Sister Golden Hair

"He's the best damn quarterback to come into the league since John Elway!" the man in the checkered shirt said.

"Nah," the man in the ridiculous burgundy jean shorts replied as he shook his head. "Don't be putting pressure on the boy like that, Tim! Just because he's born and bred in our little town here, you wanna start labeling him as the greatest of all time!"

"I didn't say he was the greatest of all time, Phil!" Tim retorted. "I'm just saying he COULD be the greatest of all time before it's all said and done!"

"That's still a lot of pressure, Tim!" Phil said vehemently. "Now, I love Jet Orion as much as the next person, but I don't think it's fair for all of us to start thinking of him as some sort of almighty presence when he's only played one damn year in the league!"

"Goddammit," I thought to myself. There I was, standing in line at the little grocery store in my tiny Kentucky town waiting to buy a pint of fucking sour cream, all the while having to listen to two middle-aged men fawn over how great my big brother tosses balls.

"He just took the Detroit Lions to the playoffs in his first year in the league," Tim argued. "A historically bad team that's had the worst record in the NFL each of the last three years, and our very own Jet Orion just took them to the playoffs! The boy is special Phil, one in a million."

Fucking Jet Orion. Of course my brother grew up to be a rich and famous NFL quarterback with a name like that. Meanwhile, I come along and my parents name me Candy. What's my destiny supposed to be? Oompa-Loompa?

I looked ahead at the old lady paying for her groceries in nothing but loose change and silently cursed myself for not bringing my Bluetooth earbuds into the store with me as Thing 1 and Thing 2 continued their banter behind me. I shut my eyes, lowered my head, and focused all of my energy into drowning out everything around me. I thought about a song from my favorite band, The Wobbling Warbies, and began playing it in my head. Thankfully, ever since my brother had gone off to college to play football and everyone around me decided he was their new God, I had gotten really good at blocking out the unwanted sound of people waxing poetic about him. So I just stood there and swayed rhythmically to the sounds of the music in my head, briefly living in a world where my brother didn't exist.

"Excuse me, miss?" someone suddenly said as they tapped my shoulder.

"Huh, what?" I replied, snapping out of my mental sanctuary.

"Could you scoot up in line, please?" Phil asked me kindly.

I looked ahead of me to see the cashier staring impatiently at me as the old woman exited the store with her groceries. "Oh, sorry," I said, briefly looking back at Phil.

"Wait a minute..." Phil began.

"Oh god, please no!" I cried silently to myself as I turned quickly back around and handed the cashier my sour cream.

"Aren't you-" Phil said.

"-Jet Orion's little sister!" Tim finished for him excitedly.

"That is my official name," I replied with as much obvious disdain as I could muster.

"Well I'll be damned, we were just talking about him!" Tim said with a stupid grin on his face.

"You don't say?" I said, once more with the disdain.

"Your brother sure is special," Phil said. "He's made us all so proud with how well he's done. Really put our little town here on the map!"

"Mmpf," I said simply as I gave the cashier the twenty dollar bill.

"They should've won that playoff game last week," Tim explained. "Wasn't Jet's fault, of course. That Lion's offensive line is terrible. That's alright though, don't you worry. They'll figure that out next year, I can promise you that."

"What a weight off my fucking mind, Tim," I mumbled under my breath as I waited for my change from the cashier.

"Oh, shoot," the cashier said as she looked into her cash register. "I ain't got change for a twenty. I'm gonna have to get the manager over here to get me some more money."

"You remember that game he had against the Packers this year?" Phil asked me.

"Nope," I said curtly as I watched the cashier pick up her phone.

"He completed over 80% of his passes that game!" Phil said to me excitedly. "Had that Packer defense guessing for four quarters!"

"Well, my manager must not be in her office," the cashier said. "Give me a second, sweetheart, and I'll go find her."

"What about that game against-" Tim began.

"You know what?" I said to the cashier as I grabbed the sour cream. "Just keep the change. Consider it a tip for a job well done." Without another word, I turned to leave the store.

"I guess we'll see you later as it is," Phil said just as I reached the door. A second later, once Phil's words had fully registered in my brain, I turned back around.

"Huh?" I replied. "Why would you see me later?"

"At your house, of course!" Phil explained. "You know, for the big party for your brother's arrival back into town!"

