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Happily Ever Afters(3)
Author: Elise Bryant

“Well, you should tell him to probably pick a different target for his prank next time.” Hawaiian Shirt rubs the side of his face and looks at the ground. “Or, I don’t know, maybe not do pranks at all?”

There’s no judgment in his voice, but I feel the need to explain. “Thank you. And it’s not like that . . . like what you think it is. I mean, it is, but it’s different.”

“Okay,” Hawaiian Shirt says, cocking his head to the side in confusion. I can’t blame him. I’m not making sense.

“It’s just that . . . my brother. Miles. He has disabilities.” The explanation is as familiar to me as breathing or blinking; I’ve said it so many times before. “This is one of the things he does . . . makes calls he shouldn’t. I’m just glad he didn’t prank call the cops again.”

The thought of that makes me shudder, especially here in this new city where our neighbors don’t know us, know Miles.

“Okay,” Hawaiian Shirt says again, nodding his head now. He leans into the doorway, close enough to give me a whiff of the salty, melted cheese, and calls out, “Hello, Miles!”

Miles doesn’t answer. But the crooning of Dream Zone stops, and I can hear the rustling of him moving around the room—probably arranging the remote just so and putting the DVD case in its specific place on the shelf. He’s coming to survey the damage.

“Well, thank you. Again. And it won’t happen again. Promise. Really, so sorry.” I’m talking fast, trying to get this guy out of here before Miles makes his way to the door. It’s not like I’m embarrassed by my brother. I’m not. But I don’t want to deal with a whole big thing right now, especially because my heart’s still racing from the scene with Mrs. Hutchinson.

I give him my best apologetic smile and try to shut the door, but he stops me with the pizza box. “I’m Sam.”

“Um, okay.” I blink at him, and he holds out his pizza-free hand to shake mine. Right, now it’s my turn. “Tessa.”

“Nice to meet you, Tessa,” Hawaiian Shirt Sam says, shifting from one foot to the other. He clearly has something more to say, and I wish he’d just get on with it because I need to go.

“Uh . . . I talked to your mom a few days ago.”

Of course he did. Mom talks to everyone and always ends up telling whoever it is too much information. The cashier at the Trader Joe’s by our old house knew all about the emergency tonsillectomy I had when I was two, Dad’s strained relationship with Grandma Edith, and my mom’s dream to buy an Airstream trailer one day. I wonder what she told Hawaiian Shirt Sam. Apparently not my name. “Yeah?”

“Well, she was talking to my mom, and she said you were going to Chrysalis Academy. That you’re, uh, a writer? I’m transferring there too. So yeah . . . that’s pretty cool.” He smiles, and only the right side of his mouth goes up, revealing a deep dimple. His eyes get all crinkly, little half-moons under his thick blond brows. It’s a nice smile. Almost makes me forget the cargo shorts.

And okay, now I want to ask him more, like what conservatory he’s in or if he knows what to expect tomorrow on our first day at the art school. Thoughts of the school have taken over my brain for the entire summer—that, and the fact that I’ll be able to write every day and be around people who do what I do, but better. The whole thing is a thrilling, terrifying unknown for me at this point, and it would be nice to have someone to share it with. But I also hear Miles’s footsteps now, shuffling toward the door. And I’ve already hit my peak tolerance for chaos today.

“Yeah, cool. So we’ll see each other at school then. Sorry about the pizza. Bye!” I say it quickly and too loud, shutting the door on Hawaiian Shirt Sam’s puzzled face. It slams closed, harder than I intended, just as Miles is walking up behind me, his ringing hearing aids announcing his presence.

My brother is three years older than me, but people usually don’t assume that. He definitely looks younger. He’s shorter than me, for one, but I think a lot of it is just the expression he carries on his face: wide, dark brown eyes, permanently dancing. And his full lips always hanging slightly open, upturned into a smirk, ready to say anything that will get a reaction. He’s wearing his favorite Dream Zone shirt today, but it’s all wrinkly. And his short, coarse hair needs to be brushed. I should have done a better job getting him ready this morning.

“That was a good one, wasn’t it, Tessie?” Miles laughs, and I try to hold back my smile. It will only encourage him.

“No.” I can’t help but let out a little snort, though, as my nerves start to settle, and it sets him off into giggles of delight. “It wasn’t funny at all,” I say with more resolve. “I thought we all agreed that you were done with this now. New city, new start?”

He shrugs. “I was bored. Did you take a video of them?”

“Why would I have taken a video of them?”

“Because it was a good one,” he says, and he begins to roll his head around, which he does whenever he’s excited. It looks like someone doing yoga, trying to stretch out a stiff neck. I just shake my head.

“Wait.” He grabs my arm, suddenly serious. “Where’s the pizza?”

“He took it.” I roll my eyes. “He paid for it, bud!”

“But I’m hungry. I ordered extra pepperoniiiiiii.” The last syllable extends into a whine, and I can feel his mood about to shift, like how the air changes right before it rains.

“Let’s get you some food,” I say, wrapping my arm around his shaking shoulders and leading him toward the kitchen. “And maybe let’s just keep this pizza business between me and you.”

“C’mon, Tessie, but you know it was a good one.”

 

 

Chapter Two


My brother has disabilities.

We used to call it special needs before a teacher pointed out that his needs aren’t special. They’re just his.

“My brother has disabilities” is the canned answer I have ready to run off, whenever someone meets him for the first time, or he does something he’s not supposed to (like ordering pizza for the neighbors), or I have to explain why he’s not in college and still living at home even though he’s nineteen. It’s quick and to the point, so I don’t have to spend too much time talking about it or talking in general.

I don’t like to explain how the cord wrapped around his neck when he was born, leaving him without oxygen for too long, blue instead of brown.

And I hate listing all of his technical diagnoses. I always worry I’m going to say something wrong because it’s not all clear-cut or what people expect. Athetoid cerebral palsy—that’s the full name, but I rarely say all that. From what I understand, that’s the center of everything. It’s why his legs are stiff and uncoordinated, why his body moves without his control when he’s really happy or really upset, and why he stumbles and rocks sometimes, like he’s on a boat going over rough water.

Then there’s cognitive impairment—I think that’s the right term to describe why my older brother acts a lot like my younger brother, why I have to help him with his basic addition homework and weather his tantrums when things don’t go the way he expects. OCD—but that might be unrelated. And vision and hearing loss—that explains the thick lenses on his glasses and expensive hearing aids that he somehow loses every few months. By the time I get to the end of the list, I’m a little lost too, ending it with an awkward “And . . . yeah.” And then it usually leads to more questions or an invitation for people to tell me about how their cousin has cystic fibrosis or something, which is not even close to the same thing. And then something that I wanted to be done with has extended for a whole lot longer.

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