  “Well, I'm telling you. Tits are twice as nice.”

  “As...what?”

  She looks pensive for a moment. Then she says, “I don't actually fucking know,” and we start to roll around the floor, laughing so hard it hurts.

  “Seriously, though,” Claudia says, once she had her breath back. And I try to look at her as a sexual being while she speaks, just to try it on for size. It's not so hard, in fact: Claudia's one of the more beautiful girls in our class. She has this spotless Mediterranean skin, thick, straight brown hair, round, light eyes, and a killer figure. I picture kissing her—but every time my imagination seems to find a foothold in this fantasy, Trace's face swoops in and hijacks the scene. The idea that he's just yards away from us, right now—entertaining biddies in his garage room hideaway—it makes me flush all over again. I reach for another wine cooler.

  I am actually, truly, one hundred percent, going insane.

  “But sexuality is so important!” Claudia continues to ramble. “It's this great big gamut for expressing love! I think it's the single most important thing in the happiness recipe.”