And another. (Someday, this will end.)
Title: Playing by the Rules
Word Count: Who the hell even knows. 600-something.
When they're five, fun is playing in the backyard with the scooter they share, and helmets Mom makes them wear for "safety reasons." (It's a good thing, too. He falls a lot, and splinters from the wooden patio on his hands and arms are much better than splinters and a broken head.)
The game is always the same - his pretend-name is Jeremy and hers is Sarah - except sometimes they're best friends, and sometimes he's the school bully, and other times they're veterinarians trying desperately to save Frank the rabbit from death by poisoned carrot. Either way, she's always in charge because she's older by three minutes, and he always listens because he doesn't have any choice.
"And then we race." It's always dictation he's meant to follow. "And you get mad because I'm faster. Pretend you're crying, David, okay? And you go stand by the tree, and I come over and say, 'Close one, Jeremy,' and then we shake hands. And you're not mad anymore and we go jump on the trampoline. Okay?"
And he says, "Okay," because it's better than anything he could come up with, and also, he likes trampolines. Even if he has to fake-cry to play on one.
-
All girls are dumb when he's seven, but especially sisters, so they never play together at recess. Instead, he looks for lizards in the field with the other boys in their grade, and she plays jump rope and hopscotch and Miss Mary Mack on the blacktop and gets cooties on everything she touches.
At home, she says, "It's your turn to feed the dog. Dad said," even though his turn was yesterday. He sticks his tongue out but does it anyway.
-
She's the popular girl in middle school; the one who has all the cool friends, and all the cool things to say, and sits at the table by the soda machine with all the rest of the cool people at lunch.
He doesn't have a stereotype, he doesn't think. He's just himself. And sometimes he gets good grades but mostly mediocre, and sometimes he has lots of friends but mostly just a few, and sometimes he wishes he'd been born three minutes sooner so he could be the one saying, "And then I was better than you, okay? And you were jealous of me..." instead of the other way around.
-
"Two peas in a pod," Mom used to say when they were younger, with a look of fondness or pride, or maybe both.
He's been excommunicated from the pod by the time they're seventeen, except in situations where he's useful. Then, it's, "So I stumble in the back door at four in the morning, smelling like kegs and ashtrays, with my shirt buttoned all wrong and my hair a mess. But you don't say anything, okay? You don't tell Mom. You just put an Alka-Seltzer and a glass of water on my nightstand for tomorrow morning and go back to bed."
Maybe by the time they're eighteen and a half he'll be able to say, "I don't want to play anymore." Maybe he'll take the three minutes he's always deserved more and make his own rules. Maybe it'll be, "And then you grow up, and realize you were selfish, and apologize. And you say, 'Sorry, Jeremy,' and I say, 'I forgive you, Sarah,' and we're friends again like we're five. Okay? Do it, Jen. It'll be fun."
But at seventeen he does things like he always has - puts her smoke-stained clothes in the laundry and turns out the light.
Somebody has to be her Jeremy, and that someone is him.
Word Count: Who the hell even knows. 600-something.
When they're five, fun is playing in the backyard with the scooter they share, and helmets Mom makes them wear for "safety reasons." (It's a good thing, too. He falls a lot, and splinters from the wooden patio on his hands and arms are much better than splinters and a broken head.)
The game is always the same - his pretend-name is Jeremy and hers is Sarah - except sometimes they're best friends, and sometimes he's the school bully, and other times they're veterinarians trying desperately to save Frank the rabbit from death by poisoned carrot. Either way, she's always in charge because she's older by three minutes, and he always listens because he doesn't have any choice.
"And then we race." It's always dictation he's meant to follow. "And you get mad because I'm faster. Pretend you're crying, David, okay? And you go stand by the tree, and I come over and say, 'Close one, Jeremy,' and then we shake hands. And you're not mad anymore and we go jump on the trampoline. Okay?"
And he says, "Okay," because it's better than anything he could come up with, and also, he likes trampolines. Even if he has to fake-cry to play on one.
-
All girls are dumb when he's seven, but especially sisters, so they never play together at recess. Instead, he looks for lizards in the field with the other boys in their grade, and she plays jump rope and hopscotch and Miss Mary Mack on the blacktop and gets cooties on everything she touches.
At home, she says, "It's your turn to feed the dog. Dad said," even though his turn was yesterday. He sticks his tongue out but does it anyway.
-
She's the popular girl in middle school; the one who has all the cool friends, and all the cool things to say, and sits at the table by the soda machine with all the rest of the cool people at lunch.
He doesn't have a stereotype, he doesn't think. He's just himself. And sometimes he gets good grades but mostly mediocre, and sometimes he has lots of friends but mostly just a few, and sometimes he wishes he'd been born three minutes sooner so he could be the one saying, "And then I was better than you, okay? And you were jealous of me..." instead of the other way around.
-
"Two peas in a pod," Mom used to say when they were younger, with a look of fondness or pride, or maybe both.
He's been excommunicated from the pod by the time they're seventeen, except in situations where he's useful. Then, it's, "So I stumble in the back door at four in the morning, smelling like kegs and ashtrays, with my shirt buttoned all wrong and my hair a mess. But you don't say anything, okay? You don't tell Mom. You just put an Alka-Seltzer and a glass of water on my nightstand for tomorrow morning and go back to bed."
Maybe by the time they're eighteen and a half he'll be able to say, "I don't want to play anymore." Maybe he'll take the three minutes he's always deserved more and make his own rules. Maybe it'll be, "And then you grow up, and realize you were selfish, and apologize. And you say, 'Sorry, Jeremy,' and I say, 'I forgive you, Sarah,' and we're friends again like we're five. Okay? Do it, Jen. It'll be fun."
But at seventeen he does things like he always has - puts her smoke-stained clothes in the laundry and turns out the light.
Somebody has to be her Jeremy, and that someone is him.