Part 3 - The Viva la Bam years

2003

At first, I thought it was a cruel joke when my younger brother's girlfriend put my name forward to lead one of the high-tempo dance classes. She egged me on, and told me she would be a participant even if she was the only one who showed up, which she wasn't.

I wasn't at the filming of the first episode of my younger brother's new show, but by Christmas they taped everyone throwing snowballs at each other and inviting ice skaters. I did not like the idea that people on the street knew my name, knew my face, and wanted only to learn more.

When I went back to my rental and locked the door, I wondered what was the point besides the money. Part of me was greviously jealous of how my brothers so easily got along with everyone else. At least, from a distance, it looked like they all got along, at the house where all my memories began.

It was not late when I cycled to my parents' place, but by the time we were finished talking, it was. My mom suggested I stay. My dad said it would be alright. My younger brother was due home, evidenced by the camera men sprawled across the driveway, and spanning further out as four haggard cars made their debut, and spilled skateboarders and the like into the house.

My younger brother, announcing a scavenger hunt, split everyone into teams; he gave our parents a sheet and team list and cell phone, and glanced to me.

"We need someone to hold the camera," he gestured, "You're not limping."

I did not want to take calls and write down points. Nor still did I want to sit in the house and do nothing. Moreover, to hold the camera was to not be in front of the camera.

My younger brother was a force unto himself, I well knew this. And I took a step towards him and he led the way out the door, smirking.

The haggard car that was his was Gnarkill, and I could see the guys in it, at our arrival, glance and talk. My face burned. I considered using the camera as a weapon. I got into the back seat, squeaky with ripped leather, the smell of guys, and then four haggard cars jostled to get out of the drive first.

Although I held the camera, and certain scripted moments required the others to glance in the camera, I burned when they glanced at me. They knew how it made feel. I hated when they watched me when they thought I wasn't looking and I tugged my sweater lower.

All I could think about was an all-you-can-eat buffet, and stabbing them with a fork in the eye. Particularly for the one who sat beside me in the back of the car, for the crush I had on him brought all kind of conflicting emotions.

During the drive, which occasioned pranks of every kind, and staying far from the radius of impact, there came to me a comfortable feeling, almost feeling part of what they were doing, and sometimes I wanted nothing more than to be part of their wild, laughing crew.

It was difficult enough for girls to be taken seriously, even his sister; and so I hung back, and at one pit stop, my younger brother pulled up at a burger place. He sat aside to call our dad, and the vinyl of the booth squeaked when I wedged myself into the table, and the other guys crunched on fries and burgers and soda.

"Not eatin'?" asked one, with an Aussie accent.

I glared and glanced away. The slurping of their soda irritated me. The smell of the fries was intoxicating. The meat patty slipped out of one of their buns and I almost snatched it.

My crush, the wiry skateboarder, patted his stomach. "I gotta lay off the beer. Get me fat some day."

I shook my head and got up. I wished I could do something as dramatic as puke in the toilet, for how juddering I felt. When I came out from the ladies', my younger brother was jangling keys, and I could only stare ahead and march forward, and wish I was home, wrapped up in bed.