Page 15 of The Other Brother

“You know what people say is the best treatment for phobias. What’s it called? Immersion therapy? Be thankful you’re not scared of spiders or snakes.”

He shakes his head, but I can see he’s hiding a smile as he picks the rest of the raisins out and chucks them into the garbage disposal.

Mel’s shaking her head too. “It’s nice to see you don’t just contain your torture to people who are related to you.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’ve got to share my talent around.”

I headout surfing for the afternoon. The sun has changed its setting to baking, so even after the short trek home across the sand dunes, washing myself down with a cold hose is a relief.

I hang my wetsuit over the edge of the deck to dry (because nothing sucks more than having to pull on a damp wetsuit on a cold morning) and then duck inside.

Cody’s on the couch in the living room reading a book.

“Where’s Mel?” I ask.

“She’s gone into town to get some groceries.”

“I hope she remembers ice cream.” With that thought, I grab my phone out of my pocket and send a quick message. I don’t want to take any chances of her forgetting when the consequences are so dire.

When I glance up, Cody’s ignoring his book in favor of watching me.

“You want a game of ping pong?” he asks.

“Do you have a ping pong table?” I scrunch up my face.

“No, I was just planning to play it by bouncing the balls off our heads.”

I wrestle down the corners of my mouth. “That might be a thing at Appleton, but not in the real world.”

Cody goes to a fancy private school, and it’s fun to give him shit about it. Of course, I go to my local public school like the rest of the unentitled majority.

I’m sure he’s biting down a grin himself. “You want to play or not?”

“Sure, I’m in.”

The ping pong table is in the garage, along with a dartboard and a parked jet ski. They really do have all the toys here.

I’m no slug at ping pong, having spent many hours honing my skills at Harvey’s place. But Cody slaughters me. Like my carcass is hanging off a meat hook in an abattoir kind of slaughter.

“Do you ever get sick of being so good at everything? I mean, it must get boring, right?” I ask after he aces me for the umpteenth time.

Cody serves again. I manage to get the edge of a paddle to it, but it ricochets off and bounces against the wall.

“Nope, not really.” His grin has a cheeky element to it. I fight the matching one that for some reason wants to plant itself on my face.

As if to emphasize my point, when we go back inside, Cody grabs a guitar in the living room and picks away at the strings. I recognize Neil Diamond’s "Sweet Caroline."

I slump down on the couch opposite and watch him play. One of his curls hangs over his eye as he strums. He doesn’t sing but hums along instead.

“Can you teach me to play guitar?” I ask.

His eyebrows almost fly off his forehead.

I’m as surprised as he is at the words out of my mouth.

I’ve always wanted to learn to play the guitar, wanting to be one of those guys who can lead a sing-along around a beach campfire. But I’ve shied away from doing anything musical, because competing with the natural talent of my sisters and Cody feels pointless.

But it strikes me now that maybe music doesn’t have to be something you do to compete with other people. It can be something you just do for yourself.