Knee jiggling, fingers shaking, mind countingfour, three, two, I do a crazy thing.
I wish Wes was here.
One.
I inhale, and my chest eases, air rushing to my lungs. My shoulders relax. My fingers stabilize. My relief is heady and metallic, though that could be from biting the inside of my cheek by accident.
“For next class,” Markham’s saying as I zone back in, “pick your topic, your purpose, and six potential points you could expand on. For the actual speech, you will only need three. Any questions, you know where to email me. And remember, R-O-P-D. Research. Organize. Practice. Deliver.”
Through my panic, Wes’s words reverberate through my head.
You’re not going to fail.
He doesn’t realize what he’s gotten himself into with that reckless, inane promise. He really doesn’t.
SIX
My parents’house is, as always, too quiet.
Even on birthdays, a time when there should be boisterous celebration, the walls feel fragile. Like if we yell too loud or laugh too much, they’ll cave right in. This is particularly true in the winter when the snow outside adds another layer of isolation and there’s a permanent chill to the air. My dad refuses to turn the thermostat up past 68, and a part of me wonders if that’s some kind of power trip for him. If he likes seeing our teeth chatter before bed or watching our fingers thaw out as we grip our coffee mugs first thing in the morning.
But I don’t know. He’s probably just trying to save money.
On Saturday, I wake up early—you can’t sleep more than six hours on the basement pull-out without fucking over your back—and make myself at home at the kitchen table. With a steaming cup of coffee and a sweatshirt-sweatpants combo that provides as much insulation as possible, I open my laptop to get a jump start on my math assignment.
I’ve been here about an hour when the first of my brothers emerges, Noah shuffling in with bloodshot eyes and pillow creases indented in his cheeks. Whenever he comes home, heuses it as an excuse to party with his old high school buddies, not that he’d ever admit it to Mom and Dad.
Noah is the golden child.
Scott is silver.
I’m lower than bronze. I’m more like…an honorable mention. A participation trophy. A thanks for playing, but you’re not quite good enough to fit into this family anymore. You’ve made too many mistakes.
I try not to think about those mistakes.
“Coffee. Thank god,” mutters Noah. I glance up from my laptop and watch as he pours a cup, steam billowing up from the mug. “I don’t know why I still go out with Pete and them. They drink like fucking fish.” He slurps from his cup and sighs. “I needed that.”
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“Usual bars. Actually, I ran into Genevieve last night, can you believe that?”
My brows shoot up. Genevieve was Noah’s very serious high school girlfriend. Four years steady. Prom King and Queen. The whole ordeal. And then, six months before he quit the baseball team, he broke up with her and that was that. My parents were devastated because Genevieve was perfect in their eyes. But it wasn’t meant to be, and he hasn’t had a girlfriend since.
“Seriously? What did she say?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing really. She’s in nursing school. Engaged to some guy?—”
“Engaged?” I blurt, my brows inching higher. They broke up less than two years ago, after all. “Already?”
“Yeah, guess so.”
I almost laugh. “Could’ve been you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck no. And don’t tell Mom and Dad. They’ll go off on some tangent, and I’m too fucking hungover for it today.”
“My lips are sealed.”
We sit in silence after that, me on my computer, Noah across the table from me on his phone. It’s not long before Scott and Olive wander in, both in search of caffeine. I find their timing suspicious considering Olive slept in my room last night and Scott slept down the hall in his.
