The soul-grating blare of my alarm clock jolts me awake, reminding me that I'm still here—in Short Hills, New Jersey, in a home that hasn't felt whole for years. With a frustrated slam, I silence the snooze button and catch sight of Dad's smiling face in a framed photo on my bedside table. It's an old picture, taken before he traded us in for a "better" life in Massachusetts with his former model wife and Audrey, my six-year-old half-sister whom I've never met. Beside it, our family photo seems to edge me out at the corner, as if I'm an extra in the movie of my own life. The familiar bitterness of my morning ritual wrestles within me.
Since Dad left, things have been rough, at least for me. My sister Rachel, on the other hand, seems to be thriving. At fifteen, she's on the Student Council and is considered the most popular ninth grader, with more friends and party invitations than I can count.
Me? I'm content in the middle of the high school social spectrum, somewhere between cool-enough-to-hang-out-with and not-cool-enough-to-invite-to-parties. My best friend Michael Alden and I have our own club of Dungeons and Dragons aficionados, and that's social life enough for me.
Another day unfolds, waking from a restless sleep to confront the stretch of existential mediocrity that is my life. And no, before you jump to conclusions, I've always had trouble sleeping, so don't try to psychoanalyze me. With a groan, I reach over to shut off the infernal noise, but instead knock my lamp off the bedside table. The bulb shatters. "Well, this day's already a masterpiece," I sigh, hearing Mom and Rachel's laughter drifting up from downstairs, likely sharing one of their inside jokes.
After a quick shower that fails to wash away the feeling of mediocrity, I throw on a wrinkled T-shirt and some jeans and make my way downstairs. In the kitchen, Mom and Rachel are deep in conversation about a charitable event Rachel is organizing for the Student Council. Rachel leans against Mom, her head resting on Mom's shoulder as they scroll through a phone together.
"You don't understand, Mom. If we don't get enough sponsors, we'll have to cancel the outreach program," Rachel says, her composed exterior belying the worry in her eyes.
Mom reaches out, tucking a strand of Rachel's hair behind her ear with a gentle smile. "We'll figure it out together, honey," she reassures.
In stark contrast to my unimpressive attire, Rachel looks like she's stepped out of a fashion magazine in a midriff-baring top, high-waisted skirt, and knee-high boots. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty," she greets with a smirk. "Glad you decided to join the world of the living, but could you try not to look like a zombie apocalypse survivor?"
"Yeah, well, not all of us are morning people who jump out of bed ready for a Vogue photoshoot, Rach," I yawn.
Rachel chuckles but then sighs, leaning closer to Mom. "So, Mom, can you talk to some of your connections? You know people who'd be interested in supporting youth programs." Their eyes lock in a moment of shared understanding, a connection from which I feel oddly excluded.
Finally, Mom's attention shifts to me, like a reluctant spotlight. "Oh, Damian, how did you sleep? You look as if you've been wrestling with a bear."
"Sleep? What's that? Is it that thing people do when they're not breaking lamps?" I reply, pouring cereal into a bowl. "I guess it wasn't my best night. The shattered lamp can testify to that." Mom and Rachel exchange an indecipherable look that speaks volumes about their silent communication.
Mom sighs, her face tinged with concern, but it seems like there's more on her mind than just my clumsiness. "Damian, I wish you would take better care of your things, and yourself. Rachel always keeps her things so tidy. It's like you're channeling all your frustrations into these mishaps around the house."
"I manage, Mom," I say, my words coated with a thicker layer of sarcasm. "Just because I'm not the chairman of five committees doesn't mean I'm wasting away."
Rachel looks up from her phone, her eyes narrowing. "Cryptic much? Why all the mystery, big bro? If you have something to say, just spit it out."
"Maybe because some of us have deeper layers, Rachel. Not all of us can afford to be surface level all the time. I have my own struggles, you know, even if they aren't as publicized as yours." Rachel's eyes flicker to Mom's, seeking silent support, which Mom readily gives with a reassuring nod.