I raised my eyebrow in a way that I hoped conveyed both confusion and annoyance. "You two are going to be there?" I asked. "Why the hell would you guys come to a party at my house?"

"Hell, everybody's going to be there, as far as I know," Tim said. "The whole town, just about."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head as I left the store. It was so typical of my parents. Their heads were so far up my brother's ass that they couldn't see how ridiculous it was to invite so many people into our home, and all for what? Because he's mildly talented at a silly little game?

I got into the car and picked my phone up out of the cup holder. I went to the "recently contacted" section of my contacts and called the only name that showed up.

"Hey, Candy," Ally said as she answered my call on the first ring. I loved how reliable she was.

"Uggghhhh!" I groaned loudly.

"Jet?" Ally asked sympathetically.

"Jet," I confirmed. "Everyone is acting like he's so great and wonderful. All he does is play football. All he's EVER done is play football. I'm not even sure that he has the mental capacity to do anything but that! Who made better grades in school?"

"You did," Ally said in a monotone voice.

"Who won first place in the fourth grade spelling bee?"

"You did."

"Who came in third place in the national short story contest for high school students? NATIONAL, I said!"

"You did."

"So why does no one dote on me like they do him?" I whined as I drove out of the parking lot.

"I dote on you!" Ally said.

"You don't count," I said.

"Oh gee, thanks best friend."

"Well that's just it, isn't it? You're my best friend, so your doting is biased and a given."

"I see," she replied.

"I just don't understand what the big deal is," I continued. "He's been away for a year, so I get people missing him and whatnot, but he was away playing a stupid game! People are acting like he was...I don't know, off feeding the blind or something!"

"Feeding the blind?" Ally repeated with confusion. "Why would he be feeding the blind? The blind can get their own food, can't they?"

I paused briefly. "You know what I meant! He wasn't doing anything honorable."

"He's a rich and famous guy now, Candy," Ally continued. "People are gonna be a bit star struck, especially people around here who aren't used to that kind of attention. You're just going to have to get used to that."

"I don't wanna," I pouted.

"I'm sorry, girl," she said genuinely. "Want me to come over?"

"No," I replied. "I wouldn't be great company right now. I'm feeling a little emotional and down in the dumps and whatnot."

"You mean your usual self then?"

"Don't make fun while I'm fragile, Ally!"

"Right, sorry," she replied. "Well, I guess I'll see you at school on Monday. Let me know if you change your mind about me coming over. I hope the party tonight doesn't suck too much ass."

"Thanks, Ally," I said as I hung up the phone.

I thought about my brother as I drove. I really didn't think about him too much these days, especially in the past few years since he had left for college. Maybe that was because I was eighteen years old and had other things on my mind. Or maybe I didn't think about him much as a sort of defense mechanism. In that moment, however, he was on my mind for some reason or another. We had been really close when we were younger, friends you might even say. He had been a great big brother. He spent lots of time with me even though I was four years his junior. We'd play outside together, watch the same television shows, and do practically everything with each other. Sometimes, at night, I'd pretend that I had a bad dream and ask him if I could sleep in his bed with him. Not because I was actually scared or anything, but just because I enjoyed being around him that much.

But then the puberty fairy found him, and with that, our dad found out that his boy could throw a football really hard and really far. At first I thought it was cool, and I'd spend a lot of afternoons outside with the two of them as they worked on Jet's throwing form. Heck, often times I'd act as his wide receiver. Got pretty good at catching, in fact.

But day after day of that got really monotonous, and even though I missed my brother like crazy, I stopped joining them for their little practices and started doing my own thing. Eventually football consumed his whole being, and Jet and I slowly lost touch. I was heartbroken for a while, but I got over it. Once he graduated high school and went to Notre Dame on a football scholarship, we practically stopped talking altogether. Now, anytime I hear his name, I find myself rolling my eyes or clicking my tongue out of annoyance. Funny how life goes sometimes.

I turned down the little country road that we lived on and very slowly drove towards my house, not at all looking forward to getting sucked back into the party planning frenzy that had been going on all day.

