16 Werther Street looks empty when I get off the bus. Looks. Nathan keeps his bedroom door shut all the time to make sure nobody knows when he’s home or at Marcellus’s. I walk up the steps anyway, heart thumping a mile a minute, and I knock on the door down the hall from my room.
No answer.
“Open up,” I call.
Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open.
“Hey!” my brother yells, sitting up from his desk. “Get out of here! Did I say you could come in?”
The walls of Nathan’s room are covered with posters for Star Trek, The Lord of the Rings, and other sci-fi and fantasy movies; his bookshelves are crammed with all kinds of books, from Stephen Hawking to Orson Scott Card to more Tolkien; his desk is full of little wooden toys he built when he was younger, and I know he got so agitated because he doesn’t want anyone to know he still plays with them. (Guess what he was doing when I walked in.) “We need to talk,” I say.
“Pretty ballsy, young rookie,” he says. “But my schedule’s full right now. I’ll hit you up sometime in the next few days.”
“Nathan,” I say, trying to fill my voice with as much oomph as I can manage, “I could’ve gotten you expelled today.”
“Greater men than you have tried,” Nathan says, waving his hand.
I grunt. “This is serious. I can’t believe what you did.”
“What I did?” Nathan asks. “Don’t you mean what you did? I had to punish you, after all. I’ve been watching you all week while you goof around with your stupid new friends, even though I was looking for Vic. I learned their names. They weren’t Vic. You were the one who gave me your phone, which had all their contact info and an ugly photo of this Fatison jerk in a bathing suit. But he wasn’t Vic. You were the one who led this Zack reject on, and all I had to do was send him a text pretending to be you telling him to come to school before any of the buses because I had something important to tell him. He wasn’t Vic either.”
My heart aches. Zack was so loyal, he showed up on time, and so early. . . .
“I wouldn’t have spilled the beans if I found Vic. I was just curious to see what kind of guy my little brother would like. That’s all. But I couldn’t find him, at school or in your phone or anywhere. I don’t know if Vic Valentino even exists, you little turd. I think you lied to me. And that made me angry. It’s all your fault.”
Nathan wanted to punish someone yesterday night, and when he couldn’t find Vic’s name in my contacts, he settled for Madison and Zack. And me. “No,” I say, as firmly as I can. “It’s not. It never was. I’m done letting you boss me around.”
“Oh yeah?” Nathan asks.
I gulp. “Y-Yeah. I’m done.”
“Oh yeah?” Nathan asks.
I don’t say anything. My brother cackles his hyena’s laugh. “Pathetic. You’re ridiculous, Al. You talk so tough, but when was the last time you’ve ever stood up for yourself? When was the last time you’ve ever been anything but a total pushover? You’re going to be public target number one for the rest of your school career! You didn’t forget, did you?”
I squeeze my hands into fists.
“Let’s recap the score,” Nathan says, ticking items off his fingers. “Number one: I made you cry. Number two: I found your stupid paper you hid in a stupid spot. Number three: I became the most well-known kid in school, and number four: I got my first kiss. Go ahead, try and argue them. I dare you. Last but not least, number five: I gave up my most prized possession. Trust me. So what if I didn’t pass the swimming test? So what if I didn’t stand up to Dad? I did more than enough. You’ve only got two.”
“Three,” I say. “I made someone cry.”
Nathan raises his eyebrows. “Who did you—”
“It’s not my fault,” I say. “But Madison still cried when he saw me act like it was. Most prized possession, well-known, cry. That’s three.”
“So what?” Nathan asks. “What else are you possibly going to do by the deadline? Stand up to Dad? Like hell you will—you can’t even stand up to your own reflection. You’ll never be able to get my paper out of the vending machine, because you’re a stupid chump. Nobody—girl or guy—will ever want to kiss you. And where would you learn to sw—”
He stops talking, his eyes widening. “So,” he growls. “That’s what Fatison is doing with you. He’s teaching you to swim. You measly little—well, you’ll still never do it. You’ve got one more day to actually pass the test. You can’t even take a shower without getting nervous. How are you supposed to swim two lengths of a pool?”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
Nathan laughs again, finally standing up. I wince. “Where is this coming from? Where do you even get off telling me you’ll do anything? You, goldfish extraordinaire? You’ve never done anything exceptional in your life, and you never will. You’re a—”
“Stop it!” I scream.
Both of us stand completely still. Nathan’s mouth hangs open, frozen in midsentence.
I recover first. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” I say, breathing heavy. “We don’t have to live like this. We’re not—we don’t have to be enemies.”
“Yes, we do,” Nathan says, all the fake friendliness gone from his voice.
“Why?” I plead. “It’s not—I’m not Dad!”
Nathan recoils, like I’ve struck him. “You don’t get it. That’s just like you, to be so oblivious. You’ve never understood. It’s all your fault.”
“What is? Nathan, what is my fault?”
