for him, not for me. He never got to go to the Academy, and he thinks sending me there will fix it.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“I could run off and join the circus.”
“Right. You could call your act World’s Dumbest Brother.”
“Well, hell, Emma. I’m eighteen years old—”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
“Very funny. What I’m saying is, when does it get to be my life? When do I get to do all that Goethe shit about going confidently in the direction of my dreams?”
Although she had the urge to laugh at him, Emma was caught by what he said. “You should be doing that now.”
He was quiet for a while as he drove. The night swished by, a streak of stars above the treetops. Finally Brian said, “I am.”
“You are what?”
“Going for what I want, not what Dad wants.”
“Art school, you mean.” Emma felt a grudging admiration for him. He’d wanted that forever.
“I need to take my shot.”
“I know. But Dad will say it’s not practical, that you’ll never make a living doing art. And maybe he’s not so wrong, Brian.” She thought about her brother’s magical drawings. He created new worlds, whole universes with such clarity of vision that sometimes she believed they were real places. “But then again,” she added, “maybe he just doesn’t want you to be a starving artist.”
“It’s my choice to make it work or fail, not Dad’s. Being a starving artist is a lot more appealing to me than the Navy.”
Emma said nothing, but she knew one thing for sure. Brian would never go to the Naval Academy. His hero was Robert Crumb, not John Paul Jones.
“So have you told Dad yet?” she asked.
“Idiot. Of course not.”
“Are you going to tell him before he goes on deployment?”
“Hey, how about worrying about your own plans for a change?” Brian asked, parking the truck.
“I don’t have any plans, so I’m not worried.”
He shook his head. “You’d better start playing the lottery, then.” He grabbed a jumbo bag of Chee-tos—his contribution to what was loosely termed a “party”—and took off without waiting for Emma. That was fine with her. Brothers and sisters didn’t go to parties together.
All their lives she and Brian had struggled with this. On their fifth birthday, they had thrown themselves into a jealous row that didn’t end until Emma sank her teeth deep enough in Brian’s arm to draw blood. After that year, they’d always had separate parties, one supervised by their mother, one by their father unless he was at sea. In that case, someone else would step in, usually another Navy mother.
Their rivalry was typical of twins, according to the experts. Emma knew this because her mother had read everything ever written about twins. Parenting Twins. Educating Twins. Raising Twins as Individuals. There was a whole body of literature out there, it seemed, to enable twins to feel normal.
It was dumb to pretend there was nothing unique about twinship, she thought, putting on lip gloss while studying her mouth in the visor mirror. Being a twin wasn’t normal, but it didn’t have to be a problem if you didn’t feel like making it into one. Now that they were practically through high school, it wasn’t such a big deal. But that still didn’t mean she felt like showing up at a party with her brother.
The action was in full swing already. A group of kids sat around a big bonfire, and music roared from someone’s car stereo. Bottle rockets left over from the Fourth of July whined and popped. A few grocery sacks and ice chests hinted that the foray for beer had met with success. The last of the daylight lingered on the water, flickering with the motion of the waves.
The sight of her friends gathered around a beach fire lifted her spirits. The glowing logs gave off a peculiar aroma, and the lively yellow flames illuminated about a dozen kids, mostly seniors. They were a mixture of Navy kids and locals who knew their way around.
Driftwood
“Do you have a better idea?”
“I could run off and join the circus.”
“Right. You could call your act World’s Dumbest Brother.”
“Well, hell, Emma. I’m eighteen years old—”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
“Very funny. What I’m saying is, when does it get to be my life? When do I get to do all that Goethe shit about going confidently in the direction of my dreams?”
Although she had the urge to laugh at him, Emma was caught by what he said. “You should be doing that now.”
He was quiet for a while as he drove. The night swished by, a streak of stars above the treetops. Finally Brian said, “I am.”
“You are what?”
“Going for what I want, not what Dad wants.”
“Art school, you mean.” Emma felt a grudging admiration for him. He’d wanted that forever.
“I need to take my shot.”
“I know. But Dad will say it’s not practical, that you’ll never make a living doing art. And maybe he’s not so wrong, Brian.” She thought about her brother’s magical drawings. He created new worlds, whole universes with such clarity of vision that sometimes she believed they were real places. “But then again,” she added, “maybe he just doesn’t want you to be a starving artist.”
“It’s my choice to make it work or fail, not Dad’s. Being a starving artist is a lot more appealing to me than the Navy.”
Emma said nothing, but she knew one thing for sure. Brian would never go to the Naval Academy. His hero was Robert Crumb, not John Paul Jones.
“So have you told Dad yet?” she asked.
“Idiot. Of course not.”
“Are you going to tell him before he goes on deployment?”
“Hey, how about worrying about your own plans for a change?” Brian asked, parking the truck.
“I don’t have any plans, so I’m not worried.”
He shook his head. “You’d better start playing the lottery, then.” He grabbed a jumbo bag of Chee-tos—his contribution to what was loosely termed a “party”—and took off without waiting for Emma. That was fine with her. Brothers and sisters didn’t go to parties together.
All their lives she and Brian had struggled with this. On their fifth birthday, they had thrown themselves into a jealous row that didn’t end until Emma sank her teeth deep enough in Brian’s arm to draw blood. After that year, they’d always had separate parties, one supervised by their mother, one by their father unless he was at sea. In that case, someone else would step in, usually another Navy mother.
Their rivalry was typical of twins, according to the experts. Emma knew this because her mother had read everything ever written about twins. Parenting Twins. Educating Twins. Raising Twins as Individuals. There was a whole body of literature out there, it seemed, to enable twins to feel normal.
It was dumb to pretend there was nothing unique about twinship, she thought, putting on lip gloss while studying her mouth in the visor mirror. Being a twin wasn’t normal, but it didn’t have to be a problem if you didn’t feel like making it into one. Now that they were practically through high school, it wasn’t such a big deal. But that still didn’t mean she felt like showing up at a party with her brother.
The action was in full swing already. A group of kids sat around a big bonfire, and music roared from someone’s car stereo. Bottle rockets left over from the Fourth of July whined and popped. A few grocery sacks and ice chests hinted that the foray for beer had met with success. The last of the daylight lingered on the water, flickering with the motion of the waves.
The sight of her friends gathered around a beach fire lifted her spirits. The glowing logs gave off a peculiar aroma, and the lively yellow flames illuminated about a dozen kids, mostly seniors. They were a mixture of Navy kids and locals who knew their way around.
Driftwood
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