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Everybody in our family hated the song "Oh, Johnny" by the Andrews' Sisters. I thought it was too optimistic. I think Tilly secretly agreed with me. Ada wouldn't listen to anybody but her favorite singer, Jane Powell. Rachel hated 3-part harmony. (she was the singer of the family) Harriett hated American singers.

Incidentally, the crackling tone of "Oh Johnny" found its way onto the evening station while we were eating dinner. And the real reason we all groaned and complained as we turned off the radio was because we did miss Johnny. Our Johnny.

Johnny was my brother, tall and lean, with messy light-brown hair, always with an optimistic grin on his face. Ever ready and willing to fight alongside Britain, the country that he loved. He was so patriotic. If he were an American, he would be Uncle Sam himself. But Johnny wasn't American, and Johnny wasn't Uncle Sam. Johnny was my brother. And Johnny wasn't the only one we've missed. Hiram, my father, and Adam, my other brother, were drafted in the war. Johnny had run off afterwards and joined of his own accord. "Oh Johnny" reminded us of all of them. Perhaps the real reason that Harriett hated American singers was that there was more than one "Johnny" song. She seemed to like Jeanette MacDonald enough before the war.

"Mum, can you pass the gravy?" Rachel asked in a small voice. She was the first one to speak. Tilly reached over quick as lightning and grabbed it, before anybody could say another word. The bowl slipped in her grasp and grabby slopped over the bowl and onto the table. "I'll clean it." I said quickly, bumping my knee against the table and knocking over my chair in my haste to get to the kitchen.

I ran into the kitchen, snatching a washcloth from the counter. The plate concealed under it slid from the counter and fell to the floor. I could hear Rachel choke on the tea that she was drinking. Ada began to cry. Desperate, I sprinted out of the kitchen, the cloth dangling from my shaking and startled hand. Tilly darted past me, murmuring "I've got it." I scurried back to the table and ran the cloth over the gravy stain. Rage filled my head. Why can't we just pull ourselves together? Getting all worked up over some stupid song… I looked down at my hands, noticing that they were shaking.

Harriet stood up at the table.

We all froze.

Without a single word, she pushed back her chair and walked past us, treading across the floor, stepping up the stairway where a morose creak, creak, creak, followed her up every stair, even after she was gone from our sight.

Rachel was the next to leave, dragging Ada Behind her by means of their tightly clasped hands. They were completely silent going up the stairs. Even Ada had stopped crying.

Stifling a sigh, I walked into the kitchen. Tilly was cleaning up the bits of broken place. With her bare hands, I noted.

"Tilly, go upstairs. I'll take care of it." I muttered.

"I can do i…"

"Upstairs, now." I said firmly. Seeing her glare, I added, "I'll take care of it."

It was too late. I could tell she was angry with me when the glare didn't subside from her face. I eyed her hands. To my relief, she hadn't managed to cut them. "I don't take orders." She said through gritted teeth.

"Neither do I." I said slowly, trying to match her gruff tone. "And I hate having to give them."

Tilly glared even harder at me, then dropped, no threw, the plate remnant she was holding onto the ground. She left in a huff, roughly bumping my shoulder on the way out of the room.

That was nicely handled, I thought, dropping down to my hands and knees on the kitchen floor. It was true, I didn't like giving orders… and I very much didn't like giving orders to my sisters. Tilly didn't like me, I knew that very well. Tilly didn't like being treated by a kid, something which I also knew very well… not only in fact, but in experience. Harriett kind of babied us all along. I had found my own way to cope with it- fighting. She had tried stopping me at first- but then figured out that I was too old to protect. She didn't try stopping me now, but still she strongly disapproved. But if so much as a scratch appeared on one of the others, she threw all sorts of rubbish at me. Tilly didn't need a babysitter, but I was one under obligation. Of course she wouldn't like me! I wouldn't like myself under those circumstances.

Harriett didn't see that, at 13, Tilly was now also too old to be protected, and I was fed up. Maybe because Tilly was her own child? I mused. No. I stopped myself. No, I mustn't think that. Why do I always get like this? Feeling sorry for myself? It's so disgusting! I'm nowhere near perfect, so I need to quit it. Actually, I'm being more of a brat. A weak, superficial brat. Tilly was mad at me because it was my own fault. I yell at her because of my own problems. I yell at her because I'm fed up with Harriett. I'm no better than Harriett- I'm just treating her like a kid.

