Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you do.” Exasperation rings throughout his tone. With the ’rents living abroad, he’s unfortunately become my de facto parent. “Which class is giving you problems now?”
Now.
I grit my teeth at the jab.
“And for fuck’s sake, don’t say all of them,” my brother jokes.
Except…he’s not kidding.
Not really.
Between the two of us, Jack has always excelled in school. Academics came easy to him. He didn’t have a difficult time paying attention or following along. Not only was he class president, but he was also high school valedictorian. Then, he went on to graduate from Stanford summa cum laude before landing a plum job that makes a shit ton of money.
Needless to say, my folks couldn’t be prouder. Jack is their golden child. The one who can do no wrong.
Me, on the other hand?
I’m more of a black sheep. For as long as I can remember, school has been a struggle. Even when I was in kindergarten, the teacher would place me on one of those weird bouncy seats because I wriggled around too much and couldn’t sit still.
And from there, it never got easier.
Where Jack’s teachers called my parents to offer praise, mine reached out to let them know all the ways I was fucking up.
Not paying attention—check.
Getting into trouble with my friends—double check.
A slew of missing assignments when the quarter was just about to end—triple check.
Bombing a test in spectacular fashion—quadruple check.
What made it even worse was that Jack was only two grade levels ahead of me. Each fall, I’d walk into a new classroom and the teachers would gush about my brother and what a talented student he was. It didn’t take long for them to realize that I was nothing like him. We might have the same biological parents, but that’s where the similarities end.
“It’s a Communications class,” I say grudgingly.
“Wait a minute, isn’t that your major?”
“Yeah.”
It’s a relief when I click the locks on my truck and slide behind the wheel.
“Jeez, Ash. Maybe you need to stop partying so damn hard and buckle down for a change.”
I force out an aggravated breath. That’s been the standard refrain for as long as I can remember.
Just buckle down and get the work done.
Except it’s never been that simple. I wish it were. My life would be a hell of a lot easier. I squeeze my eyes tight and remind myself that I just have to get through the rest of this year and then I’m done. I won’t have to take another class for as long as I live. Relief rushes through me at that comforting thought.
Not wanting to discuss the issue with him, I say, “Look, I’ve got to get going.”
His voice bursts over the line before I can hang up. “Have you talked to Mom or Dad lately?”
And have them drill me with the same questions before launching into a rendition of why can’t you be more like your brother?
As fun as that sounds—hard pass.
“I was going to give them a call later.” And by later, I mean weeks from now. Preferably after graduation.
“Yeah, right.” He snorts, seeing through the lie. “Whatever you say, baby bro.”
My lips tug at the corners as some of my irritation fades. It’s not that I don’t love Jack—or my parents—but I don’t fit in with them. I never have. It’s like one of those kid games where you have a grouping of four objects, and you have to pick out the one that’s different from the rest.
I’m what’s different.
I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
Dad has a doctorate in Linguistics from the University of Chicago and works for the FBI. He’s currently in the middle of a three-year stint at the Hague in the Netherlands. I spent a month there last summer, traveling around Europe. It was an amazing experience. With the draft in April and training camp starting up in July, it’s doubtful I’ll be able to visit after graduation this year if I get picked up by the NFL.
Mom has a doctorate in Nursing and teaches at Western. She’s taken a sabbatical in order to travel abroad with Dad and is using this time to write a book on epidemiology, which is her specialization.
Jack is applying to prestigious MBA programs as we speak.
And I’m just trying to get through college.
“Well, do it. They’ve been asking about you,” he says.
I wince at the not-so-gentle reminder. “I will.”
“And for fuck’s sake, get the Communications grade up. Mom and Dad will be pissed if you don’t graduate in the spring. They don’t give a shit about you playing in the NFL. They want you to get that degree.”
A truer statement has never been spoken.
They’d be happier if I were more like Jack, and they could brag about all my academic accomplishments. Me potentially being drafted and playing a professional sport where I knock other grown-ass men to the field isn’t something to gush about.