“You don’t even remember!” Nathan growls. “That’s the worst part. Before you ruined it, Mom was . . . happy. She smiled real smiles, and hugged me, and after school she would take me to the playground and let me swing on the swings for hours. Even Dad was happier. He came home sometimes with toys for me to play with. He got me my first atlas. He was . . . proud of me.”
Nathan jerks his head to the side so I don’t see him wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
“But think back: when you got really sick painting that stupid sunset, you got Dad sick too. He screamed at you, then at me when I came home. He kept saying it was your fault, all of it! Mom and Dad, they changed. When was the last time Dad was ever proud of me? Or Mom gave me a real hug? Everything used to be better, until you came along.”
I swallow. “That’s not the whole story. Our grandparents died that day, and Dad was too sick to visit them. He thinks he could’ve saved them if I hadn’t gotten him sick. Mom told me.”
“Oh, she told you, but not me! You’ve always been the favorite child. Like everyone forgot what you did.”
“But I didn’t do anything! I never knew the truth until two days ago. Listen to me!”
My brother looks away.
“And Dad doesn’t like either of us,” I say. “Dad doesn’t like anyone! You really think I’m his favorite?”
“Not just Dad’s,” Nathan says, very quietly.
I shake my head. “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. We don’t have to fight. Together, me and you can stand up to Dad. We can—”
“You really think so?” Nathan asks, bleeding sarcasm onto the carpet. “You really think it’s sunshine and rainbows, huh? You’re even dumber than I thought. You’re even dumber than Dad, and that’s saying a lot.”
“Please,” I say. “Stop this.”
Nathan growls, “Don’t tell me what to do.” He lunges at me, but I jump out of the way, and he winds up crashing into his desk, scattering all his little toys. He smashes his hands on the desk. “I can’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t know how. . . .”
“But you do,” I say, taking a reluctant step toward him. “You saved my sketchbook. Why do you keep pretending you’re someone you’re not? Why do you keep pretending you’re Dad?”
Nathan turns to me, and there’s such a mania, such a fiery frenzy in his eyes, I could melt if I stare at them too long. “Don’t you ever compare me to him.”
Before I can say anything else, Nathan shakes his head back and forth, and when he opens his eyes again they look a little clearer. “This game is to decide the best Cole,” he says. “Once and for all.”
So that’s it. That’s why he was freaking out so bad a few days ago when I did those tasks. He’s being literal—he really thinks this is the way to see who’s the better brother, the better son. The better person. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “You need to stop this.”
“Stop it?” Nathan laughs. “I’m not stopping it. We’re in this for the long haul. Cole versus Cole, brother versus brother. Winner takes all.”
I stand up straight. “Then I’ll stop it. I’ll stop you. This is the end, Nathan. I—I’ll—”
He laughs again, and his laughter follows me out down the hall. I hear it clear as day until he slams his door shut.
When I get to my room and shut my own door, I’m shaking, head to toe. I peer through my blinds at Big Green, oddly still today. I try to control my breathing. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . in . . .
I know what I need to do.
I need to get my friends back.
Nathan can’t take them from me.
I grab my phone from my pocket and go to type a text, but no. This deserves a (gulp) phone call.
The call goes straight to voice mail. “Hello, this is Madison Wilson Truman. I am unable to get to my phone right now, but if you’d please leave a detailed message after the tone, I will return your call as soon as I am able. I hope you have an outstanding day.”
Beep.
Oh God. I didn’t—“Madison, it’s, uh, it’s Alan. Listen, I—I—I’m not going to say I’m sorry again, because, I mean, I should’ve deleted the picture, but it’s my brother, he’s the one who took it and put it up, I didn’t have anything to do with that, so I guess—”
I take a deep breath.
“You can hate me forever if you want. If you don’t want to . . . be my friend ever again, I get it. But I really hope you still do, because I still want to be your friend. Tomorrow I’m going to go out there and try the swimming test, and—and it’d really mean a lot to me if you were in my corner, coach. You and me and Zack, we’re friends, and friends stick t-together, and—and—”
I move the phone away from my mouth so the hiccup doesn’t come across.
“We can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep—b-being victims. We need to . . . to stand up for ourselves. You need to come in to school tomorrow, and—and hold your head up, and say, ‘My name is M-Madison Wilson Truman, and I’m who I am, and I’m a good, honest, kind person, and nobody can tell me otherwise,’ and I’ll stand there and be in your corner, like you’d be in mine, because—because we’re losers, and losers—”
“Thank you. You have reached the maximum time permitted for recording your message. Good-bye.”
A dial tone buzzes in my ear.
I blow my nose, dry my eyes, and hope to God—or whoever feels like paying attention—that he gets the message.
Next up: Zack. But when I look back at my phone, there’s a text already there.
r u goin 2 beat him 2morow
I blink a few times, then text back, very slowly, my thumbs moving one key every three seconds:
better than zero.