by Eric Bell
TWO
The house is mostly dark. Mom and Dad go to bed before ten, like all old people, so I follow the patio light streaming in from the backyard. I tiptoe down the stairs, hot lava threatening to bubble up out of my chest. I don’t want any part of what Nathan’s planning, but he doesn’t normally give two roast beef sandwiches about what I want, so I make my way to the patio anyway.
16 Werther Street is nestled in a nice suburban neighborhood, with a little creek running along the back end. The backyard has tall fences and a perfectly kept, pristine green lawn Dad makes sure to tend to every weekend in case the neighbors fly over with a helicopter. The smell of fall hits me as soon as I step outside: moist grass, the neighbors’ apple cobbler, air so crisp and clear you could see straight to Seattle if you squinted hard enough. I wonder sometimes about what my life would be like if I grew up in a different city, a different state, even a different country. Would I find some other guy my age to crush on—or a girl? Would my name still be Alan? How different would it be, thinking I might have a shot at being somebody else?
Maybe things would be different. But maybe they wouldn’t be different at all.
First things first: Nathan sits in a folding chair on the patio, leaning back with a casual, sloppy grace. His hair is so short compared to mine, especially since Dad made him cut off the ponytail he’d been growing, which was not a happy day at this house, let me tell you. His pajama-clad legs are propped up on the outside table, and next to his bare feet is a carton of orange juice, two glasses from the kitchen, and a piece of paper with three large, loopy letters on top.
Oh crap.
“No,” I say.
“No what?” he asks. “You don’t even know why I summoned you, young page.”
“I know why. I’m not doing this again. You promised.”
He holds up a hand. “I promised no more unless I had a good reason. Don’t you remember? I always keep my promises.”
The lava starts to sink down, deeper into my stomach. “Nathan . . .”
He gestures to the other empty patio chair. Slowly, my feet thudding along like twenty-pound weights, I walk over and slump down.
“This,” Nathan says, “is a game of CvC.”
I groan.
“Knock it off, goldfish,” Nathan says. He slides his legs off the table and the chair clatters on the concrete.
That heat hits my face again. “Don’t call me that.”
Nathan laughs his hyena’s laugh, crackly and full-bodied. “I’ve got fun things planned for us, Al. Way more fun than we’ve ever had before.”
My hand slowly reaches for the piece of paper in the middle of the table, but Nathan snatches it up first. “Not so fast! You’ll want to hear about the stakes first.”
“Stakes? Nathan, I—”
“Hmm?” Nathan lifts his head up. “Are you giving me lip, little brother?”
I squeeze my hands tight. The low hum of the cicadas vibrates up my spine.
Nathan takes a sip of his glass of juice. “Let me explain how CvC works. In case you forgot. I mean, you almost forgot I’m your big brother, and I could leave you tied up on the roof all night, and nobody would find you until morning. I hear it’s supposed to rain tonight. Poor little Al, all tied up with nobody to come rescue him.”
“I know how CvC works,” I grumble.
Nathan smirks. “Then why don’t you ever win?”
There are a million reasons why I don’t ever win CvC, short for Cole versus Cole. In CvC, Nathan gives me a list of things to do, and I give him a list of things to do, and whoever does the most by the time limit wins. Sounds easy enough.
Well, it’s not. The tasks Nathan gives me are impossible. Well, not literally, but they’re impossible for someone like me.
Climb the tallest tree on the block. I’ve got the upper body strength of a sheet of plastic wrap.
Sing as loud as you can in the cafeteria for three minutes. The game plan behind “Alan Cole: He Survived” does not include drawing attention to myself, especially as someone who has the vocal quality of a vacuum cleaner.
Moon everyone on your bus. Do I need to explain this one?
But Nathan found ways to make me participate, normally revolving around threatening my sketchbook. I climbed Big Green and got stuck up there for hours. I sang obnoxious pop music in the Pine Garden Elementary cafeteria for thirty-two seconds, until a teacher came over and made me stop, and after that Rudy Brighton called me “Aretha Frankole,” and it stuck for three weeks.
