"The Knotty Days" by Kelly Murashige

The brother sits at the table with his older sister, doing his best to eat as loudly as he can. It’s his way of proving to the world that he exists.

His sister looks across the table at him, her eyes narrowed. “Do you really have to eat your pretzels like that?”

“Like what?” he asks, not even looking up from his snack.

She wrinkles her nose, her mouth twisting. She hates the crinkling of the bag almost as much as the sound of his chewing.

“Like a freak,” she replies.

He snorts. “At least I don’t eat Cheetos with chopsticks.”

“It’s a smart thing to do,” she retorts. “That way, I don’t get cheese dust on my fingers.”

“The cheese dust is the best part.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You’re so immature.”

“I know you are, but what am I?” he says, pitching his voice up to make it clear that he knows, just as well as she does, that despite what their mother has repeatedly insisted, relying on comebacks that were out of fashion when she was in school isn’t going to save them from getting pushed around.

And he does. He does get pushed around. His sister sees it happening sometimes, when the fifth graders leave the cafeteria and the third graders rush in.

She knows better than to intervene. The only thing worse than getting bullied is having to be rescued from getting bullied, especially when said rescuer is your sister.

She lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping. She remembers the third grade. It was, in all honesty, a rather rough year. Far harder than the second grade. Of that she is certain.

Her eyes slide back over to him. He’s placing pieces of his pretzels on the table now. Eight years old and still playing with his food.

Maybe, she thinks, she should give him a break. Their mother always says it’s her job, as the older sibling, to make sure her brother’s okay, and though she thinks that’s rather unfair, considering most times, he’s the very reason she isn’t okay, she feels the tiniest bit sorry for him.

“Look,” she says, the word twining its way out of her mouth like a sigh. “I think we should make a deal: You try to be nicer to me, and I’ll try to be nicer to you. Okay?”

He makes a face. Her face. They look so much alike, it unnerves her.

“You probably don’t even know how to be nice,” he mutters.

The sister frowns. “Yeah, I do. Janna says I’m super nice.”

“Well, Janna’s a butthead.”

She drops her jaw. “STOP it. I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?” he asks, opening his mouth wide enough to reveal the pretzel mush.

“Gross,” she says, pulling her workbook away before he can drool all over it. Janna sometimes tells her she should get a dog, but the sister just says she has one already.

As if reading her mind, her pseudo-dog scratches his ear.

“Ugh.” She drops her pencil on her workbook, the tip of her lead bouncing against the page and leaving a tiny gray scar. “You’re so disgusting.”

“What? My ear is itchy.”

She watches, her lip curled, as he resumes eating his pretzels. “You’re not even going to wash your hands?”

He’s quiet for a moment, as if mulling this over.

“Anyway,” he says, as if they haven’t been in constant conversation this entire time. “Okay. Let’s be nice.”

She frowns and says, “Okay,” less because she still feels motivated to be kinder to her brother and more because she has long lost the thread of their discussion.

“Okay,” he says again. Then, crumpling the empty snack bag in one hand, he breezes past her, dumps his trash, and makes a beeline for his room.

She glances down. He left bits of pretzels all over the table.

She opens her mouth to call him back, then lets out a breath instead. Perhaps cleaning up his mess can count as being nice.

She takes a look at the pretzels. The way they are arranged.

Then she sees it. The way he has painstakingly bitten and organized his pretzel pieces to form the words u suck.

Taking a deep breath, she lifts her chin and shouts, “MOM” at the top of her lungs.

From his room, the brother snickers. His room is a mess. As is his crumb-covered shirt.

Years later, when it’s the sister who needs help, the brother is paralyzed, with no idea what to do. It takes a strong-worded lecture from his girlfriend, the best and bossiest woman he’s ever known, for him to muster up the courage to stop by for a visit.

He arrives with a bouquet of daisies he bought on the drive over. When his sister opens the door, he all but lobs the gift bag right at her face. Only once she has caught it, her reflexes fast for someone nursing a broken heart, does he realize that might not have been the best course of action.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You suck,” she replies.

He pulls back, then laughs. “I do, don’t I?”

She opens her mouth. Thinks for a moment. Then, nodding, she says, “Yeah. Yeah, you do.”

For the next three seconds, the two siblings stand at the door.

“Come on in, idiot,” she says at last. “I’ve been waiting for you to show your stupid face.”

The siblings have never been good at sweet. They grew up savoring what hurt just a bit. It proves they can still feel something, deep down.

And they do. They still feel.

He resists just a bit as she guides him inside. Their bones crush together as he hugs her and tells her he never liked Janna anyhow. The emotion on their faces—their same, teary faces—tells a story of the best and saltiest love.

Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novels The Lost Souls of Benzaiten and The Yomigaeri Tunnel, as well as the upcoming adult novel Milkiverse (2027). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. Though she can be shy, she loves obsessing over books, video games, and strange animals.