Deadly Design - Emarsan Page 0,12
a day like most people never ever get, 3 5
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
and he’s crying because I won’t play stupid video games with him.
Connor leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “Do you remember when we were little, and I’d build these towers out of blocks, and you’d knock them down as fast as I could build them?”
I try to remember, but I don’t. “Bet it pissed you off.”
“No! Are you kidding? It was a blast. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Big brother builds ’em, and little brother knocks
’em down. It was all you could do to give me time to finish a few stories of blocks before you started throwing Hot Wheels at them.”
A spark of a memory comes to mind of Mom yelling and threatening us with a time-out if we didn’t calm down. We were laughing, and pretty soon Mom was laughing too. She even knelt on the floor and helped Connor build faster so I wouldn’t have to wait as long to demolish their crooked towers.
“I kind of remember.”
“How about when we’d go to the park? We’d pick up sticks and handfuls of dirt to throw down the slide?”
“And Mom would get mad because we’d go down and get all dirty.”
“Yeah.” Connor grins as a tear slips down his cheek. “I remember when it changed,” he says. “When we changed.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. There wasn’t a moment, an event when suddenly things were different between us.
“It was one of my first basketball games at the community center. I was in sixth grade, and I was on fire that game. I 3 6
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
couldn’t miss. All the parents started yelling and clapping. My teammates kept throwing me the ball because they couldn’t believe it either. No matter where I shot from, the ball went in. I kept trying to pass the ball so somebody else would shoot, but they’d give it back to me. I got so scared.”
I do remember that game. All the moms and dads and grandparents were on their feet, like they were seeing something amazing. Like someday, years in the future, they’d talk about the day when the town realized that Connor McAdams was something special.
“What were you afraid of?” I ask.
“What if I missed?” he says, and I can’t believe he thought that was even a possibility.
He stands, wading through my clothes like they’re waves at his feet. He stares at the gaming posters on my wall and a petrified piece of pizza on my dresser. He looks like a psychic trying to get the vibe of a missing person, but I’m not missing.
I’m right here.
“After the game, it was crazy. My teammates tried to pick me up and carry me into the lobby, but they dropped me and then all these adults were everywhere, talking about me and how someone should call the newspaper and ‘how many points did he make—it has to be a record.’ I was just a little kid, and all of a sudden, I felt this pressure. I wanted to quit basketball, but Dad was so excited. And all I could think about was the next game and the game after that and the game after that. What if I bombed? What if people were disappointed in me? What if I let them down?”
3 7
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
Connor gives me that look again, like he wants something from me. Every time he looks at me this way, I feel like I’m disappointing him, because he wants me to be somebody I’m not.
He wants a brother, and so do I. But I don’t exist in his dimen-sion. I don’t belong on Mount Olympus, any more than he belongs in the basement.
“This isn’t about me,” he says. “It’s about what I saw after I stopped hiding out in the bathroom. I saw you on the court.”
I shake my head because I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t need to remember this.
“All the grown-ups were in the lobby or had already left. A bunch of kids were shooting around. You were holding a ball.”
Now my eyes are burning.
“You held it for so long and stared at the basket like everything depended on you making that shot.”
It did.
Connor made every basket. Every shot sailed through the air as if delivered by celestial hands into the net. He could do that, and