Deadly Design (9780698173613) (2 page)

She growls, tightening her hands around the steering wheel. “It's his last meet.”

“So I'm supposed to go cheer him on while he breaks his
own
record.”

“It's also his birthday. We're going out to dinner afterward.”

The car slows, and Emma pulls in front of my house. She places her hand on my arm.

“If you won't do it for him, do it for me?”

Why does she have to put it that way? Am I that transparent? Can she tell that there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her?

C
onnor's just getting out of his Jeep in the driveway.

Emma jumps out of the car, runs across the lawn, and throws herself into his arms. Connor spins her around, and she's flying with her arms tight around his neck and his arms tight around her waist. When they stop, they stand there in the driveway staring at each other like they're the most gorgeous people in the world, and they can't help themselves, and that's pretty much how it is. Hell, even I can't stop staring at them as I walk across the lawn toward the front door.

The windows are open on Connor's Jeep, and the wind has made his hair into a perfect blond mess. My hair is usually just a mess. My face isn't quite as full as his either. Being an athlete, he packs a lot of food away. He's always drinking protein shakes and downing giant spoonfuls of peanut butter.

He's tan too. The lamp in my basement bedroom doesn't do a lot for my skin tone, but when Connor's not in school, he's outside. Sometimes I look at him, and I can't believe we're identical twins. Even if I spent hours at the gym or running outside in the sun, no way would I look like him—like Apollo coming down from Olympus to let the mortals bask in my awesomeness.

I reach for the doorknob.

“Kyle.” Connor runs up onto the porch. “We're going to go walk around the park for a while and then grab a bite. You want to come along?”

“No thanks,” I say, opening the door.

“You sure? We can shoot some hoops or something. Mom texted me that she's making tuna casserole. Between you and me, I didn't get the text. Why don't you come with us?”

I look at Emma. “I better eat here. Evidently I don't socialize enough with the family.”

Connor follows my eyes. He looks at Emma, at the smirk on her face, then back at me. “Did I miss something?”

“Not a thing,” I say. “You two go ahead.”

“We can bring you back something if you want,” Connor says.

“I'm good, but thanks.”

I start to step inside, but he's still standing there. I turn, and he's looking at me, looking right into my eyes. He does this sometimes, a lot of times. He looks at me like he's waiting to see if I can read his thoughts, like he wants to tell me something, but it'd be so much easier if he didn't have to use words. But I can't read his mind. Even if I could, I think I'd be afraid to. Connor's mind has to be full of amazing things, like state championships and political issues he knows inside and out because of debate and maybe even plans to someday cure cancer.

My thoughts are more of the Nazi zombie type. I just want to kill shit.

Connor sighs, his eyes finally leaving mine. I've failed the test again. If he had a better twin, a more worthy twin, we'd be able to have psychic conversations, and I'd ace every test in school because he could “think” me all the answers.

Emma takes Connor's hand, and they start to walk toward his Jeep. I start inside again.

“Are you sure?” he says, his body sideways like he's torn between coming inside with me or going with Emma. “It's
tuna
casserole. We could get a pizza.”

“I'm good,” I say again, and I hate how he's looking at me, like I'm rejecting him. With all his admirers, does he really need one more, and does it have to be me?

I have to get away from him. His aura, or whatever the hell it is, is too damn bright. My skin, my pale epidermis, is starting to burn. Connor needs to leave. Then I just have to get through dinner, so I can shrink back into the shadows of my basement sanctuary.

Emma pulls him toward the Jeep, and he follows. He walks her to the passenger side and opens the door, but before getting in, she looks back at me and smiles.

I remember the first time he brought her home. He was a freshman, and I was in that hell called middle school. They'd walked to our house after school on a Friday because Mom was going to serve as chauffeur for their first date. Connor and Mom went into the kitchen to discuss rules and curfews, and Emma sat down next to me on the sofa. We watched television for a few minutes and then she started talking to me. She asked me if I liked sports, and when I said no, she asked me what I did like. I started talking about gaming, and she seemed interested. Interested in the games. Interested in me.

