I don’t point out that not knowing the name of a designer doesn’t mean I have no life.

I get that Connor doesn’t understand why I don’t follow in his footsteps, tell Dad to shove it, get myself thrown out. So I also don’t point out that he isn’t even listed on the lease of the place where he’s living and could get evicted at any minute.

Why would I want that for myself?

Why would he?

But realizing that makes me feel sorry for him. My brother lives in the moment. I have no clue how it would feel to be that carefree or how he manages to ignore all the shitty stuff that’s happened to him. He must take after Mom.

So, knowing I might regret it, I ask if he wants to come with me to Echo on Friday. Connor might be almost five years older than me, but he still doesn’t have his shit together, regardless of what he thinks.

A complicated expression flashes across his face. The same one he wore at St. Sebastian’s on Christmas Eve, and I think, for a minute, he might say yes.

But then he glances away, smirks, and says, That’s your scene, not mine. I don’t need to jump up and down in front of a roomful of coked-up boys to get laid.

I swallow an equally snotty comeback because I can’t win when he’s like this.

I know he’d rather hang out with his friends and screw around at the baths or on the street or wherever else he thinks his next high or fuck will come from. There’s no way that spending time with his little brother can touch that.

I think back to the writing on the wall of the fear room. Just be careful, I say so quietly there’s no chance of him hearing. Not like he’d pay attention anyhow.

James tells me to take Connor up on his offer to crash with him. James tells me spending the next year at my parents’ before going to college is going to hurt my song writing. James tells me he knows a girl who knows a girl who can get me on the bill at The Bitter End. James tells me he smoked the best joint of his life last week. James tells me if I moved out, I could go dancing every night and just forget, forget, forget.

February 1983

Make sure you finish your homework at lunch so that you can come with me tonight, my dad says.

There was a time when my father would invite me to come with him to ball games and work barbeques, to spend Saturdays with him in the office, and even once to join him at the bar with his buddies.

But that was a long, long time ago.

Come with you where? I ask, without thinking. Before he can answer, I have a flash of memory. Connor going with him to his poker game and coming home with a perfect imprint of my father’s hand on his arm.