Yeah, well, Tilly needed to grow up too. Very little of this was my fault. I'm happy to take some of the blame, but I'm not going to take all of it. Why didn't she at least rebel against Harriett- instead of me- where it would actually be useful? I can't go to Harriett, defending her like a court case… she'll just bite my head off. If she really wants to break free, she has to at least rebel against the right people. Though I'll admit it, that's a very hard thing to do sometimes.

At six o'clock, everybody shuffled down to the living room for a talk, since we didn't get much of one at dinner, because of what happened. We didn't talk about it. We never talked about it.

Everybody told a story of what they had done that day. Ada wrote a memoir of her first bicycle ride in English class, which she read aloud to us. Harriett spilled coffee all over a man during her job waitressing. He didn't give her any tip. We all laughed hard at that one, and tried to ignore the part about no tip. Rachel had a secret admirer. He'd slipped a poem in her desk while she wasn't looking. (Drat!) She read the poem out loud. The poem rhymed. I hated poems that rhymed. Unfortunately rhyming poems were the only type I could come up with for English class. Figures.

Then it was Tilly's turn. She smiled wanly and smoothed her dark hair. "I tried to help someone today and they yelled at me."

I tightened my lips into a firm line. That… that fiend!

"Who was it, dear?" Harriett asked, shocked.

"Tilly was cleaning up the broken plate at dinner and I… I yelled at her." I cut across Tilly, who had already begun to speak. If Harriett didn't hear the truth now, she would never hear it.

Everybody gaped at me.

"I was angry, it was the wrong thing to do." I looked right at Tilly. "I'm sorry for that, Tilly. I really am." I absolutely hated doing this. It seemed as if I were just apologizing for consent. I'm going to find Tilly when we go upstairs and give her a real apology. I decided.

Silence. Then, "Come on, Heather, let's hear about your day!"

"Well," My eyes glowed with remembrance. "I read a certain essay to my class today. It was the dreadful essay I was working on after dinnertime yesterday."

Sounds of recognition, wrinkled noses, and 'Oh, that essay.' s filled the room.

"I misspelled 25 words, mispronounced the name Charles Dickens, and apparently 'Nevermore,' is one word instead of two, so it turned out to be 999 words instead of 1000. Mr. Lynch threw a fit."

Rachel and Ada roared with laughter. Harriet tittered lightly, for I was not supposed to be making a fool of myself at school, but I could tell that she was amused. Tilly was unable to suppress a simple smirk.

Ada yawned. She and Rachel said their goodnights, trudging upstairs to bed. I started to go when Harriett said, "Just a minute, you two. I'd like to talk to you. Tilly first."

I walked upstairs and stood outside the door of my room. Less than a minute later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I walked over so I could talk to Tilly, catching her just before she made a mad dash for her room.

"Tilly, listen. I really am sorry about the plate, I shouldn't have yelled."

She shrugged, avoiding my gaze and running into her room, closing the door behind her. By her hard stare, I could tell she was still mad at me. Well, I tried. I really shouldn't have yelled at her. But I've done all I can about that now.

I walked downstairs, ready for the word Harriett wanted to have with me. As soon as I saw her, she stood up.

I walked down the rest of the stairs and over to her.

"Well, Heather," she said in a low voice, so as not to wake the others. "What do you have to say about this?"

"I was wrong for yelling at her. There's nothing that can be done about it now."

"Do you mean that, Heather?" she asked coldly. "Or are you just saying it?"

"Oh, I mean it." I said coolly. "And I have one more thing to say…"

"Tilly told me that you threatened her."

"I don't like giving orders, that's what I said." I explained. "And I don't like giving orders."

"Then why do you give them?"

"Because you give them to me!" I rasped, keeping my voice down. "Every time Tilly gets hurt, I get in trou…"

"Good night, Heather." She interrupted, with an unmistakable tone of finality to her voice.

"Good night…" I wasn't sure whether to call her 'Harriett' or 'Mum.' Instead, I turned on my heel and walked up the stairs, trying to avoid the creaky spots.

I had called her Harriett ever since she had taken me in, and she had never had a problem with it. But this was one of those awkward positions where you had to wonder.

Author's Note: I am aware of the fact that this story is moving pretty slowly. In the next chapter, the pace picks up by a long shot, I promise. Also, Heather is a bit of a brat in this chapter, but that is intentional. She's not always going to be like that. And again, please review! I have received some constructive criticism which is very helpful, so if you have any suggestions, please by all means send me a review. Even if you DON'T have any suggestions and just hate it, I am perfectly happy with flames. Thank you!