I glance at Rachel and then back at Mom. For a moment, I consider letting it slide. But as Mom's gaze shifts back to Rachel, something inside me breaks. Finally noticing my expression, Mom refocuses on me. "Damian, love, what's bothering you? We are a family; we communicate. Or at least we try to."
My heart pounds as I look into Mom's eyes. "Do we, though? 'Cause it feels like we've been skipping some family meetings. Did those get rescheduled along with Rachel's council meetings or her softball practices? It's like I'm living in the periphery of this family, like a background character in my own life."
Mom's eyes widen, her face flushed with guilt and disbelief. "Damian, you are not second best! You know we love you."
"Love's a strong word for a weak feeling, don't you think?" I interrupt, my voice laced with resentment. "It's easy to say you love someone. It's another thing to make them feel it."
Before Mom can reply, Rachel interjects. "Hey, let's chill, okay? Mom didn't mean it like that. No one's sidelining you. We all have our roles in this dysfunctional family drama."
"Rachel, you're not the referee here. No need to blow your whistle," I snap, refocusing on Mom. "You know what I wish? I wish I felt like I mattered in this family. Not like some backup plan you settle for when you can't get what you really want."
Mom's eyes glaze over, and her shoulders sag. "Damian, we can talk about these feelings, but this is the family you have." Her hand reaches out to Rachel, who instinctively clasps it, their fingers interlocking.
"Well, maybe it's time this family got a reality check, huh?" I say, my frustration mounting. "When's the last time any of us sat down and honestly talked about how we're doing? We're not a family; we're housemates who happen to be related."
Mom meets my gaze, her expression a mixture of hurt and defiance. "Reality checks only cash in the real world, Damian. This is the family you have. It's high time you make peace with that."
I push back from the table, leaving my cereal untouched. "Reality is overrated. I'll take my chances in the 'Realm of Forgotten Lamps.' I've got to get to school."
Without waiting for a response, I grab my backpack from the hallway and slam the front door behind me. As I make my way down the driveway, I hear the door open and close again. Quick footsteps follow—Rachel is trying to catch up.
"Damian, wait up!" she calls out, genuine concern coloring her voice.
I quicken my pace, not ready for another awkward family moment. This is one conversation I'm not prepared for—not with Rachel, not with Mom, not with anyone.
"Damian, come on. We need to talk about this," Rachel insists, her voice carrying a rare note of urgency as she trails behind me, her boots crunching on the gravelly pavement.
"Maybe later," I say, my eyes fixed ahead, not breaking stride. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows on the suburban landscape around us.
"Damian—" Rachel's voice starts to rise, as if she's preparing to launch into a heartfelt plea or an impassioned speech.
"Rachel, not now," I cut her off sharply, my voice tinged with an icy finality that I hope will end the conversation. My fingers tighten around the straps of my backpack, the physical tension mirroring the emotional strain.
The air between us seems to grow colder, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. It's as if we've reached an impasse, both aware that the words left unsaid are becoming heavier than those we've actually spoken. Finally getting the hint, she slows down, and the gap between us widens until she's just a distant figure. Then, as if she's hit upon a thought, she yells, "I get it, okay? I feel forgotten too, sometimes."
That stops me. I turn back, staring at her in disbelief.
Rachel catches up to me, her eyes vulnerable for the first time in ages. "Look, I might have a different way of dealing with things, but that doesn't mean I don't feel the absence too—Dad's absence, your absence, even my own sometimes. We're not that different, Damian."
For a moment, the weight of her words hangs in the air between us. My initial instinct is to scoff, to maintain the emotional distance that has become our norm. But something in her eyes tells me she's being genuine.
"Maybe we should start remembering each other," I say, my voice softer.
Rachel nods. "Maybe we should."
As we part ways, I resume my walk to school. A thought sneaks into my mind uninvited: be careful what you wish for. I shake it off, focusing instead on the looming Chemistry test that suddenly seems so trivial, but the thought clings to me like a shadow I can't shake off. Walking on, my mind buzzes with questions and unease, another day in the life of Damian, the eternal second-best.
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