“Please—you get the same percentage of royalties Bodhi and I do.”
“Right, but your royalties are supplemented by the outside endorsement deals the two of you receive. The rest of us didn’t get that windfall. We’ve never had the same high profile you guys have. You do realize that Shawn, Dane, and I haven’t even landed a record deal yet, right?”
I didn’t know. And now I felt bad. Bodhi and I had always been the favorites, but I’d never realized it was to the detriment of the others.
“Look, I know you want to hide out,” Hunter continued. “But we need you. It’s been over a year, and things are drying up for us. I got a wife and kids, man. And Shawn, he’s got a kid in every state. Dane…I have no idea what extracurriculars he’s got going on. But here’s the deal, RJ. If you really are our brother, then this is the time to show it.”
My eyes jumped from one to the next as my resistance wavered. How could I turn my back on these guys when they’d always been there for me? Five years we’d been stuck to each other like glue. We’d gone our separate ways, yes, but that didn’t change the way I felt about them. I loved these guys, and no matter how broken or lost I currently was, I was never too broken or lost for my ketchup-blood brothers.
5
Dani: Eyes On Me
The chatter crept up on me. One voice. Then two. A third from across the room. This would not do. Isolated chitchat in a classroom of twenty-five first graders could easily spiral out of control. Six- and seven-year-olds were like rolling thunder. If you gave them the chance to join forces, there’d be no stopping their explosive storm.
“One-two-three, eyes on me.”
“One-two, eyes on you,” my students responded to my chant—all except the culprits in the back, who’d been the reason for the intervention.
Stepping around my desk, I made my Cruella De Vil catwalk down the aisle, watching as the two offenders spotted me coming only to right themselves in their seats, fold their hands on their desks, and seal their mouths shut.
That was better. Now I was back in control—just where I liked to be. It was a place that Chad had callously denied me this morning, and a place I would never allow him to take from me again. Ugh. Stop thinking about Chad! I had a classroom of students to teach, and I refused to allow him to derail me from educating the youth of America. They deserved better.
“Thank you, girls.” I winked.
Their nervous faces dissolved into smiles, and a spattering of giggles filled the room. That, in a nutshell, was my ‘milk dud’ teaching style—hard on the outside but soft and gooey in the center. I had a reputation as a teacher who cared, and after only three years as a credentialed educator, I’d landed into the enviable position of being the first-grade teacher all the PTA moms fought over.
Sure, tough love had its time and place, but I was proof positive that it was not the only way. My mother had thought otherwise, almost always dishing out the tough without the love when dealing with my perceived failings. The result was I’d become sneaky, hiding things from her to keep the peace. And now, as an adult, I could clearly see that tough only worked if it was paired with its forward-thinking partner.
“Okay, friends, I can see most of you are finishing up your assignment in the math workbook. Great job. But does that mean it’s playtime?”
A high-pitched chorus of ‘noes’ erupted.
“That’s right. Playtime comes after the bell rings. Until then, we work. So, for those of you who are done with the subtraction classwork, you may get an early start on the writing assignment. Today we’ll be writing a letter to our Star of the Week. Do we all remember who this week’s star is?”
“Sophie!” My students yelled out the name of our Star Student. That was what I loved about kids. They were always genuinely happy for their classmate. Ah, if only grown-ups got such recognition. Yes, perhaps we needed an Adult Star of the Week.
I knew who wouldn’t be its first recipient—Chad. If he were in my class, he would’ve lost points for all sorts of infractions after our hallway confrontation. Lying. Not being a good friend. Unkind words. Not following directions. Heck, I might even have taken the drastic step of calling his mother.
“You’re all so smart,” I praised my students. “All right, then, let’s get back to work.”
Since I was already in the back of the classroom, I took my show on the road, moving from desk to desk to check the progress of my little charges. One such girl sat starting off into space.
“Nelle, is there a problem?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to write about Sophie.”
“Just write something that you like about her.”
Nelle peered down at her blank sheet of paper, like her immature brain was struggling with the fairly straightforward concept.
Ever the patient nurturer, I nudged her in the right direction. “What’s your favorite thing about Sophie?”
Nelle thought for the longest time before finally coming up with an answer. “Can I write that she has nice teeth?”
“Um… let’s try not to focus on physical traits. Instead, think of something interesting about Sophie. Is she a good friend? Is she an amazing singer?”
And as if a light bulb had flicked on in her head, Nelle perked up. “I know.”
I smiled. It was moments like this that made my job so rewarding—to be able to mold young minds and watch as ideas blossomed into something beautiful.
“I’m going to write that Sophie had lice.”
My brows shot to the ceiling as I struggled to hold back the laughter. “Oh, sweetie, I don’t think Sophie would appreciate that.”
Nor, I guessed, would her mother.
“But…” Nelle crinkled her nose. “She did have lice, remember?”
Oh yes, I remembered. The little critters had crawled out of her hair and were in the process of making their pilgrimage across the desk when Johnny, her seat partner, screamed so loud the school nearly went into lockdown mode as the office staff tried to assess if there was an imminent threat to the facility.
With the giggles already threatening to spill over, I patted Nelle on the shoulder. “Just write that she has nice teeth.”
Reigning supreme over my rapt audience, I concluded the latest installment of the ‘I hate Chad Woodcock’ saga.
“So, I said something like, ‘Have fun aggressively masturbating tonight.’ Then he said ‘I would, but you stole my lube.’”
It was only then that I looked up from my Cookie Butter latte and into the stunned silence of my siblings. A split second later, uncontrolled male laughter roared through the coffee shop. Of course, my sperm brothers would think that story was funny. Chad had become their unofficial mascot—the guy they loved to hate.
“Shut up,” I said, fighting off my own desire to giggle. Chad was quick-witted; I’d give him that. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I know Chad Woodcock is your arch enemy and all—but is it wrong that I wanna have a beer with him?” Ross replied. “Hell, I’ll even buy.”
“Dude, me too,” his identical twin brother agreed.