Our House

She holds her brother now tight beneath his arms, hands clasped across his chest with the rest of his body falling away as if she were saving him from drowning, and he laughs and she laughs, so I laugh. This is how they dance each night. Girl party! Zoey says, but Ozzy's allowed even though he has a penis. Because there are rules, such as this: How we stand and hold hands, curl toward each other and then unfurl apart quickly shouting Hollywood. I don't know why, this rule not one to be broken. We would have such a very good time, such a fine time. Such a happy time. Lately we have been dancing to this.
When daddy and I were little, I tell her, although to her 8th grade would be old, he always wore a gray trench coat with a Madness iron-on patch, and one for The Specials. He had a crew cut and bleached the tips white. God, he was so cute, I say, although she is dancing with her brother who is scrunching up his nose to make her laugh hard, harder, until she puts him down saying Hollywood for him. Then we'd say nothing would come between us, two dreamers...