“Here I am!” She flings open the curtains. Though eight years old, she likes her hair cut short, which makes her head appear too big for her body. She’s darker than me, like Moms. Her eyes dominate her face. When she looks at you, you hold her full interest. Nothing distracts her from paying attention to just you. It’s a little intense, but kind of cool, too.

“You’re not very good at hide-’n’-seek,” I say.

“You sounded worried. I didn’t want you to be.” She runs to me and wraps her thin arms around me. She radiates such joy it’s infectious.

“I will always worry about you. It’s okay.”

Some people treat her like she’s broken. Moms explained what she has, something about being on the autism spectrum. I hear so many labels placed on me and my friends, I tune them out. All I know is that she’s my sister. So she gets a little hyper sometimes. She doesn’t always understand people. On the flip side, she doesn’t grasp the idea of strangers. As far as she’s concerned, everyone just needs a hug. If she’s broken, I wish more people were broken like her.

I stand next to her loft bed. Before I can protest, rather than use her ladder, she scrambles up me. Two Matchbox cars rev to life—as she does a pitch-perfect imitation—and immediately crash into each other.

“Cars?” She invites me to play.

“No, Ahrion. We can’t. Breakfast is almost ready.”

She crosses her arms and lowers her head, but she can’t maintain being pouty for more than a few seconds. “Only if you carry me.”

“Fine.” Before the word is fully out of my mouth, she climbs on my shoulders and I stagger down to the kitchen, weaving back and forth as I walk, the way she likes it. When we arrive in the kitchen, I freeze in the doorway. The sight horrifies me.

The electronic whine and drum snares burble along as a voice chimes, “‘It’s time for the percolator.’” Sliding along the linoleum, Moms lip-synchs the words into a spatula.

“No, no, no.” I lower Ahrion to the ground and cover her eyes. No one should have to see this. My sister can’t stop giggling.

“It’s too late, son.” Moms drops to the floor, one arm tucked behind her head, flapping, the spatula holding arm extended like she’s a coffeepot about to take off.

“Oh. My. God. Mom, stop it!”

“What? Some people do yoga . . .” She bounces in place, still low. If she jumps up and says “drop it like it’s hot,” my day is done and I’m going back to bed. Thing is, this wasn’t the worst I’d seen. If I’d heard Boyz II Men or Jodeci playing, I wouldn’t have even dared enter the kitchen. I can’t deal with her doing full body rolls first thing in the morning. I shudder at the memory.

Moms has plates of food waiting on us. She enjoys the ritual of fixing breakfast. I scarf down the eggs (two eggs, always scrambled), toast (two pieces, always buttered, one with strawberry jam), and bacon (always overcooked because Moms is paranoid about giving her babies undercooked pork). She turns off the music and flips over to the Today show. “Homework check.”