“You do know that you and I are two different people, right? I mean, we look alike, but that’s it. I am me, and you are you.” It’s a harsh response but I’m growing tired of working so hard to make sure Hayden is happy. I love my brother, but damn, sometimes my parents were too obsessed with the idea of coddling his sensitive ego.
“Oh, I’m well aware.” He shifts in the driver’s seat, turning to the side and folding his arms over his chest. “Think about Dad’s bookcase. There’s a row of albums, and then the top shelves are all of your special moments—your first place triathlon plaque from junior high, your invitation to Duke’s high school basketball showcase, the photo of you, Dad, and Phil Jackson. And where are my things? They’re on the bottom, Tor. They’re on the goddamn floor.”
I picture the space in my mind, conjuring some detail that will prove my brother wrong, but there isn’t one. He’s right. I can’t believe any of it was intentional, but at the same time, the split is so obvious that how could it not be on purpose?
It seems insignificant to apologize. It also doesn’t seem the right fit for the situation; it’s not my apology to make. I’ve been holding my dad on this pedestal because of my mom’s affair, but really, they both are flawed people. We’re all flawed.
“You want some room on my shelf, maybe?” I squint, looking into the morning sun, and Hayden laughs.
“Sure, I’ll take some shelf space.”
We look at each other briefly, the new awkward truth sitting thick and heavy between us. He’s still mad, and I’m still pissed off about therapy, but I also feel really shitty about the stuff he just said. I can also tell that he feels bad about the way it came out.
“I should have saved that for another time. Maybe I need some one-on-one sessions with Dr. Majestic,” he says.
“Can we talk about that name for a minute? Really? Our family therapist is named Dr. Majestic?” This is my way of accepting his olive branch. Avoidance and humor—this is something we both definitely got from Dad.
“Right?” Hayden finally turns our car off, and I take the signal as it’s finally safe to get out and go beg for late slips instead of detentions from the front office. He gets out of the driver’s side, and with our bags slung over our shoulders, we walk in tandem, mirror images in many ways, opposites in others.
“Not gonna lie, I was picturing, like, major octopus tentacles to pop out of her shoulder blades or something,” Hayden continues.
“Why does it always have to be octopus tentacles? Every bad guy—full-on tentacles.”
“Why does it have to be a bad guy? Why not a bad woman?” he argues.
“Touché, brother. Touché.”
We slip in the office door and put on our most charming smiles, bashfully wincing when Maggie, the best front office manager a high school senior could ask for, spots us. She was the queen of orange slices when Hayd and I were kids. I don’t think we played a single game without her showing up with bags full. Her son, Nicolas, is in our grade, and he played most things with us when it was all about participation and less about athleticism. He’s horribly uncoordinated, but dude is going to graduate high school with something like forty-eight college credits out of the way, so who cares if he can’t throw a ball. Pretty sure he’s going to build rocket ships.
Maggie spots us while she’s on the phone and leans her head to one side, eyes hazed enough to admonish us. She writes out our slips while talking to the person on the phone, then puts them on hold when she brings them to us.
“If I ever find out you two are late for doing something stupid like smoking pot or robbing a liquor store, I’m going to whoop your tooshies, you got it?” She points at me instead of Hayden when she says that, which makes my brother laugh.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, taking his slip.
My brow knit tight, I bunch up my face and pinch the edge of my late slip between my fingers. Maggie doesn’t let go right away, keeping her other hand pointing at me as she tugs the slip to bring me in closer.
“That’s right, Tory, I’m talking to you. Of you two, I know you’re the one I’ve got to keep my eye