Deadly Design - Emarsan Page 0,7
fault than hers. Mostly, I like to stay home on my birthday because once the stupid song is sung and the cake is cut, I can open the video game that I asked for and then show my appreciation by rushing downstairs to play it.
“You like Luigi’s,” she says, more to herself than to me.
If my mom were Poseidon, the ocean waters would always be calm. Emma’s right—Mom hates conflict. She hates anyone being unhappy. She has this Disney picture in her mind of how she wants our family to be. I’m not talking about the perfect spotless house or a garden where butterflies shit glitter over flowers that never wilt. She wants harmony. Her version of the perfect family would be one where we all played different musical instruments and sat around the living room every night singing folk songs. We used to have game night on Fridays and movie night on Saturdays. It was okay. On Fridays we’d have pizza and play Uno or Clue, and Saturdays meant a trip to the video store, microwave popcorn, and Mom and Dad curled up together on the couch while Connor and I made faces at each other every time they kissed.
Then Connor started youth football and started playing 2 2
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
noncompetitive basketball at the recreation center in town.
Once he started running, he ran fast. And then there were practices and games and tournaments. No more time for movies or Clue, and by the time anyone bothered to ask me if I wanted to sign up, Connor was so far ahead of me, I could barely see him.
“You really don’t like Italian food?” Mom asks, taking her thin-framed glasses off and wiping the lenses against her shirt.
“No,” I say.
“That’s crap,” Dad says. “You love it. You’ve loved it since you were little and kept crying for more ‘b’sghetti.’ So listen to your mother and don’t spoil your appetite.” He takes one of the hot dogs from my hand and devours it in two bites. “No mustard,” he mutters with a full mouth. “Who doesn’t put mustard on a hot dog?”
Dad’s a no-frills kind of guy. He’s simple, ordinary. He wasn’t a jock in school or a straight-A student. He wasn’t a superstar like Connor is. I like that about him—his ordinariness. I also like that he remembers me wanting “b’sghetti.” I don’t like that I don’t look anything like him. He’s medium in height—tall enough for high school basketball, but forget college. He’s also a little on the pudgy side, and his once-black, now mostly gray, hair is receding faster than the polar ice cap. Connor and I have our mother’s sandy blond hair, and, although both of our parents have brown eyes, Connor and I have blue eyes. Evidently Mom and Dad both have a recessive gene for blue.
“He’s getting the pole,” Dad says, and it’s like everyone heard him. Now they are all waiting, all anxious. Emma is standing by the fence, as close to Connor as she’s allowed to be.
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
She glances up at my folks, giving them a worried but hopeful smile. Mom’s clenching the bleachers, her knuckles bone white. Just one more jump and then she won’t have to worry so much about him getting hurt anymore.
Connor takes his mark. His right hand holds the bottom of the long, slender pole, while his left hand steadies it, the tip pointing to the sky. He starts running. The pole lowers, and for a second, it’s parallel to the ground, then it lowers more.
Connor plants it right in front of the mat. His legs kick up until he is completely upside down. His body twists and turns as his feet clear the bar, and somehow, he wills his arms and shoulders to pull backward, to leave the bar undisturbed.
Held breaths are exhaled in unison. Then the cheers come.
Mom and Dad leap from their seats. Everyone is standing and cheering. In front of me is a row of butts, bouncing up and down and making the stands vibrate. I can’t see what’s happening down on the field, but I can imagine. People are slapping Connor on the back. His coach is beaming. His teammates are distracted from their own events. They’re smiling and nodding to each other because they knew this was going to happen.
And they knew that nothing they did this day would compare to Connor McAdams breaking another