Page 59 of Hard to Handle

He’s got everything going for him. School. Hockey. That Terry girl. What do you have going for you? What do you do that doesn’t require me asking you to do it twice?

I pound the head of the nail so hard into the shitty shed at old man Watson’s house that the face of the hammer leaves a round circle in the weathered wood.

So no, Hunter. You can’t go to junior prom tonight or whatever the fuck it’s called. You’ll fix Mr. Watson’s shed while he’s out of town. You’ll pick up your mom from work for me since Jonah’s using the other car. Then you’ll meet me at the rink at seven o’clock, and you better be ready to skate. Your whole class will be at the dance, and you’ll be here making up for slacking off. Maybe then . . . you’ll learn your lesson.

I drop my arms to my sides and raise my face to the late afternoon sun, trying to catch my breath that keeps getting robbed by the emotions I don’t want to feel.

Hatred.

Resentment.

Fury.

Fucking jealousy.

It’s not Jonah’s fault he’s perfect. It’s my fault I’m not the fucking golden boy.

He’s the one set up with a full-ride already, Hunter. Full fucking ride to Boston College, one of the best hockey programs in the country. And what are you going to do, huh? Stay here and be a bagger at Stop & Shop? Why can’t you apply yourself and make us proud? You’ll never be Jonah, but you can at least be something.

My hands ball into fists. I fight the urge to punch the stupid wall of the shed, because I’d either break my knuckles or the whole damn thing will collapse, and then I’ll be stuck here for even longer.

My cell rings and I sigh.

“What do you want now?” I snap at Jonah.

“Mom’s getting off work early and she needs you to pick her up,” he says. Laughter in the background has me gritting my teeth. Nothing like a pre-dance beer or two while the girls are at the salon getting ready.

“Get her your fucking self,” I mutter.

“Dude. I can’t.” He laughs at something someone else says. “Please, bro.”

“You’re the reason she doesn’t have her car tonight. You fucking get her,” I say. “I’m the one finishing the shit you didn’t at Watson’s.”

“I’ll finish it tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can’t. It’s part of Dad’s punishment for me. You know, picking up your shit while you’re busy being perfect.”

He sighs. I know it’s not his fault. I know he’s stood up for me with Dad more times than he should have. I know he hates the difference in treatment between us just as much as I do.

But it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

He’s perfect, outstanding, everything my dad wanted in a son and hockey player.

I’m mediocre, insignificant, the son my dad has never needed.

The failure.

“C’mon, Hunter. Don’t be a dick to me. Dad’s just being Dad. I’m sure if you turn it on after a few suicide sprints, he’ll be wowed by how fucking fast you are. He’ll think he’s taught you a lesson and then tell you to meet up with us.” He shushes people around him and their noise fades. It sounds like he walked into a different room. “Hunter?”

“If only it were that easy.”

Easy to what though? Live in your twin’s shadow? Never be enough? Love your brother like he’s a part of you while hating him from jealousy?

“Look.” His voice lowers as someone yells, I need another brewski, in the background.

“Nah. I’m out. Get Mom. Don’t get Mom. She called you to get her, so figure it the fuck out on your own.” I end the call and toss my phone on the ground, then squeeze my eyes shut to push the tears back down.

Jonah doesn’t fucking care.