Words, Words, Words

BANG, BANG, BANG!

"Olleh, yeh lazy ass fuck, wake up!" My little brother Tom yells through the door. I groan and grab a pillow, pulling it over my head in hopes it'll drown out his obnoxious voice and the sound of his fist hitting my white door. "Amelia's coming ova' in an hour."

Amelia.

Her name makes my hands build up with sweat and my heart race. I lift the pillow off my head, letting the bright light blind me as I ask, "Wha' time is it?"

"It's half pas' noon, yeh asshole. Get up!" He yells. Right after, I can hear his heavy footsteps as he walks across the hall and down the stairs. I sigh and swing my legs over the side of my bed unwillingly. My head is killing me but all I can think about is Amelia.

She isn't coming for me, I know that. As a matter of fact, she hates me and I despise her. Or at least I pretend to. I know that from day I haven't been exactly nice to her. But she's witty, constantly catching me off guard with slick comebacks that I can't beat without being irrational and dishonest by calling her fat and ugly. I guess that's my lame excuse for my awful behavior the past seven years.

With a small frown on my face, I quickly get ready, showering and getting dressed in my usual Drop Dead shirt and tight skinny jeans. I decide against straightening my hair when I realize that I lingered in the shower and it's already fifteen past one.

I'm in the middle of brushing my teeth when the doorbell rings and echoes through the house. I can hear Tom open the door and greet a girl, "'Ello, love."

She's here. As I wipe my mouth on the towel, I listen to their conversation through the thin walls, "Hi, Tom."

"Mum made yeh favorite," Tom says as they make their way into the kitchen where I'm almost completely sure my mother is, slaving over the stove with a grin. I ignore the rest of the conversation as I make my way out of my bathroom.

Amelia didn't come for me for obvious reasons. No, she came for Tom. A year after meeting me, Lydia introduced Amelia to Tom, the sweetheart between us Sykes boys. She says that Amelia took a liking to Tom immediately with his goofy grin and old camera. I won't deny frowning when these words passed through her lips. But since then, Tom and Amelia have been extremely close, leaving me to deal with presence all the time.

I skipped down the steps, walking into the kitchen. Ignoring Amelia and Tom, I went up to my mother and kissed her cheek. "Mornin' mum. Wha' are yeh makin'?"

"Amelia's favorite, lasagna with tofu beef and home made french bread," My mother says merrily as she stirs some tofu beef with sauce in a sauce pan. I turn to look at Amelia with a small smirk on my face.

She glances at me in the middle of her conversation with Tom, reading my expression. Her eyes look glazed over with tears as she turns her head away from me and guilt washes over me like many times before.

My mother bangs the wooden stick against the sauce pan and wipes her hands on her small, little apron I bought her for Mother's Day years ago. She claps her hands and says, "I'm almos' done with the lasagna. Why don' yeh kids go set the table?"

I nod and grab some forks and knives and walk over to the table as Amelia comes with the plate and Tom with napkins. It takes Tom a matter of ten seconds to place five napkins down, leaving Amelia and I to avoid making any physical contact - bumping hands, running into each other around the small glass table - and go ask quickly as we can without breaking anything.

Tom returns with bowl of salad, humming to himself. I finish with the utensils and walk into the kitchen, flicking him in the head as I walk past him. He yells, "Hey," before grumbling something being wishing to be an only child.

"Oh, Oliver, can yeh take the french bread out of the oven before it burns?" My mother asks as she puts the finishing touches on the lasagna. I nod and take the french bread from the oven quickly. Amelia walks in and smiles.

"It all smells so great, Mrs. Sykes," She says as she grabs the butter and Jelly off the counter. My mother turns to her, faking a glare and says, "Amelia, wha' have I told yeh? Call me Carol or mum!"

Amelia laughs and says, "Yes, mom," and walks out. My mother turns wipes her hand on a paper towel and looks at me with a smile. I stuff my hands in my pockets, raising my eyebrows at her.

"A sweethear', isn't she? I'm so glad Tom and her are friends," She says as she grabs the lasagna and walks out. She knows Amelia and I don't get along but refuses to admit it. So instead of saying something rude or agreeing, I follow my mother out without saying anything.

I notice my dad and Amelia sitting next to each other, talking about something. Tom is seated between Amelia and my mother and across from Amelia and Tom, between my parents, is my own seat.

"Oh, I forgo' beverages. Oliver, dear, can yeh get the glasses and pour them all up with some pop?" My mother asks, looking up at me. I nod, walking back into the kitchen. Grabbing five glasses from a cabinet, I hear footsteps behind me. The fridge door opens and as I set the five glasses onto the marble counter, I turn to see who it is.

"Wha', there's not enough food on the table teh satisfy yeh?" I scoff when I see Amelia. She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, a sneer on her face. I lean back against the counter, waiting for her comeback about what a man whore I am, but it doesn't come.

"I actually came to help you, but fuck it," She says, closing the fridge door and storming out of the kitchen. Realizing what I've done, I sigh and shake my head a bit before filling the cups up with ice and soda pop. Taking two trips, I finally bring them all to the table and set them down in front of everyone.

For a long moment, we all stay silent, filling our plates up then shoving our forks into the food. As I shove my mouth with french bread, I glance at Amelia's plate. Barely anything sits upon it. She picks at it, here and there, shoving tiny pieces that couldn't even fill a mouse into her mouth.

"Amelia, honey, yeh have barely anythin' on yeh plate!" My mother cries. Amelia forces a smile her way and shrugs a little, muttering, "I'm just not that hungry."

I bite my lip, looking down at my food, that odd guilty feeling coming back to me. We all finish our food, except for Amelia, who finishes about a third on her plate then excuses herself to the bathroom.

I know this is my fault.