I’ll let you use your imagination on the last one. (Here’s a hint: I held up a picture of a certain object in our solar system. Cheating? Well, what would you have done?)
Even after doing all that, Nathan still won, because he always shot down or changed everything I suggested until he was left with the easiest junk he could complete in an hour—but not before he got to have all the “fun,” of course. Even when I’d complete a few tasks, Nathan never worried, because he could do everything in twenty minutes and win.
I want to say all that, but I’d rather not find out how far down Werther Street I can see from the roof, so I stay quiet.
Nathan stands up and joins his hands behind his back. “Don’t look so sad, young squire. There are stakes now, so it isn’t just for our personal amusement anymore—now there’s things we can win. And, of course, things we can lose.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “If you want something from me, take it. That’s how it’s always been anyway.”
Nathan stops smiling. “Because I’m punishing you, of course.” This is the usual refrain: I’ve done something wrong, and Nathan has to be the hero and set things right. Even though I’ve learned to stop asking what horrible sin I’ve committed, I still feel like I deserve it. Like he’s Batman and I’m the bank robber, about to get a batarang in the rotator cuff. This probably comes from my earliest memory, lying in bed sick as a dog after leaving the window open painting my first sunset. Dad kept screaming, “Everything is your fault!” I don’t even know what I did wrong. It’s a big leap going from getting yourself sick to causing the apocalypse. But some things just stick with you, you know?
“Plus,” Nathan keeps going, “I could use a break from studying. I need something fun in my life. I get a nice reward if I win too. You’ll help me out, won’t you?”
I look at myself reflected in the glass on the table. “Nathan, come on.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nathan says, now with bite to his voice. “Is Miss Richter’s favorite student too good to play with his big brother?”
I can’t help it. I snort. “Is that what you’re punishing me for? Dad doesn’t even—”
In a split second Nathan is looming over my chair, dark eyes hidden by shadows. He growls, “I’ve been busting my butt in ninth grade for a whole month and I’ve gotten nothing, and all you have to do is draw maps, or get high scores on easy math tests, or remember to tie your shoes, and all of a sudden everyone holds a parade in your honor. What do I get? Nothing. Must be nice. You make me sick, goldfish.”
“Um,” I mumble, the lava bubbling a little. “What if I say I won’t play?”
Now Nathan laughs, in control again. He laughs so loud I swear Dad and Mom must hear him. Of course, Dad sleeps on the opposite end of the house, and snores, and only punishes us (yes, both of us) if he catches the act. As for Mom, Nathan says she used to discipline us back when we were little—even though I don’t remember it—but now Dad makes those calls. Along with pretty much all the other calls.
“Al,” Nathan says, “you don’t have a choice.”
A sudden voice in my head yells, Hey, Aretha Frankole, sing us another song! “Sure I do,” I say, feeling particularly brave.
“Oh yeah?” Nathan asks.
“S-Sure I do,” I repeat, feeling considerably less brave.
Nathan holds up a hand. “You don’t get it. You have to play. That’s part of the stakes. If you don’t play, a very bad thing will happen to you.”
I don’t get it. I give him a blank stare, like a stupid goldfish.
“So,” Nathan says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Who is he?”
The lava almost shoots out of my throat. “W-What?”
“Y’know,” Nathan says. “Your little crush. Who is he?”
The words get stuck. Even the noises get stuck.
Nathan rests his hands on the back of his chair. “Poor, poor Al. You’ve really got to get into the habit of deleting your search history. ‘How to tell if you are gay.’ ‘What to do if you have a crush on another guy.’ I mean, really?”
“I lock my computer,” I squeak.
“‘The0ldGuitarist.’ Your password’s the name of that Picasso poster you have hanging in your room, with a zero as the O. I don’t know what Miss Richter sees in someone as stupid as you. If you want to be a worthy opponent, young apprentice, you can start by having something to really fight for. So. Who is he?”
I wonder if it’s possible to have a heart attack at the age of twelve. “I was looking it up for a friend,” the goldfish says, clamming up.
“Oh yeah?” Nathan asks. “Who?”
