Tipping the Balance by Christopher Koehler Page A

didn’t bother undressing, and he didn’t sleep. The rump end of the night was short, but it felt like forever as he tossed and turned, never quite comfortable enough to drop off to sleep, never quite comfortable enough in his own skin to tell his old man where to go.
     
    Red-eyed and baleful, he glared at the alarm clock. 5:30 a.m. He hadn’t gotten up that early since the last morning practice for Coach Bedford. “Damn it,” he growled, throwing the covers back.
     
    He squinted and stumbled his way to the kitchen, where his nose told him there was coffee.
     
    “You’re up early, Bradley,” his father commented, not looking up from the morning paper.
     
    “Yeah,” Brad grunted.
     
    “Usually when you’re this hungover, you don’t get up until at least noon,” Randall said.
     
    “I’m not hungover, I just couldn’t sleep,” Brad said, trying and failing to keep his irritation to himself. He poured himself a big mug of coffee.
     
    “I don’t care for that tone,” Randall said.
     
    “I didn’t get drunk last night, and I didn’t embarrass you. I was just up late and then tossed and turned all night, okay?” Brad said, holding the coffee under his nose and letting that magic coffee smell clear his mind.
     
    “Of course,” Randall said.
     
    Randall’s tone told Brad he didn’t believe a word of it. The story of his life, Brad reflected. If he told his dad the sky was blue and the sun came up in the east, his dad would tell him how stupid he was. Most of the time, Brad just ignored it.
     
    That morning, it rubbed him the wrong way, and he couldn’t stomach it. “Suffering Christ, would you give me a break? I had one beer last night. I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”
     
    “Poor child,” Randall said. “Maybe you can catch up on your rest at work today.”
     
    Stripped of his usual defenses by sleep deprivation, he blurted, “I need to go to part-time. At Suburban Symphony, I mean. I can only work there part-time.”
     
    “Don’t be absurd, Bradley. I need you out there,” Randall said, finally looking up from the paper.
     
    Emboldened by fatigue, Brad felt something inside him give. “Let me rephrase it, I’m going part-time.”
     
    “And let me be clear, no you are not,” Randall said, slamming his coffee down. “You can’t just go skipping off when the mood strikes you.”
     
    “I can’t believe this! You don’t even know the reason why, and you’re already assuming it’s a bad one!” Brad yelled. He’d always been the go-along-to-get-along younger brother, the one who swallowed the insults because it was easier than arguing, but it had to end sometime.
     
    Randall leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Fine. Tell me about this grand reason of yours.”
     
    “Just do it more quietly,” Philip said as he made his way to the kitchen, blinking in the light.
     
    Brad took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Sorry, Philip. Listen, I’ve got a tremendous opportunity, and I don’t want to lose it.”
     
    “So what’s this scheme of yours, then?” Randall said.
     
    “A friend of mine flips houses, and he and his partner are submitting a bid for the renovation of the Bayard House,” Brad said. “They’ve asked me to come work for them.”
     
    “What on earth do you know about renovation, to say nothing of preserving historical buildings? And a house-flipper? Good luck with that,” Randall said, laughing harshly.
     
    “Interesting,” Philip said, “but you’re not a contractor. What do you bring to the table?”
     
    “First, I’d start working toward my contractor’s license, but you can’t say I don’t know the building trades,” Brad said.
     
    Philip nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that, and the Bayard House is certainly the biggest thing going around here these days.”
     
    “You and your friends don’t have a shot,” Randall scoffed.
     
    “We won’t know if we don’t try,” Brad said. He hated it when Randall got like