You Little Shit

Carl hid behind a musty Squishmello. Its beady black eyes stared at him in mocking judgment. A Princess Fairy Sparkle Magic™ wand was jamming his kidneys, too.

Becky’s closet was stuffed with anything she’d deemed childish as she’d barrelled towards womanhood. It was only appropriate that it now also contained her younger brother.

They’d been best friends growing up, only two years apart. They’d built LEGO empires, stayed up all night watching brain rot videos, and perfected the art of slipping a whoopee cushion under dad’s butt right as he sat down to dinner.

But something had happened when Becky turned 13. It was as though she’d embarked on a ferry, her back to Carl who stood forlornly on the shore.

Where she went, he could not follow.

The distance between them continued to grow as Becky entered high school, got her learner’s permit, and kissed Jason Giulia at Lorna Smith’s 16th birthday party.

That last part Carl wouldn’t even have known about—Becky had long stopped confiding in him—had he not been regularly sneaking into her room, and reading her diary.

He hadn’t intended to make it a habit. He wouldn’t have said it started innocently, exactly. He’d been looking for Becky’s old school notebooks to see if she offered him any advantages in Bio, where he was staring down a D.

He hadn’t found what he’d been looking for, but the glossy pink notebook held insights of another type: what his sister was thinking, feeling, and doing.

It was as if Carl had stumbled upon a serialized adventure story. He was gripped, always hungry for the next installment. Even the banalities of his sister’s inner life were interesting to him. His mind read them to him in her voice, like they were under a blanket with a flashlight in their backyard again, and he found himself laughing out loud at some of Becky’s observations and stories.

It was his portal to another world. A teenage girl world, full of in-depth discussions and debates about things that Carl had never given more than a passing thought—like Harry Styles—and even some things he’d never even heard of before—like menstrual cups.

He often felt an ache in his chest when putting the diary away, and more than once had to stop himself from asking Becky a question or offering a suggestion that would have given away his insider knowledge.

He consoled himself with small gestures, like giving Becky the last leftover egg roll when he knew that bitch Melissa Gronski said she had “theatre kid energy (derogatory)” in a group chat. His boldest move to date had been writing “Eric Warren sucks goat balls” in the boy’s bathroom. This was in response to learning that Eric and his football team goons made rude gestures whenever his sister ran by him at track practice.

When the graffiti had been discovered, an email had gone out to the school reminding students that any vandalism would result in suspension. It hadn’t revealed the message that inspired the bulletin, but the student body happily spread the word. Some kids had even begun making goat noises under their breath when Eric walked down the halls. It was a small victory, but, to Carl, an exciting one.

He’d been especially eager to read today, wondering if Becky would write about the graffiti and be pleased. But he’d only just entered her room when he heard her backtracking up the stairs, had panicked, and made for the closet.

Now he was buried under Becky’s childhood detritus, waiting for her to leave so he could resume his spying and thus, maintain the illusion that he still knew everything about her.

Though he’d only recently been introduced to the concept in freshman English, even Carl could see the irony in that.

He heard Becky humming, and the click-clack of her nails on her phone. She came excruciatingly close to the closet door, and he braced himself for impact. Then came the definitive smack of newly glossed lips, and, finally, he heard the rustling of the clothes on her floor as she navigated the mess on her way to the door.

He counted to forty-five silently before unfolding his awkward teenage limbs and creeping out of the closet. He went straight for the diary, waiting in its usual place in Becky’s top dresser drawer. Except it wasn’t as usual, because instead of the simple notebook he’d been reading for weeks he found a hefty, leatherbound diary with a strap holding it closed. A strap that was secured with a small but sturdy-looking padlock.

He narrowed his eyes. Well played, sis. He turned the diary over in his hands, probing for a weakness. He tapped the lock, squinting at its small keyhole.

He scanned the room. His eyes lit on her vanity and the perplexing number of beauty tools and instruments skewed across it. He zeroed in on a haphazard haystack of bobby pins. Ah-ha, he thought, plucking one out. I’ve seen the movies.

He straightened out a pin and inserted one end into the small lock. He wiggled it around at random. Shockingly, nothing happened.

In a sudden flash of inspiration, he grabbed one of Becky’s race bibs from the floor and felt the corners. Jackpot, he smiled, taking off the safety pin. They always have two fiddly things in the movies!

He maneuvered both pins in. His tongue found the corner of his lips as he concentrated, fiddling this way and that way. A bead of sweat formed on his brow. There was resistance and then, suddenly, none at all—the lock sprang open with a disturbingly loud click.

Carl silently wooed, raising both hands in triumph, while simultaneously looking around in alarm, as if the click would summon Becky like a duck call. He waited several seconds, listening for quick, accusatory steps on the stairs.

When none came, he gingerly pulled the strap. His hands trembled as he opened the cover, and he felt an odd mixture of pride and shame. His feelings turned to confusion, and then just as quickly to excitement, as he read the diary’s one and only entry.

Carl, If you read my diary again I’ll fucking kill you. Seriously, stop being such a creep. In exchange, I propose a truce: Meet me behind school at 8 pm. Jason has weed. Lorna will be there. She thinks you’re cute (BARF!!!).

P.S. I love you, you little shit.