I don’t say anything. I can’t throw anyone else under the bus, plus Nathan knows I don’t have any friends. (And he should know, because he’s the reason why.) Trying again. “I’m not g-g-g-g—” I try to breathe. No luck. “I’m not like that.”
“Yeah, right,” Nathan says. “What about that time we went into Abercrombie and Fitch and you stopped walking and stared at that model for five minutes? What about Jonah, the pastor’s son? You always watch him in church with your mouth open and your eyes glazed over, like you want him to give you a big ol’ kiss. Isn’t that what you want, Al? To kiss the pastor’s son?”
“No,” I say, my breath hitching in my throat, my face turning full-on fiery red, my shirt stained with sweat. “No, it’s—it’s not—I’m not—”
Nathan slowly walks over to my chair. “But it’s not Jonah, is it? It’s someone at school. That’s who you’re in loooooove with. You’re going to tell me who it is. We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the fun way. What’s it going to be?”
This is the worst-case scenario. Like, the absolute worst-case scenario. The president of the United States could knock on my door with a news crew and say, “Alan Cole, you’ve been chosen to live under the earth’s surface for the rest of your life with the Mole People,” and it wouldn’t be as bad.
Here are my options: I can keep quiet and not tell Nathan anything, but he’ll beat it out of me anyway. I could give up the info from the start, but then he’ll know, and, ugh, why is it turning out this way? When did everything go from “kind of okay” to “worst possible thing to happen in all of recorded human history”?
He takes a step forward and the goldfish swims across the backyard as fast as his little fins can carry him.
But didn’t I tell you I don’t know how to swim?
Nathan tackles me in seconds. I try crawling out from under him, but he grabs the back of my head and forces it down into the grass, rubbing it into the dirt. When he’s done with that, he pulls my hair back, making me yelp, spins me around, and pounds me with punches in my stomach and chest over and over again, until I’m dizzy and bruised. When he’s done with that, he digs his elbow right into my gut, almost making the lava inside spill out.
When he’s done with that, he parts my bangs and strokes my cheek.
“Poor Al,” he says. “You make me do this. You have to go and act like you’re special. So who is he? I can go all night.”
As Nathan pins me to the grass, I think of a third option. “Vic Valentino,” I spit out.
Nathan considers this. Eventually, he nods. “Was that so hard?”
He gets off me. I sit up, amazed my plan worked. Nobody at Evergreen Middle School is named Vic Valentino (at least I hope not). Nathan would never imagine me being clever enough to use a fake name. But now what?
“So here’s the stakes,” he continues, pacing around our darkened backyard. “Play the game, and I won’t tell anyone about your thing for lil’ Vickie. But if you ditch on me, I’ll make sure all of Evergreen knows, and then it won’t just be me who wants to rub your face in the dirt. And I don’t even want to think about what Mom and Dad’ll do. We got a deal?”
Oh God, Mom and Dad. The second I started middle school, Mom started asking me about girls, and Dad practically insisted I need to get a girlfriend by the end of the seventh grade so I don’t “end up like Nathan,” who’s gone up until ninth grade without any girls interested in him. They’re almost pinning all their hopes for grandkids on me. I’m not sure being . . . you-know-what is even in their vocabulary (apart from being an occasional slur). “What’s stopping you from telling everyone after you win anyway?” I try not to whimper as I rub my stomach and wipe the grime from my cheeks.
“What, my word isn’t good enough?” Nathan reaches down and tugs a clump of grass off the ground. “I always keep my promises. I knew you’d want a little more security though, so how about this: I set off the stink bomb in the Evergreen teachers’ lounge last year.”
My eyes get wide. “That was you? I heard they couldn’t use the lounge for a whole week!”
“That was me,” he says. “Marcellus dared me. When you go up to your room, you’ll even have evidence I did it. Now you know my secret. If I try to cheat or change the rules or tell your secret without you giving me a reason to, you can tell mine. I won’t tell yours as long as you cooperate, so you need to do the same. You keep me in line, I keep you in line. No loopholes. Understand?”
I nod, even though the twisted logic is zigzagging around my head so fast I can barely keep it straight. The important thing: Nathan says he won’t tell anyone if I play along. Got that part at least.