"What the fuck is that!?" I raged as my house came into view. In the middle of our front yard stood a gigantic inflatable football player in a blue, number 4 Detroit Lions jersey. He held a football up around his chest as he swayed in the wind. I pulled the car into the driveway and stormed into the yard to get a better look at the monstrosity. A warped caricature of my brother stood there, at least twice my height, looking off into the distance with a pathetically dumb look on his face. I punched him in his stupid inflatable crotch and made my way inside.

"Candy, is that you?" my mother's voice rang out from the kitchen.

"What the hell is that thing in the front yard?" I called back as I walked towards her.

"You mean your brother?" she asked with a smile as I entered the kitchen. I handed her the sour cream and plopped down into a chair. "Isn't it cool!?" she asked excitedly. "He's going to love it when he sees it!"

"I'm gone thirty minutes and this is what I come home to?" I said. "Why does a thing like that even exist in this world? Who in their right minds would put something like that in their yard? It's ludicrous."

"Oh, stop it," she scolded. "It makes your dad happy, so quit complaining. Can you chop some green onions for me?"

"And why the hell are Tim and Phil coming to the party?" I asked as I sat back further in the chair, hoping that it was obvious that I wasn't going to do as she asked.

"Who?" my mother asked.

"Exactly!" I said, leaning forward in my chair while pointing an accusatory finger at her. "You don't even know who I'm talking about!"

"Where did you hear about this?"

"They were at the grocery store. Said they would be here tonight."

"What exactly did they look like?" she asked.

"Couple of white-bread looking motherfuckers about your age." My mom paused briefly and thought.

"Oh, you mean Phil and Tim, your dad's fishing friends!" she said after a few seconds. "Well they're practically family, Candy!"

"Right, of course," I said with an eye roll as I stood up and started to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going, Candy?" Mom asked before I could leave. "Your brother will be here in a few hours and we still have a lot of things to get ready. I could really use your help."

"A few hours, huh?" I asked. "Is he driving?"

"No, he's taking an Ubey from Detroit."

I closed my eyes and shook my head. "You mean...an Uber?" I said condescendingly.

"What's that, dear?"

"Ugh, nothing," I said. "Why the hell isn't he taking a plane? Or better yet, why doesn't he just drive himself?"

"He said he didn't want to deal with people looking at him or talking to him in a busy airport. And he didn't want to drive his car because he said the roads are really bad for it."

"The roads are bad...for his car!?" I exclaimed. "How fucking stupid is that!?"

"You need to stop cussing so much, Candy," my mom scolded.

"Wait, so he'll be wanting to borrow my car the whole time he's here then, won't he?" I said, ignoring my mother's admonishment.

"You know, it was his car before it was yours."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that fact," I said with a scornful laugh. "Jet got it new, then when he became a millionaire or whatever and didn't need it anymore, I got his hand-me-down. Lucky me!"

"It's a perfectly good car," my mother replied.

"That's not the point," I said in frustration.

"Then what is it, Candy?"

"Just the whole favoritism thing. That's all, Mom. You know, the thing that I've mentioned like, I don't know, maybe a zillion times since I've been alive?"

"Don't start with me on this right now," Mom said as she returned to her food prep. "It's simply not true. You have no evidence to say that it is."

"It's been true from day one!" I replied vehemently. "You give birth to him and name him after a sleek, metallic flying machine. Then I come along and you name me after a bag of Skittles!"

"I really wish you'd stop telling people that!" she said with exasperation. "Your name is Candice after my grandmother. You know what...just go to your room, will you?"

"Gladly," I said as I turned to leave.

"And hey!" she said. I turned back to see a large bag of deflated balloons soaring through the air towards me. I caught them just before they hit me in the face. "Nice catch," she said. "Maybe you can play in the NFL, too. Your brother could use a good receiver." I rolled my eyes. "Anyway," she continued, "blow those up while you're in your room, okay?"

"Fine, whatever," I said as I walked away. As I went down the hall towards my bedroom, I saw a light coming from the otherwise dark bedroom of my brother's. I peeped into to it as I passed by and felt a distinct sensation of hot bile traveling up my esophagus at the sight.

"My baby boy is coming home, Candy!" my father said with tears in his eyes as he sat on Jet's bed watching a recording of one of his NFL games from this past season. "Your big brother is finally making his long awaited return! Can you believe it!?"

