Boyfriends and Brothers Don't Mix

My sixteen year old self was furious. Had I not, time and time again, warned the twins not to mess with my things?!

“Stephen Ashley!” I roared, chasing them through the house, “Gregory John! Give me back my bras!”

I heard them snickering as they fled, each with three or four bras in their arms and wearing one apiece. I caught a glimpse of Greg’s heel as it flicked around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and I fairly flew down the obstacle. In my sock feet, I slid around the corner and continued my pursuit. Duane blinked at the commotion from his spot in front of the TV with the Xbox controller in his hand, then laughed.

“Run or you’re dead meat!” he yelled as I got nearer to him.

“Don’t encourage them!” I shrieked, cuffing him upside the head as I flashed by.

The exclamation of “Ouch!” faded behind me almost instantly because I was already in the next room when Duane cried out. He’s got a bit of a slow reflex complex or something, I swear. I could punch the boy in the face and he wouldn’t try to get revenge until he graduated sometimes!

“Gah,” I scolded myself mentally, realizing that I’d gotten away from my current objective.

Mission?

Murder my younger twin brothers.

“You are almost fifteen years old!” I shouted after them, “Why do you still have to be so immature?!”

“They’re guys, Eli,” said Henry, who was leaving for college in a few days, as I ran into the kitchen where he was. “They tend to stay more immature for longer!”

I groaned, but didn’t waste my breath on a reply, only muttering to myself, “Am I on the cross country team or not?! Do I play soccer or not?! Run!”

I put on a burst of speed as the twins turned to make for the door.

“Don’t you dare, you little bastards!” I screeched. I was probably lucky Mom and Dad weren’t home yet to hear me use that language. Like all parents, they seem to think we don’t pick these things up at school or with friends or from movies. And I had a reason to be angry with the little twerps! I didn’t want a repeat of when I first started wearing bras at age eleven and Double Trouble stole the training bras and somehow managed to hang them on various electric lines on the street. Of my four training bras, three had been taken because I’d been wearing one.

Not that it really needs to be said, but having my c-cup bras on the electric wires would be more embarrassing than the strips of fabric called training bras that were really just mini spaghetti straps or something. And I really don’t want to have to explain to police or whoever came to the street because of the undergarments on the lines why they were there and that they were mine.

The door opened before the twins could get there and Stephen crashed into Dad while Greg just managed to miss bowling over Mom.

“Thank you!” I cried at them, tackling Greg to the ground and sitting on him. “Give them back, you little twerps!”

“Give what back?” Ash, as I always called Stephen, asked innocently, arms behind his back but forgetting the bra that was on over his old System of a Down t-shirt. “We don’t have anything of yours, you big meanie!”

“What are you, twelve again? Give them back!”

“He’s right, Eli! We don’t have anything of yours,” Greg tried, wriggling to try and break free of me.

“I think she’s talking about her bras, boys,” Mom said, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “The ones you’re wearing and the ones you’re hiding behind your backs so we can’t see them.”

“Aw, crap!” Greg glanced down.

“I forgot we were wearing them!” Ash groaned, producing the three from behind his back while Greg handed over the four he had. When I didn’t get up, they both groaned again and unhooked the ones they were wearing and handed them to me. Only then did I get up off of Greg. Mom and Dad had already taken off their shoes and put them in the hall closet by the door and left us there. As I stood up and looked, I saw Mom’s strawberry blonde hair and light blue dress disappear around the corner leading to their room.

I turned to head back to my room, casting a glance back at my younger brothers who were already conspiring on some new form of humiliation for me, no doubt. Or maybe what they’d do to the next guy who asked me on a date. I wasn’t really sure which, but they seemed to make a habit of torturing me by doing things to guys I kind of liked or at least liked enough to go on one date with them.

When I reached my room, I dumped my bras unceremoniously back into their drawer and closed it, sighing and falling on my bed. I was exhausted from running around the house in pursuit of the twins for the last ten minutes, which included going down the steps, up the steps, and down them again at some point or another.

“Eliza!” Mom’s voice called, “We’re going out to dinner, so get dressed, okay?”

“Where are we going?” I called back, knowing very well that if we were going to a place where we might see a colleague of either Mom or Dad that it would be a fairly fancy place and that I would need to dress up.

“Whitney’s French Cuisine,” Henry told me from the door to my room.

“Thanks,” I told him, grunting as I sat up. “Are we going with anyone?”

“The McKinnons and the Harrelsons,” Henry replied.

I nodded to show I understood and then closed my door and returned to my closet, murmuring to myself, “Dressy it is.”