She noticed me.

When Mom and Connor came back into the living room, Emma got up, and I thought that was it. Once the great Connor was back, I disappeared again. But as they were walking out the front door, Emma turned and smiled at me. That was four years ago, and she's still giving me that smile.

“G
uess what I heard.”

It's the voice of Teddy Eskew. As if spending the day sitting amongst Connor's adoring fans isn't bad enough, now I have to put up with the school's biggest asshole.

“I heard you and your brother were Siamese twins, joined at the dick, and when the doctors separated you, they decided to give what there was to your brother. That's why you have to piss sitting down.”

Teddy doesn't ride the short bus to school, but he can't get it through his head that Connor and I are twins, born two years apart. Somehow he got the idea that I'm a sophomore while Connor's a senior because I had the cord wrapped around my neck. Lack of oxygen made me
delayed.
Teddy's a senior, and he and I are in two classes together. He's the one who's delayed. He's also the one on probation for vandalism, underage drinking, exposing himself to a minor, and attempting to grow facial hair like Wolverine from
X-Men.

“You made any summer plans yet?” I ask as I push past him, balancing two hot dogs and a can of Diet Coke in my hands. “I heard there are lots of unsupervised kiddies at the water park if you want to show off your . . .” I lift the hot dogs.

Teddy's hair-framed face reddens. His biceps flex.

“Is there a problem?”

Officer Prater, our school's resource officer, is standing right behind Teddy. He's not wearing his uniform or his Taser, but at six and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds, he doesn't really need them to be intimidating.

Teddy walks away, but not before giving me that “I'll find you later” look.

“I really hate that this is Connor's last meet,” Prater says, running a hand over his shaven head. “I've been watching him since middle school.”

I know what he's thinking. He's thinking that even though Connor is graduating next week, he should be able to come watch me compete in football and basketball and track. But I'm too much of a slacker. I'm too lazy to
be all that I can be.

“He's got a good chance of breaking his record, and I bet it stands a long time too.” Prater looks off at the cloudless May sky like he's savoring this moment—the moment before Connor McAdams cements his place in the history of high school pole-vaulting. He smiles to himself, and when his eyes fall back on me, it's like he's about to reprimand me for hanging out in the hallway instead of being in class. “You better get up there. There's only one more competitor before Connor. You don't want to miss this.”

“Oh”—I shake my head—“you have no idea how much I don't want miss this.”

I push my way through the crowd, and the hot dogs I was craving a second ago have lost some of their appeal.

I don't want to be here!

But over breakfast this morning, Mom kept opening her mouth as if to say something, then closing it again and starting to rinse dishes or wipe counters. Dad, on the other hand, came into the kitchen, fixed a bowl of cereal, and said what he wanted to say.

“Don't come if you don't want to.” His mouth was full of cornflakes, and there was a tiny dot of milk on his chin. “Your mom and I understand that watching your brother compete may not be . . .” He couldn't quite find the words, so he shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth to buy some time. “It's just that this is his last meet. He wants us there, all of us. You mean a lot to him. I know you two haven't been that close, not for a long time, but you used to be. It's probably my fault. Maybe if I'd have tried harder to get you involved in sports, or maybe a little less hard with him, then . . .”

That's when I agreed to come to the meet. I hate it when my parents start analyzing the ways they may or may not have screwed up their kids. Right or wrong, Dad loves sports, and he loves watching Connor. I don't want him to feel guilty for that. And I definitely don't want him to feel like he's a bad father. He's not.

Besides, the truth is, what Connor does is pretty cool. I've watched pole-vaulting on YouTube. It's pretty amazing. These guys, they actually fly—not for long, but they do fly. And that part where the pole is bending, and it looks like it might snap in half and stab them, that's scary as hell. And Connor's not just good at it. He's the best.

