by David Lubar
Mom and Dad spend a ton of time with you. Yet, paradoxically (hey—you didn’t think the vocabulary words would stop just because school is out, did you?), they seem to have more time than ever for me. Dad and I are going away next weekend to do some bass fishing on Lake Erie. I’d bring you along, but we’re not planning to use live bait.
I was going to buy you your first book right after you were born, but Mom beat me to it. She actually bought you six books, including Goodnight Moon and pat the bunny. It was a pretty good selection, though I would have added something a bit edgier to the mix, like Dracula. Or at least Bunnicula.
Dad bought you a plastic tool set. Maybe you’ll be an all-around sort of guy. Someone who can rebuild an engine and write a sonnet. Hey, the world needs both. Engines and sonnets. They both take us places we’d never reach on our own.
Bobby called last night from New Orleans. They’re about midway through the concert tour. When he got his first check, he bought us a computer. You aren’t allowed near it until you get control over that whole drooling problem of yours. He and Mom talk a lot on the phone. I think he’s been telling her all sorts of stuff he’d kept locked up.
I found out there’s a place at the community college that helps people who have reading problems. I didn’t mention it to Bobby yet. That can wait until he comes home between tours. But he’s going to find out how much pleasure there is in reading. No way I’m going to let one of my brothers miss out on that.
Julia started dating a nicer guy. I’m happy for her. We always say hi when we pass each other in the halls. Lee dyed her hair orange. It looks pretty hot. My own red disaster is growing out. I thought about shaving my head, but decided to let things go back to normal on their own schedule. It’s just hair. No big deal.
They’re shouting for me to come down. I really have to go. We need to celebrate the end of school. Wesley is going to graduate. And, wow, I’m not a freshman anymore. I’m a sophomore. Imagine that.
“Flux rox,” Scott said, conclusively.
