My brother is dead, my boyfriend is gone, and I have to deal with it.
Today begins like any normal day.  I have to walk into school, suffer through the idiocy of my fellow classmates and then walk home and suffer through the idiocy of my family. There is one thing sorta different about today; we have an English test.  If I’m going to be completely honest, I’m a little excited.  I’ve always loved English, and I’ve studied really hard for this test.  I sit down at my desk and flip over the lemon color paper.  My eyes bulge and my jaw would have dropped if I let it. I scream inside my head. We didn’t learn any of this; these aren’t the things I studied for.  Fantastic! I’m going to bomb this test. I guess I won’t be making my parents proud with this grade. 
I stay after class to finish, but I’m not the only one.  I glance up for a quick second and see that Clide Abrams is still sitting in his seat as well.  Taking a deep breath, I finish my test. Whatever. This is the best it’s going to get. As I stand to turn in my papers, Clide stands as well.  We hand in our papers and he holds open the door for me as we leave. Clide Abrams is the exact opposite of me, not just because he’s a he and I’m a she but for many other reasons.  He’s part of the “popular” crowd, a prep, a jock, and somehow, still a gentlemen, which is obvious with his holding the door open for me.  Even his appearance is the complete opposite of mine. With sandy colored hair, deep brown eyes, and a perfectly straight smile, he looks like a stereotypical “surfer dude.”  But I guess opposites really do attract because he’s my boyfriend. I guess I should have said that earlier.
I never used to believe in love, mainly because I never actually saw that it existed.  My family only expressed love for material things and never for their family.  I didn’t realize somebody could truly love another person until I met Clide.  He makes me a better person, and when I’m with him I feel like I’m a shiny new penny.  I’m more outgoing, and have more confidence than I ever thought I could have.  I love him, and that’s something I never thought I would say about anybody.
The air outside is frigid as I walk home, but I can’t complain.  If I asked my parents for a ride home from school everyday, I would only be a burden on them.  It would be a waste of their gas, and my dad would think of me as a “pansy.”  My father was once in the military, and he believes in being strong and never complaining.  He’s the strictest man I have ever met, and I absolutely despise him.  Everything about him is horrid; his bald head, his piercing cold eyes, his raspy voice, his camo clothing.  I hate it all and can’t wait for the day that I can get away from him.  I can’t decide who is worse, my father or my mother. The person I call mother is an arrogant airhead of a woman, and somehow she has the nerve to call me stupid.  She’s prissy, preppy, and fake.  She is the picture of wealth - her blonde hair constantly in an updo, her puppy-dog brown eyes, even her classic, clean cut style. It all drives me insane.  
My brother, Matthew, is the only family member I actually like.  He’s twenty-four, and after being lost and confused about what to do with his life, he decided to join the military.  I don’t understand why he would want to follow in my father’s footsteps, but it’s what he’s chosen to do.  I haven’t seen him in a couple years; he doesn’t visit as much and I don’t blame him.  We’ve been sending letters and talking on the phone whenever we can, though.  He understands what it’s like growing up with my parents, and he’s a fantastic listener. My brother is my absolute favorite person in the world, aside from Clide. As I come out of my daydream, it hits me that he never called yesterday.  He always calls on Sundays.  There is probably a letter from him in the mail, though.  I’m going to write to him when I get home to tell him all about that stupid English test today. 
I walk in the door, and immediately my father is yelling at me.  “Make sure you hang up your coat Lousia!”
“Don’t call me Louisa,” I mumble. I hate my name; it doesn’t fit me at all. “Dad, did I get a letter from Matt today?”
“No! Why would he send a letter to a brat like you?”
“I don’t know Dad.” I say quietly, practically to myself.  I walked up to my room, slammed my door and blasted my music.  As I drift off into a sleep, I worry about Matt and why I haven’t heard from him.
“Louisa, darling, dinner is ready,” I wake up to my mother’s whiney voice, “and there’s a letter on the table.” I shoot out of bed and run down the stairs so fast I almost fall on my face.  I run to the table quickly, and I almost can’t stop myself as my hands slam onto the wooden surface.
“Louisa, no running in the house! Were you raised in a barn?”  I pay no attention to my father’s screaming.  I tear open the letter, not even looking at the envelope.  I unfold it and instantly notice the United States Air Force seal on the top of the letter. 
We regret to inform you that your son, S SGT Matthew Fairbanks, was killed in---
I can’t even read the rest of the contents without my eyes flooding with tears, blurring my vision.  I think I hear my father yelling at me about crying, but I’m not really sure. I drop the paper and let it flutter to the ground as I run back up to my room.  There is only one person I want to talk to, Clide.  The phone rings for longer than usual, but I don’t think much of it.
