EZ and the Intangibles by Bob Katz

Author:Bob Katz [Katz, Bob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2018-08-30T15:07:47+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

My little brother ZZ was ridiculously good at sports. By “ridiculously,” I mean simply that he was extremely skilled at all of them, and that the skill came naturally. Plus, he was determined to improve and succeed, and he hated, really hated, to lose. He was a little like Troy Rutledge that way. If ZZ had a father like Troy’s—pushing him all the time to get better, better, better, to win, win, win—he’d be one dangerous dude. Maybe he’d even become a pro.

For all his natural talent in sports, ZZ was the opposite when it came to schoolwork, especially reading. He didn’t like to sit still. He didn’t like to be quiet. And he definitely did not like to be by himself, sitting alone in silence.

The solution, according to my mother, was to establish a regular reading session every weekday evening. I had to be involved—which didn’t seem fair. I was an excellent reader, and enjoyed reading, and probably did too much of it, if you want to know the truth. But Mom insisted that the family was a team—she did not have to point out that our captain was currently in prison—and we all needed to play a role.

So the plan was for ZZ and me to sit in the living room and read together, in silence, with no TV, for forty-five minutes. It was exactly the sort of plan that would make sense to a mother. I hated it.

Reading was fun for me, even if the book was not as great, say, as Treasure Island. I liked quiet. I liked the sound of my own thoughts. I liked being alone. Having to read alongside ZZ ruined everything.

The book he was supposed to be reading was Marvin Redpost: Kidnapped at Birth. I’d read it a few years ago and liked it. It was about a kid who had nothing in common with the rest of his family, so he comes to the conclusion that he had been kidnapped. It made me wonder if perhaps I had been kidnapped at birth. I mean, I wasn’t a great athlete like Dad and I wasn’t high-energy and super-organized like Mom. And I had nothing in common with my brother.

The sofa in our apartment was the same one we’d had at the Hunter Lane house. It was lumpy and soft, and not very long. ZZ insisted that we sit on it together during the reading sessions. He said he felt more secure with me sitting nearby. Maybe that was true if by “secure” he meant being able to dangle his feet over my knees, or nudge me “by mistake” with his elbow, or lean incrementally closer, inch by inch, until he was practically in my lap. At which time, he’d act astonished at how that could’ve happened, and make a grand show of an apology, then sheepishly retreat to his end of the sofa.

Then, inch by inch, it would start all over again.

I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. After all, we were a team.

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