we were twins. Identical twins, even if we weren’t the same age. Mom and Dad were always amazed at how fast Connor learned to tie his shoes or skip or bounce a ball or read.
Sometimes they’d look at me, and I knew they were wondering if I was going to be like Connor. If I was going to be exceptional, and just the fact that they were wondering told me that we could be different. He could be better.
I stood there, holding the ball that felt like a boulder. I remember staring at the basket and thinking that this would decide it—this one shot.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
“I missed.”
“One fucking shot,” Connor says. “You missed one fucking shot. And everything changed. But who gives a shit about one shot? I just wish . . . I wish you’d taken another one. I bet you’d have made it.”
Maybe I would have. But it’s too late now.
Connor gestures toward the screen. “Doesn’t this shit give you nightmares?”
I look at the brown and gray images of bony zombies frozen in grotesque positions, and I have to smile because I’m really fond of them, of killing them, anyway.
“I suppose we could play for a while and see if it gives you nightmares.”
“Really?” Connor grins and jumps on the bed as I plug in the controller. “I’ve never played, so . . .”
I roll my eyes like teaching him is going to be a royal pain.
And I hope it will be. I hope he’s not a natural at aiming guns and placing bombs and building barriers. I hope he sucks. I hope he dies a hundred times, and I hope he loves it, because we’re too old to build towers and knock them down.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
walk into the kitchen, and Dad’s sitting at the table reading the Sunday paper. Mom’s combing through the coupon section. She’s still wearing the oversized blue nightshirt with polar bears on it that she’s slept in ever since I can remember. Dad’s wearing his usual Sunday attire—a faded SeaWorld T-shirt and paint-stained sweatpants that declare that he will not be leaving the house today.
I pour a glass of orange juice and open the cupboard to see what sugary cereals we have.
“I can’t believe Connor’s not up yet,” Dad says.
I smile. About one A.M., Connor and I decided to play story mode. We’d stayed up until three protecting the Pentagon from the undead.
“We stayed up pretty late last night,” I say, and both my parents look at me. “We were playing video games.”
They look at each other, and while my dad does a good job camouflaging his smile with a fake yawn, Mom beams. I bet we could have played all night, could still be playing now, and she wouldn’t get mad at us or force us to go to bed.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
“Could you go wake him up?” she says. “Emma’s coming over this morning, and I doubt he wants to be in bed when she gets here.”
“Sure.”
I take out a box of store-brand, sugar-coated cornflakes and set it on the counter. Connor’s room is halfway down the hall, next to the bathroom. I lift my hand to knock on the door, but hesitate. I can’t remember the last time I went into Connor’s room. Maybe it was to race Hot Wheels around a track or to bash Godzilla’s head in with King Kong’s fists. We were kids. I know that much. The last time I went into Connor’s room for anything, we were kids.
I knock on the door, wait a second, and then open it. He’s on his stomach, one leg sticking out from beneath the covers and one arm hanging off the side. His room is so clean. Of course the toys are gone, but there is nothing on the floor, not even a discarded sock. I have a feeling that if I open the closet doors, his closet will be clean and neat too. I’m pretty sure if I opened my closet, a Saint Bernard would have to come rescue me from the avalanche of shit I’ve shoved into it. I can’t help myself. I open one door.
His clothes aren’t arranged in any specific manner. As a matter of fact, there’s a nice pile of dirty laundry in the middle of the floor. What strikes me is the row of trophies lined up