Overworld - Ch. 3

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Chapter 3

“You’re lucky I don’t stab you in the throat with this butter knife, Branson Penderran!” Arlee hissed the second her older brother stepped foot into the kitchen the next morning.

I was safely spooning jelly onto a piece of toast at the snack bar when Bran entered, and Arlee was buttering her bagel from the island. She pointed her knife at him menacingly, and her face showed no trace of mercy.

Bran seemed only momentarily caught off guard before sauntering over to the fridge and peering inside.

“I take it Dover Danderby wasn’t exactly what you had in mind for a prospective boyfriend, huh?”

Arlee elbowed him in the side vigorously, knocking the breath out of him. “You can be a real jerk, you know that?”

Bran rubbed the place where she’d hammered him and continued the search for his own breakfast. “Sorry I can’t be more forthcoming, little sister.”

Arlee scoffed and went back to her bagel. After rummaging for a bit, Bran came away from the refrigerator with several eggs and a gallon of chocolate milk. He then joined me at the snack bar, just now taking notice of my presence.

“Morning, Jo. How’s the fam?”

“Don’t talk to him, Jo, he’s vile and pretentious,” Arlee commanded with a scowl directed at her brother.

“I agree with Arlee. You’re vile and pretentious, Bran,” I told him, barely containing my smile. I’d always found Bran appealing, not to mention that he was exactly my favorite kind of cute. It was hard to be even remotely angry with him.

“So be it,” Bran sighed, turning away from us both and taking his eggs and milk over to the stove where he commenced to bring out a skillet and a spatula from nearby. He switched on a burner and took on the task of making an omelet. His dark hair fell across his face as he worked, and he hummed a tune I didn’t recognize; probably something he and his rinky-dink garage band had been working on.

“What’s the chocolate milk for?” I inquired of him as I watched from my seat at the bar.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “It gives the eggs a better flavor, in my opinion.”

I made a face. “That’s…really gross, Bran.”

            He didn’t look at me this time when he replied, “Which is why you have your bland, insufferable toast over there and I have my stimulating, unique and tasty creation over here.”

            Arlee came to sit beside me with her bagel in hand. “We’re not talking to him, remember? He’s a jerk.”

            I rolled my eyes, resigned, and turned to her brother. “Out with it, Branson. Why’d you pretend Dover was the bee’s knees when he was really a bee’s sneeze?”

            Bran stared at me like I’d just grown a third eye. “What does that even mean? I’d like to understand what I’m being accused of before I state any claims.”

            I chunked a piece of nearly-burned crust off my toast at his head but he dodged it just in time. “It means you’re a jerk like Arlee said.” I watched him for a moment, waiting for his retort. When none came, I hopped off the stool and wandered over to stand beside him. When he met my eyes I added, “Dover was a pig, a charity case, a bumbling and intolerable fool trying to work everyone over with non-existent charm. It can also be implied that he only practices personal grooming about once a month.”

            “It was the worst kind of nauseating,” Arlee cut in.

I continued, “What kind of brother holds that as a standard for his baby sister? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

            He chuckled. “On the contrary, I’m rather proud, to be honest.” Arlee shrieked in protest at hearing this admission, and a moment later she had stomped from the kitchen with a string of violent curses spoken quietly but fiercely over her shoulder. Some revenge, I thought for a split second.

            I narrowed my eyes at Bran, who was now quite obviously avoiding looking at me. “So how’s school?” he attempted at a subject change. I shoved him in the shoulder, the spatula in his hand flinging a few crumbs of egg onto the floor. “Thanks a lot,” he sneered as he bent down to pick up the food with a paper towel; I didn’t make any efforts to help, but instead persisted at probing him.

            “Seriously, Bran, what’s your deal? Arlee would never pull a stunt on you like you pulled with Dover and you know it.”

            Bran took his time cleaning the floor, and when he was once again level with me he still wouldn’t meet my gaze; he seemed to be gradually growing uncomfortable, almost nervous. “Maybe I just wanted a little excitement around this house,” he retorted pompously.

            I felt like smacking him upside the head. “I refuse to accept that as your reasoning,” I stated obstinately. “You’d better come up with something better to satisfy me, preferably the truth.”

            “Listen, Jo, I don’t appreciate my judgment being pried into like a can of tuna fish.”

            I snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bran. Arlee’s your sweet, beautiful, affectionate sister and Dover is a monkey-man, unworthy of even her table scraps! How could you ever put them together?”

He suddenly struck the countertop with such surprising force that I simply stood staring, my mind substantially frozen. “Will you stop pestering me already?” he spoke in a low voice, but it was amazingly authoritative. “I’d like to eat my breakfast in peace if you don’t mind.” His eyes were boring into mine, intensifying with every second. It frightened me more than I was willing to admit, even to myself, but I couldn’t seem to find the strength to tear my eyes away from his.

I’d never seen Branson Penderran so antagonistic; he was typically poised and respectful, although wily and subtly condescending in an endearing way. He liked to tease in good humor, and otherwise leave people hanging on his every word with the eloquence of his linguistics. He had always been one of the more intelligent guys I’d hung around, and his level of maturity was generally impressive. He was patient and pretty understanding for a selfish adolescent, and Arlee confided in him when I wasn’t available because he was such a good listener; even when he didn’t care what was being said, he listened regardless.

Despite the knowledge that he sang lead vocals and played various instruments for a punk band composed of only teenage boys in high school, most of which were by choice social outcasts, Bran had a comfortable and enchanting demeanor that made you want to be close to him. He was smart, talented, charming when he wanted to be, and had a smile that celebrities could envy. I, on the other hand, often envied him his ability to so effortlessly outwit any remark; as a result, I tended to push his buttons more times than not so as to learn his techniques and perhaps steal a line or two. I felt compelled to speak more intellectually when talking with Bran, and I enjoyed the challenge it presented me to stand against him in a battle of the wits. I seldom won, but when I did it was never taken for granted.

In spite of his incredible knack for demoralizing any person at any time of day, Bran only put his skills to use in good taste. He was the type of guy who thought several times about something before he said it aloud, which I admired him for.

The only thing that had ever truly irked me about Bran Penderran was how unpredictable he could be; not only with his reactions, but the timing of them. It was one challenge that was too tricky for my taste; this situation included.

“What’s gotten into you?” I croaked when I finally found my voice. I managed to peel my eyes away from his fixed gaze and absently took a step away from him. I looked down at my hands only to notice that they were slightly shaking.

Bran didn’t answer, but his jaw was taut as he measured unspoken words. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him again for more than a moment at a time, and my stomach was starting to clench from the tension between us.

After what seemed like ages, Bran finally grumbled something about his eggs burning, and he turned his back on me to once again face the stove. I stared at the stiff posture of his back, incomprehensive of what had just happened.

“Bran,” I heard myself say softly, not even sure what I was aiming to say afterward.

But the only response I was to receive was the clacking of the spatula against the skillet.