Simone

My brother asks me if I want to shoot free throws. He never asks me if I want to shoot free throws. He tells me the first to five wins.

It’s zero to one, to me. It’s hard to play with him and not remember all the times I beat my him in sports as a rambunctious young bully, twice his size in height and weight. Or all the times he told a joke to company, and I quipped about having seen it on the internet. And all the sports I played, and clubs I did, and As I earned. The summer he got fat, and I got skinny, and how I never let him forget that he got fat, and I got skinny. It’s now zero to two. Zero to three. I should stop this, defeating him and all.

I change it so the first to 10 wins. He makes a few gains.

Two to six. Three to six. Four to six. I need to let him win. I owe it to him, but I can’t do it. That wouldn’t be fair to him, or myself. I’ll feel guilty for assuming him weak, or incapable. He’s not. He’s better with technology, math, and science. His knowledge of pop culture is equally astute to mine. He has a much better social life than I did at his age. I shouldn’t feel bad. Four to seven.

This winter, he broke his leg and missed a lot of school, and everyone pitied him. This winter, I got a cool job and judged a film competition, and everyone praised me.

“Do you want to go to 15 instead?” I ask him because I know he’s going to give up soon.

“No, you’re going to win anyways.” He’s given up already. Maybe he did a long time ago. “Why are you taking so long to throw, Simone?”

My parents want him to do more activities outside of school. I don’t hear these conversations because I’m busy participating in activities outside of school. His drum sets, lacrosse sticks, and swim caps lie dormant.

Six to eight. Seven to eight. I’m going too easy. That’s not fair to him. Seven to nine.

I read his diary a few weeks ago. Only because he read mine when I was in seventh grade and siblings are entitled to revenge. What I read was more than ramblings. He wrote about how he was unhappy with who he was, and how he wished he were smarter, and cuter, and a winner. It made me sad.

It’s just a game. It won’t hurt either of us if I play fair. Eight to nine. Eight to 10, me.

I win. I didn’t want to. ♦