I Cannot Change You

~~*Monday, 12th of October*~~

"I suggest you take that... That thing out of your mouth, Maxwell, before I do it for you!" Mr. McGavin demands from the front of the classroom. I roll my eyes from my place behind the smoke-infested rebel as he squishes the cigarette into the top of his desk. 

Max Green.

Everyone in town will have heard that name at least once.
I've heard it one too many times. 
Max Green is the loud, rude, cocky type that I'd much rather stay away from. He's known around school for getting into fights, smoking and drinking in and behind the classrooms, and screwing every attractive girl in sight. Of course, his taste isn't much of a surprise; tanned, blonde, wears little to no clothing, struts about the streets like a prostitute. Completely and utterly fake. This describes almost every girl in school. 

Me? No. I'd be known as insecure, alone, depressed... along those lines. The thing is, I'm not 'insecure', I have self respect. I'm only alone because I don't want to become a slutty whorebag who seems unable to dress themselves properly. And depressed? I may be grieving, but I'm far from depressed. But could you blame me? It's not my fault my mother died. 

At least I have the reassurance that Max would never lay a finger on my pale skin, nor would he ever run a hand through my dark, wavy hair. Not that I would let him even if he tried.

He blows out the last of the smoke left in his mouth and into the contaminated air, leaving a rotten smell. "Sure." 

The obvious sarcasm in his tone is mixed with amusement, which only suggests that he's enjoying every minute of attention he's getting. To him, all the yelling and growling that's thrown his way frequently, never gets old. It's what keeps him happy. I try not to complain, because to be honest, there's not much he can be happy about around here. Not that I care about his mental health problems, but at least he won't have an anger fit for the slightest problems. It gives him an excuse to push me about.

The smoke makes my eyes water and I have to hold my breath to stop myself from coughing. Max just leans back in his seat and puts his heavy boots on his desk. He acts as if he owns everything, and he can do whatever he wants. It frustrates me that he thinks he can treat things and other people the way he wants - like dirt. He wants everyone to know that they're under him, and they have to follow his rules.

Words can't describe how repulsive he is. He makes me sick when I think of all the girls he's touched, the alcohol and cigarette stench that floats off his tongue, his 'bad boy' reputation that girls seem to love. It's all revolting, though most people don't notice all this through his apparent good looks and 'Sexy attitude'. 

I know every one of his flaws and habits. Once you know, you can't look past them. I have to confront the smoking, the drinking and rudeness because unfortunately for me, I live with the socially insensitive 17-and-ten-twelfths year old. 

He's technically not my brother, but when mom passed, dad got together with Max's mother, Michelle. Her husband, and Max's dad, left them when Max was young. I'm fond of Michelle. She treats me as if I'm her own child, but I feel guilty for bonding with her as well as I do because I'm scared I'll forget my real mother. 

The last bell rings to signal that the 7 hours of torture is finally over. I wouldn't mind school if I wasn't surrounded by smoking, drinking, illiterate idiots, as I would actually acquire some form of knowledge and the whole 'education' thing wouldn't be such a waste of time.

The corridor fills with teenagers quickly, and it's a struggle to get to the door all in one piece. When I finally make it out, I wait at the steps outside for Max, as the parents have us walk home together. I watch him as he high-fives a few of his friends whom are also known as the bad-boys, and brushes past me and onto the street. He sets pace a few meters in front, aware of my presence as I trail behind him slowly. 

During school, Max doesn't talk to me, or even glance my way for that matter. He doesn't want anyone to know that the most pathetic, nerdy student in school is his little sister. He knows enough that I won't spill a word about it because I'm alone most of the time, and don't make contact with others. He provokes me for this daily. Only when we're alone, of course. 
He's forced to be considerate in front of the parents though, which is good for me. He is a brilliant actor, I have to give him some credit for that. Sometimes I actually find his friendliness believable, until the insults kick back in. 

We file into the house as if we were never separated, with small, forced smiles on our otherwise glum faces - the same routine we've developed over the past year and a half. Luckily we don't have to hide our discouragement for long; the parents are working late. Max staggers down the hall and with the slam of a door, I know that he's isolated himself and won't be out for a while. 

The biggest problem I've had to face living with the Devil is that, because our house is small and broken, Max and I share a bedroom. At first I was devastated, but I've slowly gotten used to it, despite the endless uncomfortable nights alone with him. A lot of the time Max spends with his small group of friends and will occasionally stay at one's house, so I would have the small room to myself which I appreciate greatly. But tonight, it'll just be him and I. As always, I'm intimidated. 

I start preparing a simple dinner for the two of us, but knowing that Max will want a lot more both of our meals put together. He'll have to make do with what we have, which is not a lot. Sometimes I wish he would stop being so arrogant and think about other people for once. I sigh aloud and carry on until I've created our little feast - Potato salad with the leftover meat from last night. It's certainly not fantastic, but it will do. 

I lay out one plate at the counter and carry the other down the cracked hallway towards Max and I's bedroom. Sweet music makes its way through the thin walls as I pry open the door an inch. Max is sat on his bed, acoustic in hand, cigarette between his pierced lips. He strums the instrument beautifully, I must say, as I place his food onto the side table.

He doesn't look up. Instead his eyes are fixed on a crumpled piece of paper with rough lines and numbers spread across its surface. He strums again as he studies the sheet, which on it is obviously a song he's written. As much as I despise him in person, I envy his musical talent. I never did learn an instrument, and I regret it. 

"A thanks would be nice." I say, folding my arms over my chest and raising a raven eyebrow.

He takes a breath of his cigarette and lets the smoke float out of his mouth. "There you go, you said it yourself." he glances up for a second and smiles sadistically before continuing through his song.

I roll my eyes but simply turn on my heel and leave, not wanting to get into anything. I eat my food in silence, like most nights, and listen to a pair of dogs barking down the street. The lights inside the house are off, and the streetlights in front of the house light up the kitchen with a dim orange glow. It's not very late, but I need sleep. I choose the couch over my bed because I know Max will be up for hours before he goes to bed. I find an old blanket and pull off my shoes before sinking into the soft cushions. 

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, the patter of a light rain shower hitting our iron roof barely audible under the unmistakable sound of Max's admirably pretty guitar playing. Still I lie here, hoping for the day that I can get rid of the boy that has made my life even more perplexing. Just two more dreadful months and he'll be out of here for good.