I go up the four steps leading to the bleachers and notice a guy standing next to the chain-link fence. He's young, probably in his midtwenties. He's got broad shoulders, definitely the athletic type, and he's taking pictures of . . . Connor. Of course he's taking pictures of Connor. Connor isn't even jumping yet. He's just bending over touching his toes, but even that's impressive if you're a scout for some big university and you want Connor on your team. The photographer pauses to look at the shots he's just taken. He glances up for a second, and when he sees me, he looks . . . uneasy. Then it's like he remembers that somebody told him Connor had a twin, and he nods at me and looks away.

Don't worry, buddy, I want to tell him. You won't have to come back to take pictures of me in a couple of years. Not unless you're recruiting for your college's video game club.

I don't walk to the stairs. I step from metal seat to metal seat. It's not hard maneuvering around people, because most are congregated in the middle of the stands.

“Hey, Connor!”

I recognize the voice immediately, and she's not talking to Connor. She's talking to me. I turn. Cami, Emma's best friend, is sitting about three feet to my left. She's wearing an old orange
Lion King
T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. Her pale legs are propped up on the seat in front of her like she's attempting to get some sun.

“How are you,
Connor
?”

She's doing it on purpose. She always does it on purpose. Cami, short for Camille, calls me Connor because she knows that there is an unwritten law in the universe that anyone who calls me by my brother's name will get flipped off. I've served two detentions because of her, once because she did it during my food presentation in Spanish class and once when she said it as the principal was walking down the hallway.

“Really?” I lift my full hands.

“Sorry,” she says, as if she hadn't noticed. She puts down the sketchbook she's been doodling in and takes the can of Diet Coke from my hand.

I flip her the bird, and with a smile on her face, she hands the can back.

“I'm kind of surprised to see you here,” she says.

“You didn't think I'd want to see my brother break his own record? Watching Connor achieve his goals is pretty much my purpose in life.”

She shakes her head and tucks short curls of brown hair behind her ears. “I just figured you wouldn't want to be here—wouldn't want to spend another day in the Great Connor's shadow.”

Wow. I scoff because I can't believe she said that. She gets it. The girl who constantly calls me by my brother's name just to piss me off and get me into trouble gets it. Connor is the quarterback of the football team. He's the captain of the basketball team. And when he's not breaking track records, he's walking on water. I can't compete with that. And Cami gets it.

I give her a miniature “fuck you” with the hand carrying the Diet Coke, but this time it's meant as a sort of salute. She smiles and flips me the bird from behind the sketch pad.

“What are you drawing?”

She turns the pad around to reveal a small bird sitting amongst sparse tufts of grass.

“Over there,” she says, nodding her head toward the patch of grass next to the concession stand, where tiny birds with red-tipped gray wings peck at bits of popcorn.

“Nice.”

“Thanks.” She smiles at me. “Any time you want to sit for portrait, just let me know. I'll even let you strike your favorite pose.” She rubs her cheek with her extended middle finger, and I almost laugh.

“See you later at the festivities.”

Poor Cami. She's getting sucked into everything, too, and she's not even related to him. I suppose that's the downside to being BFFs with Connor's girlfriend. I give her a sympathetic nod, and then continue up to where Mom and Dad are sitting.

“You're going to spoil your dinner,” my mom says when she sees the two hot dogs balanced in my left hand. She takes her Diet Coke.

“I don't like Luigi's, so what's it matter?” I sit down in the space my parents have left for me between them on the bleachers. I don't understand why they're not sitting next to each other. I'm not five. I don't need a parent on either side of me to make sure I don't slip between the metal seats and break my neck.

She runs her hands through her short sandy blond hair. She had it cut this morning, and the hairdresser got a little happy with the scissors. Now Mom can't seem to stop touching it, and every time she does, she frowns a little.

“You love Luigi's,” she says, the slight wrinkles around her brown eyes deepening a little as she processes the idea that I don't like the place they drag me to every year for Connor's birthday. If I liked it, then I'd want to go there on my birthday, but I never do. I prefer Mom's fried chicken on my birthday. She's a really good cook, except for tuna casserole, and that's more the tuna's fault than hers. Mostly, I like to stay home on my birthday because once the stupid song is sung and the cake is cut, I can open the video game that I asked for and then show my appreciation by rushing downstairs to play it.

