Seventeen  

I didn’t meet my sister until I was seventeen. She’d been there my whole life, I just didn’t know her. I didn’t care to know her. 

When we were little, we had a lot of fun. We liked a lot of the same things; we’d play sports together, but she was always the one who ended up on the ground. We’d watch a movie together, but I’d be picking which one. We fought a lot. She was injured more often than not, and she certainly spent more time crying than I did. I never felt too bad about it; I’d only console her so that I didn’t get in trouble. One time I pinned her head between the couch and the wall because I just didn’t know any better. It was always about me when we were growing up. 

Then, I hit that dreaded age when you start to think that friends are more important than family. I was out of the house the second I got home after school and didn’t come back until I had to. I didn’t really see much of my sister during those years, but I wish I had. I wish I was there for her. When I was thirteen, she locked herself in her bedroom for four months, hiding under the covers, watching YouTube videos, and skipping school. She developed anxiety so bad that it kept her bedridden for most of that summer, too. It was hard to watch her get taken to doctor after doctor, so I didn’t. I’d go hang out at a friend’s house for two nights in a row. I’d sneak out and smoke it all away like nothing was wrong in the first place. If I could ask her now how she felt during those months, those years when I wasn’t there, I probably would, but I’m not sure I could handle what she’d tell me. All I can do in the meantime is imagine what she was feeling, which might be worse. If I could do it all again, I would, just so she wouldn’t have to face it all alone. 

When I hit seventeen, my junior year of high school started, and my sister became a freshman. I drove her to and from school every day and showed her my music, some of my favorite songs. Months passed of her just sitting there, having no reaction to what I was playing through those crappy car speakers. Then, one day after school, I heard a little voice from the passenger seat, asking, “What song is this?” It was Sweet by Brockhampton. I’ll never forget it. I told her the title of the song and knew I’d just added something meaningful to her life just as she had added that song to her Apple Music. I’d finally given her something beyond that scar between her eyes. By the second semester of that year, I no longer had any friends. I felt like a ghost, a freak, except to my sister. She saw me, she liked me. She was the only one who mattered to me anymore. We’d spend those April mornings peeking through an icy windshield and talking about which Saturation album we liked better. “Three,” she always said, mine was two. I loved those talks. I think they were something we both looked forward to. 

Listening to music with my sister was the highlight of those grueling high school days, they’re what got me through. My parents were worried that she wouldn’t do well in high school and said that I was the only reason she made it through that year, but she seemed fine to me. It was me who needed somebody to help them through that year. She was there for me at an age when I wasn’t there for her. I just hope those mornings stuck with her as much as they stuck with me. And now that she’s seventeen, you can bet your ass I’ll be there for her.