Ballads of Suburbia by Stephanie Kuehnert Read Free Book Online Page B

floor.
    We wrestled like we had as kids arguing over the same toy. Well, it was kind of like that. We didn’t actually want what the other had. We hated our silent house, our empty, friendless lives, and the reflection of that we saw in each other’s eyes. We slapped and scratched those feelings out. Liam’s long legs-he was taller than me now, I realized midbattle-sent the coffee table careening into the La-Z-Boy, spilling my Coke onto a book of National Geographic photos. My flailing arms upset an end table, ejecting a lamp onto the couch. We rolled dangerously close to the fireplace and Liam’s shoulder slammed into the wall, shaking the mantel.
    Picture frames crashed to the floor, glass shattering around us. I instinctually covered my brother’s body with mine as if a bomb had gone off. My elbow hit the remote and a roar erupted from the TV: the Nirvana video was on for the millionth time. I almost screamed, but ended up joining Liam in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
    He sputtered, hiccupping and trying to regain control of himself. I turned down the volume on the TV as he sifted through broken glass to retrieve a posed family photo that had been taken at Sears the Christmas before we moved to Oak Park. He smirked, handing it to me. “Maybe someone will actually yell tonight. Wouldn’t that be a relief?”
    I nodded, staring at another photo-one of my father with a wild beard and hair that hadn’t yet grayed, grinning as he stood in front of a tent, squeezing Liam and me on either side of him. I reached for the picture, but Liam blocked me.
    â€œDon’t cut yourself,” he said gruffly, frowning again. His eyes drifted away like our mother’s always did nowadays. I followed his gaze to the TV, to the mosh pit in the music video I’d used to educate him. We’d seen it so many times, but it still managed to strike inspiration in me.
    â€œWe should see some of these bands live,” I proposed. “You know, after we’re done being grounded for this mess.”
    â€œPffft, grounded.” I expected another rant, but apparently my suggestion-or our wrestling match-had diffused some of Liam’s bitterness. He wandered back to his chair, remote in hand, turning up the volume as the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on. “I wonder who’s touring,” he mused, smiling. “You come up with good ideas sometimes, sis.”

5.
    L IAM AND I SNUCK OUT TO concerts on a weekly basis. We went to the Metro, the Aragon, the Riv, anything on an “L” line because we didn’t want to deal with getting permission and rides from our parents-though we did help ourselves to their wallets when allowance money ran out. We saw famous bands, local bands, whoever happened to be playing an all-ages show whenever we happened to need to get the hell out of the house. That was the ballad of suburbia: give me loud to drown out the silence.
    The summer after my freshman year, we saw our biggest show of all: Lollapalooza. We had to tell our parents about that one because we needed a ride; the venue was way out in the southern suburbs. Dad tried to say no. He was still frustrated at Liam for having to retake algebra in summer school and at me because I’d announced I wouldn’t be taking any more honors-level science or math classes. Mom overruled him.
    I got some pot from Stacey to ensure that we had the ultimate outdoor music experience. Shrouded in late evening shadows, we smoked up at the top of the hill at the New World Music Theatre. My brother nodded and smiled his way through his first joint, blissfully stoned. I liked pot, but I liked anything that gave me a buzz: beer, cigarettes, razor blades. Pot would become Liam’s escape of choice, and even the first time he gothigh, it made him introspective, not silly like it had me and Stacey.
    He squinted at the dyed, pierced, and tattooed masses milling around the lawn and concluded, “If these