Amy heard the thump coming from downstairs. Distracted from her homework, the endlessly dull conjugation of French irregular verbs, she listened for a moment. Raised voices and angry exchanges were becoming the norm, particularly at weekends. The French could wait until Sunday, or perhaps even Monday night, the day before the deadline. With a sigh, she closed her text book and moved on to the next item in the pile of homework.

​

This part's easy, Amy thought. The Media Studies assignment was to review her least favourite television programme and describe its good and bad points. The difficult part would be to choose a show from her very long list and try to find some good in it.

​

There was another shout from downstairs. Mum's voice this time. Amy closed the book and got up from where she had been sprawled on her bed. Yes, there was a desk and comfortable swivel chair in her room, but the desk was a dumping ground for her make-up and other teenage paraphernalia and the chair could barely be seen under the clothes piled on it.

​

Amy padded to her bedroom door and listened. Things had gone quiet in the living room. Perhaps her parents were 'making up' on the sofa - not unheard of and quite revolting - or maybe they were too pissed to care and had fallen asleep. She opened the door and crept across the landing. At least there were no noises coming from her parents' room.

​

Another raised voice floated up the staircase. Amy jumped and almost darted back to her room. Mum seems to be giving as good as she gets, thought Amy with a little smile. She carried on across the landing and knocked on the door directly opposite hers.

​

Amy had learned, to her great embarrassment, to knock before she went into her brother Ben's room. Nine times out of ten, he would be engrossed in his video games, closed off from the world with headphones or a VR headset. It was the other, one-out-of-ten that turned Amy's stomach. How much porn could one teenage boy watch? she wondered. There could only be so many ways to do 'it' that they would run out of ideas.

​

She knocked again and this time didn't wait for an answer. With her eyes closed, Amy opened the door.

​

"Jesus! Fuck, Ames! What the fuck are you doing?"

​

It seemed to Amy that Ben had only just discovered the word 'fuck', enjoyed the sound of it, and wanted to use it as often as possible. He always called her 'Ames' as if 'Amy' was too long a word to say.

​

Amy kept her eyes closed. The scent of teenage boy - perspiration, farts and deodorant that failed to mask the other smells - wafted over her. She heard movement, rustling and the sound of something being stuffed into the waste bin. 

​

"They're fighting again, Ben," Amy said. As she opened her eyes, she glimpsed a flesh-coloured close-up on Ben's computer before the screen saver kicked in and hid the porn behind an extravagant fireworks display.

​

Her brother was stretched out on his bed, a video games magazine spread out over his crotch. There was something shifty in his expression and tissue paper overflowing the waste bin. Amy took the swivel chair, a much more expensive version of her own, and felt his sweat plastering her to the leather.

​

***

 

Ben watched as Ames, variously described by his friends as 'hot', 'fit' and a 'fox in socks', squirmed in his gaming chair.

​

"What do you want me to do about it?" Ben asked. "Am I supposed to act as a fucking referee?"

​

"You could try acting like you cared for a change!"

 

"Care about what? They're adults, Ames. They go through this shit all the time. They'll either work it out or ..."

 

"Or what?"

 

"Or not."

 

"And what does that mean?"

 

"Well, they'll stay together - for the sake of us kids, of course - or not."

 

"You mean divorce?"

 

"It's quite common, you know." Ben grinned, as if he knew something Amy didn't.

 

"So you're the voice of experience, now? Just because three of your mates have seen their parents divorce doesn't mean it'll happen here. It's our family, Ben. Do you remember what happened to Philip Johnson's mum? "

 

"Phil's mum was a dope fiend well before the split. Where do you think Phil got it? And what do you fucking know anyway?"

 

"I know you got it from Phil. I know what it smells like and it was all over your clothes and hair that night."

 

"How do you know what it smells like?" Ben put two and two together. "You've tried it, haven't you?"

 

Amy fell silent.

 

"'Dear fucking diary'," Ben crowed, "'little Miss Perfect has skinned up!' I'm gonna Instagram the fuck out of this! Fucking priceless." He fumbled for his phone, cleared the close-up image from the display, and pointed the camera at his sister.

​

"Don't you dare!" Amy tried to lunge from the chair but was slowed by the stickiness on her back which had seeped through her tee-shirt.

​

The phone's flash went off and Ben captured the picture. It was wonderful! Ames was furious, snapped as she reached for Ben's phone, her face twisted in impotent anger.

Ben watched as his sister headed for the door. A couple of shots of her retreating back, then the golden moment as she turned and flicked a V-sign at him.

​

"You can be such a dick!" Ames swore as she slammed the door behind her.

Ben broke down in gales of laughter. 

​

Still sniggering, he sat at his computer and set up a video call to a couple of friends. "Here guys," he said, "I've got something you two might like."