Not exactly mind-boggling prizes, I thought to myself, even though I enjoy reading. I mean, money or a vacation would make you feel it was worth all the effort of writing 1,000 words, which was what they wanted. I liked the idea of having my story published, but I was never going to win first prize—NO WAY JOSE! Who was I kidding? I was never going to win any of the prizes, not in a million, zillion years. I didn’t know why I was even bothering to read the stupid flyer. I balled it up and threw it across the room.
Mom poked her head around the door and said that dinner was ready. Wills was still in his room, still maintaining that he wasn’t well and saying that he wasn’t going to eat, which proved that he wasn’t well. He had told Mom that when I had seen him with his two friends, he was telling them that he wouldn’t be able to meet up with them in town after school because he was feeling ill and was going home to bed. Mom didn’t say she didn’t believe him, but I know she didn’t and I know she was worried. When I went to watch the television, she took the telephone into the kitchen and I heard her talking. I think it was to Dad.
I went up to bed early to read, but I saw the balled-up flyer on the floor and the thought of entering the competition got into my head. What would I write about if I did decide to enter? I wondered. I didn’t have the slightest idea. At school you were given a subject and that’s what you had to write about, whether it inspired you or not. But if you can write about anything—ANYTHING—how do you choose? I mean, there are so many things you could write about, how do you narrow it down to just one? How do you decide what the best subject is for you—one that won’t be boring, or lead you up a dead end, or make you feel at every turn that all you’re doing is writing about something that everybody in the whole wide world has already written about? Everything I thought about sounded boring, like MY BEST VACATION, or MUFFIN THE MOUSE (that would have been all right except I couldn’t think of anything much he could do—you can’t write a whole story about a mouse doing wheelies!). I tried to think of something more imaginative. THE GIANT POSTMAN sounded more fun, but apart from scaring people and stealing their letters, I didn’t know what else he could do. Anyway, I had this vague feeling that I had seen a book with that title in the library. That’s the trouble. Everything’s been done before.
And then I had a BRILLIANT idea. I would write about Wills! Or someone like Wills. Nobody could possibly have written about someone like Wills before. It would be about what it’s like to live with a psycho. Nobody could possibly know what that’s like unless they live with a psycho themselves. I could make it really funny because I could exaggerate the sort of things he does, like the pickled onion football—not that that needs any exaggerating.
Suddenly, I was excited about entering the competition. Even if I didn’t win, it would be good to write down how I felt about Wills. I found some paper and a pencil and wrote the title: MY BROTHER. Just putting down those two words gave me a sense of achievement. MY BROTHER by Chris Jennings.
The bedroom door swung open and Wills’s face appeared. I quickly sat on the piece of paper.
“What are you doing?” asked Wills.
“Writing,” I said.
“Writing what?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Snot.”
“Snot yourself. I thought you were supposed to be ill?”
“I was, but I’m feeling a bit better now. Thanks for telling on me to Mom. She didn’t believe me because of you.” Wills sounded genuinely hurt.
“She didn’t believe you anyway,” I said back.
“She might have if you hadn’t stuck your big nose in,” he sulked.
“Mom’s not stupid,” I said. “You’re stupid thinking you can blow off school and get away with it.”
“School’s boring”, said Wills, “and the kids in my class are all donkeys.”
“It won’t just be you who gets into trouble if you don’t go. Mom and Dad will as well,” I snapped at him.
“It’s all right for you, goody goody. You’re not in a class where everyone’s a year younger than you,” Wills snapped back. “It makes me feel like I’m a dope.”
“Playing hooky won’t change that,” I said. “You’ll get even further behind.”
“Why don’t you want me to see what you’ve been writing?”
The change of subject was so sudden I couldn’t think what on earth Wills was talking about. Then I felt my face change color.
Wills began to snigger. “You’re not writing love letters, are you? Go on, show us.”
“No, I’m not,” I protested hotly.
“What’s so secret, then?” he grinned.
“Mind your own business,” I snapped again. “You don’t tell me what you’re up to in your bedroom.”
“Nothing to tell,” said Wills innocently. “It’s just me and my fossils.”
“I wish you’d turn into a fossil,” I said lamely.
Mom called us down for a mug of hot chocolate. I had to watch Wills being butter-wouldn’t-melt with her, like he is when he knows he’s in the wrong and wants to be forgiven. Mom resisted for a while, but eventually Wills got around her and made her sit next to him on the couch to watch television. I said I was tired and that I was going to bed early. Wills nudged Mom and said, “I think Chris is writing lovey-dovey letters.”
Mom told him to stop talking nonsense, but Wills gave me a big wink as I went out of the door.
MY BROTHER by Chris Jennings.
I stared hard at the piece of paper, as if just by doing that I could