I rolled through a number of different sarcastic comments in my head. Not feeling great about any of them, however, I decided to simply turn abruptly and walk away, slamming my door as I entered my room. That pretty much conveyed my feelings better than any words could have, I decided.

Standing in front of my closed door, I took a moment to look myself over in the long mirror hanging in front of me. Overall, I had always felt pretty good about my appearance, despite my lack of self-esteem due to a lifetime of living in Jet's elliptical shaped shadow. Just like my brother, I naturally had beautiful blonde hair. Today, however, it was the color of black ink with streaks of purple in it. I used to like to keep blue highlights in my hair, but ever since someone had asked me if the blue was to show my support for the Detroit Lions, I decided that I actually really hate the color blue after all.

I stared at myself some more. Somewhere underneath my baggy shirt and oversized mom pants was a fairly nice body. At least, I thought so. Of course, compared to the chiseled specimen that was my brother, it didn't really matter. Ally had once joked to me that Jet looked like the result of a threesome between a centaur, a sunrise, and a young Orlando Bloom. As angry as that had made me in the moment, I had to admit that she hit the nail on the goddamn head.

Feeling annoyed with life, I tossed the pack of balloons into a random cluttered corner of my room and flopped onto my bed. I dug my phone out of my pocket, opened a browser, and pulled up the first website on my small list of favorites. This website was called "hot-smut", a collection of tens of thousands of erotic stories written by amateur authors.

Several months prior, I had been doing some "erotic exploration" online, and came across this website. I was intrigued, and read some of the stories. I thought they were okay, but nothing special. As an amateur writer myself, I decided that I could write a better story than any of those bozos and started to write my own. I soon discovered, however, that I was wrong. As talented of a writer as I was, romance and erotica really weren't my strength. I had just about written off the website altogether when one day I saw a new story, by a new author, pop up on the main page. It hadn't gotten very many clicks, and the rating left something to be desired, but it drew me in immediately. It was a story based on the sitcom Saved By The Bell, which was one of the shows my brother and I used to binge on when we were younger.

I clicked on the story and read it. Surprisingly, I thought it was quite good. There were lots of grammatical mistakes and some confusing plot points, but it definitely had potential. More importantly, perhaps, it greatly turned me on. The sex scenes weren't overly explicit, but they were very easy for me to visualize. I could definitely see why it wouldn't be most people's cup of tea, but I loved it, and desperately wanted more.

I clicked on the author's name and brought up their profile. Their name was "fighting4irish". They had chosen not to fill out any of the information about themselves (gender, race, age, fetishes, etc.), so I really didn't learn anything about them, which I was okay with. Anonymity is preferred in the world of erotic literature, I concluded. Near the bottom of the page, there was a place that I could click to provide feedback to the author. On a whim, I decided to do it. This guy (assuming he was a guy) hadn't gotten a lot of feedback from his story, let alone positive feedback, so I figured if I wanted him to write more trashy stories about Zach, Kelly, and the rest of the gang from Bayside High School, I had better tell him how much I loved his writing.

Thus began a several month correspondence between me and this stranger, wherein I started to provide editing services to them in exchange for the amazing opportunity to read the stories first and give suggestions based solely on my personal preferences. The whole experience had been a beacon of light in my otherwise drab existence, and checking for messages and story notifications from this person was something that I looked forward to on a daily basis.

So as I lay in my bed, all thoughts of my brother's impending return to home out of my head, I brought up the hot-smut website with a huge smile on my face, certain that I would have a message notification from Irish.

"Irish" was my preferred name for this person, rather than constantly having to type out "fighting4irish" to refer to them. I thought it was super clever of me.

Thankfully, Irish did not disappoint. I clicked on my notifications and opened up the new message.

"As always, Toxic Sunshine, your feedback has been immensely helpful," I whispered as I read the message out loud to myself. "I've decided to change the part where Screech is secretly masturbating in a dark corner of the classroom where Jessie is going down on Slater, and now it's Lisa touching herself in the corner while Zach goes down on Jessie. You're right, that's way hotter. I've also changed the part where I stupidly said that Kelly was looking at Mr. Belding with "dough eyes". I never really thought about the spelling of that word, but now I see that her eyes are not made of unbaked bread, but are meant to resemble the sweet innocence of a female deer. My bad!