“Now,” Nathan continues, pacing faster. “If I win this game—and let’s face it, my track record is pretty good—you’re out. If you know what I mean.”
I rush to my feet. “You can’t do that!”
“Of course I can.” He rests his hands on our shed. “I will, if you lose. When you lose. Then everyone will hate you. Instead . . . instead of me.” He rubs the back of his head. “Hey, I don’t care if you’re gay or straight or whatever. It’s not my problem. But I’ll still tell the world if it makes them all hate you.”
I almost say, they wouldn’t all hate me. Zack and Madison probably wouldn’t, just because they don’t have anyone else to talk to, but I can’t picture anyone else who wouldn’t. Even Connor. But . . . “There’s got to be something else you want,” I say. “Something else I can give up if you win.”
Nathan sneers. “Already trying to weasel your way out, huh, Al? I don’t want anything else from you. I just want to watch you squirm.”
“But—”
“Walk away from the game, and it’s the same result. Pick your poison.”
I look down at the grass as a light breeze rolls through my hair.
“In the unlikely event you win,” Nathan continues, “you may ask of me one favor.”
“Gee,” I grumble, “you’re really going out of your way there.”
“What do you mean? One favor is a pretty big deal. The possibilities are endless! Of course, the favor can’t involve anything that would put my life or well-being at risk, and it definitely can’t involve being nice to you.”
Nathan turns around and lunges at me from the shed. When I flinch, he laughs, then waves at the outside table, where the paper sits. “There are seven tasks for you to complete by next Friday morning. They’re all things you could do by the time limit, but they’re not going to be easy for you.”
Like I’m looking at the brochure for my own funeral (which I might as well be), I walk to the table and glance down at the list:
CvC: Al’s List
1. Become the most well-known kid in school
2. Pass the swimming test
3. Make someone cry
4. Retrieve a hidden piece of paper from Nathan<
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5. Get your first kiss
6. Give up your most prized possession
7. Stand up to Dad
I read the tasks a few times. The lava starts eating at my intestines. “I can’t do any of these,” I moan.
“Sure you can,” Nathan says. He spins the chair around and leans against the back, toward the table. He takes another swig of orange juice. “Today’s Wednesday, so you’ve got until next Friday morning before school. You can learn to swim by then if you work hard. You can find some random girl—or guy, heh—to smooch on. And who knows, maybe all your triumphs will make you the most well-known kid in school.”
“Stand up to Dad?” I whisper.
Nathan shrugs. “Anything’s possible,” he says, like he’s talking to someone who says the earth is made of Swiss cheese. “Wouldn’t you love to tell Dad what he can do with his company dinner and his promotion? Even though he was an okay dad for years until you ruined it, so you deserve all the crap he gives you.” (There it is again.) “But he’s got to actually know you’re standing up to him. Anyway, my turn. Give me seven tasks.”
I take a deep breath and try not to imagine myself thrashing around in the pool like a blind dolphin, or going classroom to classroom shaking hands until everyone knows me as that weird kid with the handshake that feels like cold spaghetti, or . . . or making someone cry. And I know Nathan will shoot down everything I say anyway. Unless—
—unless—
“Why don’t you do my list too?” I ask.
It’s a stretch, but if I know Nathan, he’ll at least be tempted by it. Sure enough, instead of laughing at me or calling me a goldfish, he slowly nods. “All right,” he says. “I’ll do the same list.” And like he’s reading my mind, like he’s acting how I predicted he would, he says, “I didn’t assume I’d be doing any of these, so I shouldn’t have an unfair advantage. This way we can compete on an even ground. No loopholes. Anything you can do, I can do better.”
He snatches the paper and reads it over. “Well-known kid, that’s fine . . . swimming test, no big deal . . . first k—” He stops talking and turns red. When he goes back to the list, his eyes reach the bottom of the page, I guess where number seven is, and he swallows and touches the back of his head. “Fine.” He slams his hands on the table. “I wanted a challenge, I’m going to get one. That way when I win, it’ll be because I really earned it.”
