Sometimes I’m afraid to go to Elle’s old house. Especially when I’m with Allister, my older brother, because I think he might start crying in front of me. Like, cry cry. He’s done that before, when we first went to Elle’s house. Without Elle.

But right now, we’re sitting in Elle’s old room, saying nothing. I’m sitting in the space where Elle’s bed used to be, like it’s still there, my legs curled underneath me. Allister is staring out the window listlessly, hugging his knees, off in another world.

I’m afraid if I don’t try to reach out for him now, he won’t come back. “I’m sorry, Al. I wish Elle was here to spend his birthday with us.”

Allister turns to me, slightly caught off guard, like I’ve said something in a foreign language. But then he smiles. Not his normal, lazy, crooked grin, but a sad, careful curve of his lips; unenthusiastic, like a smirk out of politeness, one you’d give to someone you don’t particularly like. “I know, Sofitia.”

But he doesn’t. So I say, “I wasn’t as close with him as you were, but I loved him, too, you know.”

And, of course, all he says is, “Yeah, I know.”

We never knew our birth dad, and our birth mom died when we were younger. I was nine, Al was twelve. He and I were divided into foster care, and didn’t see each other again until I was about eleven or twelve, when we were formally adopted by my foster parents. So that meant before he became my, in his own words, “legal brother” again, he had another foster family.

He was especially close with Elliott, or “Elle”, who had been the youngest of the family until my brother came along. He was seven months Allister’s senior, and his best friend.

When Al became part of the family again, he was still joined at the hip with Elle, and as a result, was accepted as “one of us”.

But not even Al could predict how Elle would leave us.

The last time I saw Elle was two years ago. It had been two months before he and Allister would graduate and leave me behind in high school. Also, it was three weeks after his birthday. He was now eighteen.

I saw him in the parking lot, leaning against his car, his hands shoved in his jean pockets, his hood over his head, his posture timid, on the edge.

“Elle!” I yelled, waving.

He flinched, then watched as I cheerfully bounded down the sidewalk in front of the school into the parking lot to meet him. “Hey.”

“Going home?”

“Uh, yeah. Need a ride home?”

“Hey, gaylord!” someone screamed from across the parking lot.

We turned. A few guys clustered in a tight circle were down a few cars on the left, laughing. “Whatcha’ doin’ with that girl, Elle? You only hook up with guys, faggot!”

I was shocked. I stood there stupidly, trying to analyze they were talking to Elle. I turned to him and sputtered angrily, “What did they just call you?”

The look on Elle’s face told me that my plan for my next move was as clear as an overhead transparency sheet. I was mad. He curled his foot against the bumper of his car. “Nothing. They’re just being dumb, Sofitia. Let’s just go, I’ll take you home.”

“But what did they call you?”

“Nothing, I told you. Let’s go,” he pleaded.

The urgency in his voice threw me off. “Okay,” I said uneasily. “Thanks.”

We climbed into his Nissan wordlessly, and we were off.

“Um, are you okay?” I asked when we were nearly two blocks away from my house.

His head was faced straight ahead, but his eyes flickered toward me for about two seconds. He looked like he was going to be sick, even in profile. “Mmm…mmm-hmm.” He quirked a small smile. “Livin’ large, baby girl.”

I smiled back. Elle had a weird sense of humor most people probably wouldn’t get, but a good weird. That’s what we appreciated the most about him, I think. It’s definitely what I would miss the most.

After a brief conversation about whether certain teachers had various artificial gender-specific body parts, we were in front of my house.

“Thanks, Elle,” I said, laughing. “See you tomorrow.”

When I tried to reach for the door handle, Elle grabbed my blouse collar and kissed the corner of my mouth. I jerked back on reflex, surprised, slightly because he already had a girlfriend, mostly because I considered him extended family.

Elle didn’t look ashamed. “I love you,” he said, unabashed. “I’m sorry.”

I blinked and sat there, staring at him like an idiot. Because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I said, “Thanks.”

He smiled his same small smile. And I left.

We didn’t see Elle for the rest of the week. He drove me home on Monday, and this day was Thursday. Allister and I assumed he was sick and thought little of it.

We were called to the guidance counselor’s office that day, during third period. Al and I stood outside the door, waiting to be called in, making nothing out but hushed murmurs. When Mrs. Price, the counselor, finally called us in, our adoptive parents were waiting inside for us.

I could tell you how the whole ordeal went, but Al’s reaction was kind of scary. But more to the point, Elle had died. He hung himself with a belt in his bedroom that Monday. His mom found him after she came home from work. He had been dead for about two hours, according to the police, meaning he killed himself as soon as he got home, after he dropped me off. Anri, my adoptive mom, said that Elle’s mom had found out in his suicide note that he had been harassed by those idiots in the parking lot for months, so his death wasn’t just out of the blue. He didn’t tell anyone what was going on because they said they would follow him home and kill him if he did. He said he had nothing to lose anymore.

We went home early that day because Al was in bad shape. I wasn’t doing well myself, to tell you the truth. Before we left, Mrs. Price told us that the school would have a grief counseling meeting on Monday if we wanted to come, and on the way home, Antonio, my adoptive dad, told us the funeral was in two days. We went nearly a week without knowing Elle was dead, and I knew Al was angry.

