Twisted

When Hardy picked us up on Wednesday, she was sitting on a large pillow covered in a Jeff Hardy pillowcase. I didn’t say anything. My brother was too distracted to ask any questions.
Hardy stared at Aaron’s Lacrosse uniform. “You look awesome.”
Aaron looked into a little mirror as he drew a line of thick, black grease under each eye. “Thanks. We have a game this afternoon.”
Hardy shifted into drive. “I know. I’ll be there.”
He capped the tube and tugged at his shorts. “Did you know that these violate the dress code for boys? They’re three inches too short.”
“You should protest. Hold a rally.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “It’s hypocritical fascism.”
“You don’t even know what fascism means,” I said.
“Fascism is a totalitarian world view that supports the state- or the school- controlling all aspects of personal life,” Aaron said. “I learned that yesterday.”
“It’s just a dress code,” I said.
Aaron picked a piece of lint off his shirt. “Principal Hughes should read about how well fascism worked for Mussolini.”
Hardy smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “You have them cornered.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” I replied.

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