They’d tried church for a while, but it was such a ridiculous joke with my brothers they ditched the idea. The last time Father Don had seen our family, Luis had accidentally-on-purpose knocked a cup of communion wine all over him. “So what’d you do last night?” Dad asked, one hand holding Luis firmly in his chair. Luis wiggled and picked at his pancakes with his fingers. “Saw a movie.” Just like every Saturday night. Avoided the house. Made out with Brooks. “What movie?” Mom asked, cutting tiny bits of sausage and putting them in front of Alex. “Mom. What’re you doing? Alex is eight. He can cut his own food.” A pained expression crossed her face. “Of course he can. I was trying to be helpful.” I stared at the ceiling and counted to ten. My parents had no clue how to deal with the boys. They babied Alex, let Miguel get away with anything, and wouldn’t let Luis breathe without telling him he was doing it wrong. But all of that was more attention than they’d given me for most of my teenage years.