“Hello?” He sounds kinda far off.  I can’t speak yet and just sob into the phone.  “Are you okay?  What happened?”  I cry some more. “Did somebody tell you?” I try to ask what he means but can’t get it out. “Lu, listen, she and I just have a better connection.  It started off innocent I swear.  We just kind of, ‘clicked’ better.  I’m sorry, but you and I were never going to last.  I hate to do it this way, but I guess you already found out.  I’m sorry Lu.  Goodbye.”  Before I can even speak the other end goes silent, and I realize he has hung up on me.
I roll off my bed and sluggishly walk down the hall.  Stopping at my brother’s door, I let out a deep breath, opening the door, and entering.  I look around at all the pictures on his walls; they are all of his friends and him.  There’s some of them in their football jerseys after the championship game, the smiles on their faces so wide.  There’s another right next to it of him and my parents after graduation, I was behind the camera of this one.  I walk around his whole room and look at all his memories. 
Plopping on the bed, I look over at the stand next to it and see the picture of the two of us on Christmas morning; we were five and eleven. We are sitting under the tree with our new kitten; we named it Princess Tucker because we didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl.  Our mother eventually gave the cat away because it scratched up one of her favorite dresses.  This is when the hatred for our mother began in both of us.  I can’t help but laugh at the memory of when Matt and I had heard what Princess Tucker had done. We laughed so hard we practically peed our pants.  I grab the photo and hold it close to my chest, I’m never going to hug him again. Is my last thought before I drift off to sleep, hoping that maybe I won’t wake up.
Days have passed, and this is the first time I have left Matt’s room for more than five minutes.  I only leave it to get food, do my “business” and shower.  I’m afraid that if I don’t barricade myself in there my parents will change it.  I slowly get out of bed without letting go of the blanket while I walk to my room.  My mother has laid out a God-awful black dress for me that hugs every part of my body.  I go into my closet and grab my long black maxi dress.
“It’s fancy but also casual!” Matt said to me when I opened it on my last birthday.  “I noticed that you have nothing fancy, and even though you hate dresses, maybe you will find a use for it one day,” he had added this with a wink and sly smile. My mother eventually chimed in about how right he was, but I just ignored her and he laughed.  I miss that laugh. 
Grabbing my sunhat, I head out to the car.  I get into the back without a word, my dad pulls out the driveway.  Don’t cry. Stay strong. Don’t let dad know how much it hurts.  We pull up to the church.  This is my first time inside one, and I hate it.  I sit through the whole service; I’m really only there to do one thing.
“I would now like to welcome Louisa Fairbanks to the podium,” the pastor says as he waves me to come forward, he whispers to me as I pass him, “I’m sorry for your loss.”  As I walk over to the podium, I’m aware of all the eyes on me.  I clear my throat and begin.
“Umm, hello everybody.  I wasn’t going to say anything today, because quite honestly I don’t get the point.  Why say kind words at people’s funeral when you could have, and should have said it to them when they were alive?  You see, I never understood, but after I found out Matt had died I realized why people do it.  It’s because you think you have time to tell them the things that you never did.  You always think you’ll have tomorrow, or the next day to tell them how much they mean to you.  The truth is, there is never enough time.  The night I learned this, I wrote something for Matt.  I know he’ll never actually be able to hear it, but I would like you guys to hear it. So, umm, here it goes,” I clear my throat and unfold the tiny creased paper in my sweaty hand.  I begin to read what I wrote.
“You died today
You’re not coming back
There isn’t much to tell
But I have so much to say

You were my best friend
You are my hero
Big brothers are always supposed to be there
I wish you could be

I should have thanked you
I used to think I had time
Now I have none
And I can’t tell you anything

I should have hugged you more
I didn’t think I had to
Now I wish I could
And you’re not here

I won’t forget you
I’ll always love you
But you died today
And you aren’t coming back.”
Without another word, I walk back to my seat, and I don’t look up for the rest of the service.  Once we get home, I go back up to my brother’s room and look around at all the poems on the floor.  Most of them about Matt or Clide, some about my parents, some about random things.  I pick them all up, grab the picture on the night stand, and bring them all to my room.  I set the poems in my own night stand drawer, and placed the picture on top.  I grab a pen and pad of paper.  I let the pen stain the paper with my thoughts and feelings. 
My brother is dead, my boyfriend is gone, and this is how I will deal with it.