Sibling Rivalry

My brother is writing a children’s book.

Or at least this is the latest proposed project that will prove once and for all that he’s intelligent and capable and so, so deep. And better than his sister.

I don’t write any of this with bitterness in my already shriveled heart. It’s more a feeling of, “Wow, you know, you don’t actually HAVE to pour that lemon juice on my gaping wound. It’s actually a choice. No, really.”

Why does it hurt? Not because I feel threatened. If I know my brother, his enthusiasm for this project will last no longer than the beer he cracked open when he first thought of it. The hurt comes from the knowledge that he’s still bothering to pull this kind of thing. This kind of, “here I go, foraying into Jo territory to show her how much better I am than she is.” And then the eventual fall. And then the addition to the list of things we may not talk about together.

The List, annotated:

1. My grandmother’s death, prior to which Smacks flaked and refused to come out of his room while I held the bowl for her vomit all night long.
2. College in general and St. Bonaventure especially. We were caught up, nose to nose, little sister and older brother both second-semester freshman. He stopped going to class.
3. Grad school. It’s a swear word in the house, as far as I can tell. I’m beginning to believe it never happened.
4. Music school. He claims he got into Eastman. My parents would have remembered those tuition bills. They sure as hell remember mine!
5. Singing. Again, not entirely sure I’ve HAD gigs because of their place on the verboten list.
6. Traveling. On one’s own. With one’s own money. Without run-ins with Police or other officials.
7. Any books I’ve ever recommended unless he’s suddenly found them on his own and can’t remember my recommendation to save his life, and as long as I don’t add any criticism or background to the discussion.
8. Our father’s drinking. Because I was the first one to say Something, I think. The pressure to say Something has turned into disapproval of my constant criticism.

Shall we preemptively add…

9. Children’s literature? Might as well, since I can’t talk about grad school in the first place.

Really, if you saw me at home, you would think I was mute.

Okay, that’s not true. But you WOULD occasionally nudge me in the ribs and say something like, “Jo, YOU know all about that. Didn’t you have that cool project, et cetera? Why not share with your brother, who is clearly groping blindly through life and could use a hand?”

Thank you, I prefer to lend a hand only when I know it won’t get cut off at the wrist. Which, with Smacks, means never.