“You like Luigi's,” she says, more to herself than to me.

If my mom were Poseidon, the ocean waters would always be calm. Emma's right—Mom hates conflict. She hates anyone being unhappy. She has this Disney picture in her mind of how she wants our family to be. I'm not talking about the perfect spotless house or a garden where butterflies shit glitter over flowers that never wilt. She wants harmony. Her version of the perfect family would be one where we all played different musical instruments and sat around the living room every night singing folk songs. We used to have game night on Fridays and movie night on Saturdays. It was okay. On Fridays we'd have pizza and play Uno or Clue, and Saturdays meant a trip to the video store, microwave popcorn, and Mom and Dad curled up together on the couch while Connor and I made faces at each other every time they kissed.

Then Connor started youth football and started playing noncompetitive basketball at the recreation center in town. Once he started running, he ran fast. And then there were practices and games and tournaments. No more time for movies or Clue, and by the time anyone bothered to ask me if I wanted to sign up, Connor was so far ahead of me, I could barely see him.

“You really don't like Italian food?” Mom asks, taking her thin-framed glasses off and wiping the lenses against her shirt.

“No,” I say.

“That's crap,” Dad says. “You love it. You've loved it since you were little and kept crying for more ‘b'sghetti.' So listen to your mother and don't spoil your appetite.” He takes one of the hot dogs from my hand and devours it in two bites. “No mustard,” he mutters with a full mouth. “Who doesn't put mustard on a hot dog?”

Dad's a no-frills kind of guy. He's simple, ordinary. He wasn't a jock in school or a straight-A student. He wasn't a superstar like Connor is. I like that about him—his ordinariness. I also like that he remembers me wanting “b'sghetti.” I don't like that I don't look anything like him. He's medium in height—tall enough for high school basketball, but forget college. He's also a little on the pudgy side, and his once-black, now mostly gray hair is receding faster than the polar ice cap. Connor and I have our mother's sandy blond hair, and, although both of our parents have brown eyes, Connor and I have blue eyes. Evidently Mom and Dad both have a recessive gene for blue.

“He's getting the pole,” Dad says, and it's like everyone heard him. Now they are all waiting, all anxious. Emma is standing by the fence, as close to Connor as she's allowed to be. She glances up at my folks, giving them a worried but hopeful smile. Mom's clenching the bleachers, her knuckles bone white. Just one more jump and then she won't have to worry so much about him getting hurt anymore.

Connor takes his mark. His right hand holds the bottom of the long, slender pole, while his left hand steadies it, the tip pointing to the sky. He starts running. The pole lowers, and for a second, it's parallel to the ground, then it lowers more. Connor plants it right in front of the mat. His legs kick up until he is completely upside down. His body twists and turns as his feet clear the bar, and somehow, he wills his arms and shoulders to pull backward, to leave the bar undisturbed.

Held breaths are exhaled in unison. Then the cheers come. Mom and Dad leap from their seats. Everyone is standing and cheering. In front of me is a row of butts, bouncing up and down and making the stands vibrate. I can't see what's happening down on the field, but I can imagine. People are slapping Connor on the back. His coach is beaming. His teammates are distracted from their own events. They're smiling and nodding to each other because they knew this was going to happen. And they knew that nothing they did this day would compare to Connor McAdams breaking another record.

His teammates are probably acting happy, and truth is, a lot of them are. I mean, Connor's not the kind of guy to rub his triumphs into the faces of everyone else. He's not arrogant, even though he has every right to be. He's likable. But for some of the other athletes, especially the seniors, I bet they wish that, just once, Connor would come in second or, better yet, third or fourth. Couldn't he trip over a shoelace or catch his foot on a hurdle? I wish he would. Just once I'd like to comfort him instead of congratulate him.

Maybe if we'd have been born together, instead of almost two years apart, we'd both be champions. Mom and Dad would have signed us up together. We'd have gone to the gym together and practices together. We'd be unbeatable. He would have been quarterback of the football team, and I'd have been his wide receiver, catching anything he threw at me and running in for touchdown after touchdown.