Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
The girls next door, obviously, but some others, too.
My brothers are still green.
Yeah, they’re only two years younger, but the twins still haven’t figured out the value of privacy and surrounding themselves with people who give a shit and aren’t just using them for their own personal gain.
Well, Drake at least.
Drew has a better head on his shoulders. If Drake has company tonight, Drew will most likely hang for a bit, then make himself scarce, hide in his bedroom with the door locked and only come out to take a piss.
Ever since our dad died, Drake has been struggling. Even though he has us—his brothers—and our mom, he always looked to Pops for guidance, more so than the rest of us. Now that Pops is gone, he doesn’t have that anymore. Seems he’s filling that void with meaningless sex and company.
I check my food app.
Twenty more minutes until the food will arrive.
Ryann settles on a baking show—but it’s with kids, not adults, and in the short time we’ve been watching, it looks like their challenge is to create a fall-themed cake, fully decorated, using the ingredients they can choose from the back wall.
Seems easy enough.
Cakes can’t be all that difficult, can they?
The judges walk the perimeter of the room, the bald dude chatting with the kids, offering them tips and tricks. Asking them why they chose this, why they chose to do that.
“THIRTY MORE MINUTES, BAKERS!” the female judge shouts among moans and groans.
Huh.
I sit up straighter in my seat as some boy named Brennon removes his cake pans from the oven and returns them to his station, tries to remove the cakes from the pans.
Neither cake budges.
“Oh no,” he wails, head tipping back. “I overcooked it.”
Brennon bangs the metal on the counter to no avail, choking back a sob, tears streaming down his face.
Then, when the cake finally does come out, it falls in chunks onto the counter, much to his dismay.
Snot bubbles from his nose.
Okay, so maybe this show isn’t so terrible after all. This kid is seriously bringing the drama.
The judge rushes over to console him.
“Kid, chop-chop!” I shout at the TV. “It’s time to rally, Brennon, not stand there with your dick in your hand.”
Ryann sputters on her bottle of water. “Dallas, those are kids!”
“So? If you’re gonna be in a baking championship, fucking deal with the ups and downs.”
That’s exactly what Pops would have said.
You deal with the good and the bad when you’re competitive; it ain’t always a walk in the park. Some days you get slammed and feel like shit, some days you’re the victor and come out on top.
But it’s never easy no matter which way it goes.
“Calm down. He’s eleven years old.”
Pfft.
I clamp my mouth shut and watch the show. Brennon manages a patch job on his shitty-looking cake, using frosting to plug the holes where sponge cake should be, wincing when the judge downs a giant gulp of buttercream.
“Lucky for Brennon, that Sophie girl made a cake that looks like a pile of dog shit.”
“Dallas!” Ryann laughs, trying to scold me.
I’m right, though—Sophie is eliminated, and Brennon lives to see another episode by the skin of his teeth.
My app buzzes at the same time Ryann’s phone dings, a notification that the delivery dude is here with our dinner. We both hop up at the same time, but I motion for her to sit.
“I’ve got this.”
I don’t need her going to the door after dark and answering it with some strange person on the other side of it. Granted, it’s probably another student our age, but still.
Since I’m here, better safe than sorry.
We live in a fucked-up world, and I’m glad I have three brothers and not a sister whose safety I’d have to worry about nonstop.
The handoff is quick; I make short work of going through the bags after I set them on Ryann’s small kitchen counter. Behind me, she moves around the space, gathering plates and forks and a few napkins as I dole out chicken wings, beef and broccoli, lo mein, buttered noodles, and steamed vegetables.
“This is enough food to feed an army.”
I nod. “It all sounded good. Couldn’t decide.”
“Apparently not.” She isn’t complaining, just stating facts, her own plate as loaded as mine. Food out of the way, we return to the living room to eat—and to see if Brennon can squeak out a sweet dessert that looks like a savory food.
“I love this challenge,” Ryann tells me, shoving a forkful of noodles into her mouth.
Nice.
Real nice.
If there’s one thing she isn’t doing, it’s putting on airs and trying to impress me.
“He has to make that cake look like chicken and mashed potatoes.”
I’m well aware. “This is going to put that kid over the edge.”
We’d already seen him cry twice.
I lean in, fork suspended halfway to my mouth as we anxiously wait for something to go wrong.