When the funeral finally rolled around, Elle’s older brothers came home from college. He had had three in total. I hadn’t seen them since I was nine, and I forgot how much they looked like him, especially Jude, the second oldest. Elle’s girlfriend came, too. Her name was Michelle, I remember. She was sniffling and holding hands with Elle’s mom.

Elle’s English teacher came, too, along with a few other of his teachers. Even a swarm of kids I recognized from school – who I knew Elle wasn’t close with – came. Elle’s English teacher, Mr. Wallace, singled me out and talked to me before the sermon started, probably because he was my teacher freshman year. “Such a shame,” he said. “Elliott was a good kid. He had such a bright future ahead of him.”

I wanted to thank him for coming, but I just…couldn’t. I knew if I did, I’d start crying. I’m fine with crying in general, but I wasn’t very close with Mr. Wallace, and I get embarrassed when I start crying in front of people I’m not very comfortable with. So all I could do was smile, nod, swallow the lump in my throat, and shake his hand.

I stayed quiet for most of the sermon, until Elle’s mom started to sob uncontrollably. Anri started to cry silent tears, and I quickly found myself joining her. Allister did nothing, still and observant.

When the pastor finished his sermon, Elle’s mom walked up to the podium, holding a slightly wrinkled sheet of notebook paper. “Elle requested that his suicide note be read aloud at his funeral,” she said.

I felt Allister’s hand snake around mine. I almost pulled away because, well, I think everyone thinks when your older brother wants to hold your hand, he’s planning to hurt you. But the way his hand trembled around mine signaled he was just as scared as I was, and he was trying to calm himself down, so I let my hand dangle in his grip. And there we stood, like two little kids holding hands, me on the verge of exploding into tears.

The note mentioned in detail his mother, telling her how wonderful she was, his brothers, saying he was glad he had them in his life, and Michelle, describing how lucky he was to be her boyfriend, and so on.

And lastly, he addressed, “Those matching, creepy, bean-babies Antonio and Anri, and their pretty pets, Al ex Machina (lay off the video games and get some fresh air, yo) and Sofitia, the Pier Angeli-esqe Lady of the Flies,” saying, “I’m happy I had you as part of my family. You probably think I’m cheating you, but I swear to God, that’s not it. It’s because I’m screwed. I love you.”

And that was that.

Allister went to go look at the body after it was over, but I never did, and I really regret it. I wish I told him goodbye. I was just too afraid.

Right now, Al and I still don’t say anything. I’m still unable to reach for him, and I don’t know why. I’m dumbstruck, I’m mute, I’m silent.

And suddenly, I’m walking toward him, but it’s not me. Someone’s hand is on his shoulder, and I realize it’s mine. “We should go, Al. Elle’s mom probably doesn’t want us here.”

But of course, Elle’s mom doesn’t know. She moved out after Elle passed away; into a bigger house so she could start taking in foster kids again, so she won’t be alone. She first took in foster kids when she got a divorce with Elle’s dad. I think she thinks kids who are hurting can help heal her hurt. I can’t help but feel sad for her, even though she’s not the type of lady who likes people to take pity on her.

I don’t know why I want to leave. Maybe because Elle’s house makes me realize I need to grow up. I never felt as sad as I did when Elle died, not even when my real mom died. Elle pulled my heart, I think. He made a part of my brother and me die with him. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. I just want things to be normal again. I want all three of us crashing in Al’s room, lip-syncing like idiots to The Shins and Elliott Smith. I want to watch them have a burping contest again, even though it used to gross me out. I want us to try riding down the road bump near Elle’s house in an old grocery cart like we did when I was thirteen. I wouldn’t even care if I would have to get six stitches on my hairline like I did the last time. I just want us all together again.

Al blinks up at me, confused, childish. He bites his lip and nods before putting his hand over mine. He’s so hurt, just like he always is on Elle’s – no, his brother’s - birthday. For the rest of the year, he’s perfectly fine. Except for today. It breaks my heart. It makes my dark side resent Elle. It makes me want him to come back to life so he can die again.

I help Allister up, his azure irises red-rimmed a little around his contacts. Just when I think he’s okay, he flops like a flower. He collides into me, managing to push an audible oomph out from my stomach, up my throat, and flying out of my mouth. He vises around me in a hug, buries his face into the top of my head, and lets himself cry. He doesn’t whimper or sniffle, but I can feel his tears web into my hair.

“He should’ve told us something was going on,” Al chokes out shakily. “We could’ve done something.”

Getting over my initial shock from being pulled into such a rough embrace, I braid my arms around him and nod. This is the first time Al and I have switched roles. I am the protector, the personified piece of shelter, playing hero, the older sibling. He is the younger sibling, weak and helpless, seeking comfort, in need of someone to turn to. It scares me, and I begin to cry too. So we fall to our knees, weak, scared, without someone we loved as our brother. Brother. Sister. Missing brother.

Sometimes I’m afraid to go to Elle’s old house.