As the pandemic progressed, we started to alternate between our apartment and grandparents’ Connecticut house. We had been tasked with taking care of our sickly grandparents, and parent guidance diminished. Our parents worked longer and harder, so our responsibilities grew. My brother and I are fortunate enough to have supportive parents, but we were forced to grow up faster in the past two years. The pandemic had changed our family dynamic. A high schooler cheered across the call and I had to wait another minute before Hayden replied. “So that’s why we get along now? Music?” I asked with a subtle endearment in my voice. We both went silent over the phone until a question came to my mind.
Hayden had clearly over-analyzed the movie too. “Great plot, but could’ve been executed better.” I had almost been too distracted by the teenage boy smell to notice the chorus of “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones playing out of his speakers. One day in September, I dared to venture into his room.
A few weeks went by with little fanfare over Mick Jagger’s voice filling up the living room. “The Rolling Stones,” I’d dryly respond before stealing his snacks from the kitchen. “Who sings this song?” He’d shout while “Paint it Black” generated noise complaints from the neighbors. I range from Elton John ballads to Led Zeppelin hard rock, and even British New Wave. I take enough pride in my music taste to call it eclectic, but I’ve always favored rock music. He staked his claim over the TV, but I won the speakers - meaning Hayden was forced to listen to everything I did. When quarantine started, we were suddenly thrust back together in the same small New York City apartment.
Eventually, high school life took over my limited free time, and Hayden found his own friends to focus on. I had been a gawky nerd with braces, glasses and bangs that never suited me. He was born a future prom king and captain of every club and sports team thought of. And in retrospect, there was also a degree of jealousy. I was too proud to give into his wishes, which made me hypocritical when asking for the maturity of a 10-year-old boy. That left us at an impasse for five years. Even though I understood Hayden only wanted to spend time with me, I stubbornly decided that I’d only do so when he decided not to be a pain. To everyone else, eating the last of my candy stash was harmless. My dad, who was the youngest brother growing up, would sometimes laugh at Hayden’s more innocent antics.
My parents excused his actions as attention-seeking. I, naturally, started to find his existence infuriating. Hayden’s creative mind thought of every “Home Alone”-esque trap to make me miserable. One time, he taught our dog the command “attack Logan”: a command that sent our dog running to me barking, ferociously placing his front paws on my leg before smiling up at my brother for his guaranteed treat. He would “mistakenly” place alarm clocks under my bed that went off at 3 a.m., cover my room with toilet paper and insist on only blasting music when it was time for homework. Unfortunately, that included him.Įventually, Hayden got old enough to learn that asking me nicely to play with him wouldn’t work, and he had to get my attention with different tactics. I simply thought it was time to go through my “emo” phase in which I exclusively listened to Fall Out Boy and yelled at anyone who tried to get me to leave my room. There was no malicious intent to blindside my younger brother. Or more accurately, I went my own way and prevented him from following.
When I hit the preteens, Hayden and I went our separate ways. In my defense, we’d typically walk out with an equal number of bruises. It happened to be that as children, nothing was more fun than the outrageously dangerous ideas we’d come up with. We weren’t exactly best friends, but a chaotic duo capable of terrifying babysitters. Truthfully, I think that I’m somewhere between an adequate and mediocre sister to him.Īs children, I would grudgingly help with his homework, punch a bully or two who had hurt him and always offer to play Star Wars with him, even if I would treat him like a piñata with my toy lightsaber. I simply lived by the rule of no one messes with my brother but me. My brother and I as best friends? Never in a million years. My mom loved to gloat over her and my uncle being “the best of friends,” even in their adult years - that seemed impossible.