SCARS AND STITCHES

I sighed as I watched another bus go by. Why was he mad at me? Like it was my fault Dad was sending us home early or that he and mom divorced at all! Why treat me like a pariah?

"Can we talk?" I asked, almost begging, "You're acting like some spoiled brat."

My brother froze as he was putting his laptop back in his bag and turned to me, "I'm acting like a brat? Remind me, who stayed up nearly all night banging on my door, just so she could lecture me?"

"You yelled at Dad, in front of his fiancée! You know she cried? Right there at the table when you left. That doesn't make you feel even a little cold-blooded?"

He was right about the lectures, not that he ever listened to them. Yes, he was older. Yeah, I'm only his fourteen-year-old kid sister. And sure, maybe, I didn't have the right to lecture him like this, but sometimes, he's just got to hear it, no matter how much he hates it.

My shoulders sagged and I watched another bus go by as rain fell again. When the bus came, Iggy sat on the opposite aisle, two rows behind me. He got out his iPod, shoved the headphones in his ears and maxed out the music so loud I could hear it from my seat. I watched him as he stared out the window. His face looking the same as it had last night. I shook my head, got up and sat next to him, reached over and yanked the headsets out from his ears.

"Give them back," he warned, barely moving his lips.

"No," I said.

He frowned and turned toward the window again.

I spoke, not facing him, "I know you don't want to talk, so you just listen. It hurts me too. Okay? To think of Dad even…touching another woman makes me feel sick. But, this is something he really wants, and it makes him happy. We owe it to him to—"

"What do you mean 'we owe him'? Why the hell would we owe him anything?" he asked.

"Remember when we were kids? How we used to hear them fight all the time? Remember how much we hated it? He and Mom didn't want us to grow up with that. They divorced for us too."

"Yeah, because things are going so well right now because of it," he said, not turning to me.

"Things suck right now because of what you did last night. Really, after all that Dad sacrificed for us—"

"What did he ever sacrifice?" he asked in a cold hushed voice, whipping his head to me.

"He sacrificed being with us. He can only see us every other week because of it. We'll never be a normal family again. What could be a bigger sacrifice than that, Ig?" He didn't say anything. "So, when you did that on a night that he wanted to remember for the rest of his life…well, congratulations, I think they both will." I dropped his headphones on his lap and sat back down in my seat. I didn't hear any music playing from behind me after that.

When we got home, I told Mom Dad was getting married. If it bothered her at all, she didn't show it, and my mom's an open book. The news really wouldn't bother her at?

"Mom, you're okay with Dad and Clary?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean, it doesn't…hurt?"

She sighed, "You know what, Baby? There are two kinds of marks people leave on you: scars and stitches. Your dad left a lot of both, and I've left my share on him, too" she added with a laugh, "All of my best days were with him; and my worst. But when someone gives you stitches, you never lose them, and just because I don't love him like I used to…I don't hate him. I want him to heal, and if he's finally found someone who gives him more stitches than scars, then I can't see a reason not to smile." I smiled, and heard a door close as I made my way to the stairs.

That night in bed I heard whispering on the other side of my wall in Iggy's room. It was Ig, "Dad? Hey, can we talk?" There was pause. "It's about scars," he said, "and stitches."