"It's time to plan, you dimwitted fools." Kara drags a binder from underneath the table and slams it onto the polished wood surface, a game face bleaching her skin.

She's always been very diplomatic, interested in politics and business class at school when no one else was, when everyone was drifting into sleep and doodling on their worksheets, and her hard work has paid off, except she's become more annoying than she was before and constantly demands that I do things for her, even when she's capable of doing it herself.

And now she's commanding me to help her plan something, a something about whom I know nothing, but she won't relent until she's gotten her way, so I'd rather not be bombarded by flying limbs tossed around the couch when I'm trying to help Dallon study for a history test specifically about American history and all its faults, and if I decline I know that Dallon will beg me otherwise, so there's no use in fighting.

"Plan what?"

A look of annoyance weeps from her scowling lips, ordering her to kick me below the table. "My birthday. I'm turning thirteen, in case you haven't noticed." Opening the binder and refusing to acknowledge me, she mutters, "What kind of brother are you? Honestly."

Laughing, I lean back in my chair. "I haven't forgotten."

"Well, anyway, what would you like to do for it? To, um, celebrate?" Dallon continues in doubt, throat hitching on the rough r sound for precisely two seconds.

Counting again. I was told I need to stop, sometimes by Ryan and sometimes my Kara, who's freaked out by my neuroticism, and I can't really blame her. It's not normal to count every heartbeat, every second, every stroke of a pen, but I've blocked it out. It's always there, though. Always.

I don't want a psychologist for it, though. Yeah, I realize they can be amazing people, and I've heard of great results from them, but they're just not my thing. The counting isn't an issue, either, not that I can see. It's just a habit, and I don't want to be chained to a profession like this just because of a lowly habit, and if I ever decide to seek help, Dallon is a psychologist enough.

Kara flips directly to a page, an outline of sorts, excited that Dallon asked. "Well I'm not planning on anything big, just a couple friends maybe."

I had expected my friend to be inundated by the flow of words out of Kara's mouth, but he's instead listening attentively and clinging onto every syllable. Perhaps it's just because English is his second language and he's just attempting to follow her rapid spiel, or it's because I identify him as a kind soul who actually cares about other people's problems, unlike me, but that may get him into trouble along the road.

Right now, however, it's nice to see him so engaged, because he does care. He really does care about Kara, about me, about America through his insults towards it, and he'll be there for all of us. He's doing it right now.

"Is there anything you'd like to do with them?" Dallon inquires, bent towards the table as he listens closely.

Kara shrugs. "I'd just like a casual thing more than an extravaganza."

"Like a...what's it called?" Dallon taps the napkin near him seven times — stop — before Kara swoops in and helps him out with a furled brow.

"A sleepover?"

"Yeah, a sleepover," Dallon agrees, nodding his head jubilantly, but Kara declines the offer of that party style, deciding it's too much work for me to prepare, and part of me wants to thank her for being so considerate and then schedule a sleepover anyway, as it's the birthday that will fling her into the teenage years, but the other part concurs that I can't do this with only me and Dallon to help.

"We could just have a small get together with a couple of friends and roam free, like the acne on my flesh I'll soon be receiving."

I choke on the air surrounding me, surprised that my little sister is so aware of what horrors are to come, and though our family has never had a problem with acne, she's determined to be the first, or so it seems by her depiction of the teenage era. My astonishment ripples on Dallon's face with an amused smirk that he won't annihilate immediately after it manifests, and I kick him under the table, which is supplied by more giggles.

"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea," I croak out breathlessly, with residual waves of shock undulating upon me.

A sly smile still clotting at the edge of Dallon's lips, he focuses on Kara instead of my acute anxiety at my sister being more self-aware than I ever was. "How should we help you set this up?"

"You're like a mom, Brendon," Kara concludes, earning a quizzical expression from me. "Both in spirit and position over me, unless you count Kyla, but she's in New York, so whatever."

The rate at which Kara is moving is somehow more startling to me than to Dallon, which makes no sense to me, because it's like my sister is barely breathing, and as her older brother that should concern me, and it does, though it doesn't concern Dallon, but Dallon is my friend and should pity me for my troubles and grieve with me, but all he does is stare as Kara gushes about her party plans. Maybe he's actually more unsteady than I am and is merely inert in his chair.

"Anyway, you could call the other moms of your suburban kind and ask if their children would enjoy venturing to the home of the rat ass and the temporary home of his rat ass French friend."

"You phrase things so eloquently," Dallon remarks, a swift laugh unspooling from his lungs once he regains his composure.

"I think I might write poetry in the future."

"A fellow creator, I see."

"Unlike Brendon here" — Kara jabs a thumb in my direction — "who only likes English and history. Concrete." The last word is caked in drought, as if bitter for an elementary preference, though I know not why. I just came out here to have a good time, and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.

"I'm the one who's planning your birthday party," I retort in the only defense I can build.

Kara's countenance transfers from fortified to faithful, proposing a birthday desire to me. "Is Kyla visiting for the party?"

My bones sag at her facile wish, a facile wish that I cannot achieve, no matter how much I want to, and it's my duty to cushion the blow for her at least. "I'm sorry, but you know how things are. She's busy with work."

Though Kara knew what was coming her way, she's still as dejected as she would've been if this were the first time hearing it, but the truth is the truth. The truth is the painful reality that we never win what we dream of, that we're irrevocably helpless, and that's why Kara being so self-aware is all the more terrifying. "Yeah, I get it." Her head hangs through the dense air, struggling to drop the situation that's plagued her since Kyla departed for college and never returned, her only memory being the salary she submits to us so that we can just fucking survive.

And it's not like I can condemn her for that, because I know she's trying, and I can't ask her to try harder, because she already is. I have so much respect for my older sister, for both her conflicts and her success, for everything that she does for us that still won't be suitable for Kara.

I'm ambivalently endeavoring to aid Kara with her life and her school work and her teenage obsessions the best I can, simultaneously promising that Kyla will is doing just fine and will be back soon, but Kara doesn't know about the three A.M. phone calls heavy with tears and the stench of stress all the way from New York City. Kara doesn't know about the cracking noise of a businesswoman caving from the pressure. Kara doesn't know about her sister so ready to give up on us and leave us on our own. But then again, how could either of us truly know what Kyla's going through?

We can't, though Kara is evermore requesting fiercely to understand, but all I can do is plan her measly birthday party.

"Hey," Dallon coos, locking his fingers into Kara's to console her in place of me. "We can have plenty of fun without Kyla."

"Yeah, I guess."

Dallon eyes me ferociously, somewhat unsure that I'll close my mouth and keep Kara content that way yet having no evidence to suggest that I would, but he's French, so who knows? Damn French. You just never comprehend what they're doing. What nubs.

"Do you like go-karting?" I muse, fragments of a smile curling at my lips.

Kara pushes me away, eyes bulging as her legs fidget in her seat. "No way, trash ass. We'll find another place to fight."

"Okay, we'll think on it."

"Not that you do much of that anyway," Kara mutters, and we're back to that sibling rivalry we've always shared.

Perfect for a birthday gift.

~~~~~

A/N: KARA IS THE FUCKING QUEEN OKAY

Quepchun: HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE KARA

Auipswun: LIKE 1000 PERCENT LIKE A++ AIGHT OMG SHE'S BOSS AF

~Dakara ;)))