It was halfway through the lunch period, Thursday afternoon. All around us was the constant humming racket of students talking and shouting and laughing. The air was heavy with the smell of the hot lunch and warm from the heat emanating from the massive kitchen ranges. The plastic chair I was sitting in rocked slightly as I shifted my weight. Across from me, Chet and Iola sat talking to Biff; on the far side of Phil was Tony, cramming for an English test. Frank was nowhere to be seen, and that didn’t trouble me in the slightest.

The day before- Wednesday- my math class had begun a new chapter on equations; today Mrs. Mallory had given us a quiz on it. After she’d passed the papers back, she’d told us all that we’d be going over the chapter again tomorrow, for it was clear that none of us had gotten the idea. "It’s the first time I’ve ever had to record single-digit scores," she’d said wryly, which had done a little to console me. At least I had gotten double digits, even if it was the worst grade I’d ever received in my life.

"Why I’m doing it?" Phil repeated my question, sounding surprised. "Well...um. Why do you need to know? Can’t you just do the step?" He blinked at me, looking rather like an owl with his solemn dark eyes enlarged by his thick glasses. A pale, slim owl with straight mid-brown hair instead of feathers.

"It’s hard to explain," I said, half apologetically. "I need to know why I’m doing something in order to do it." I was starting to regret asking him to help me; there was no question he knew the math- it was simple stuff to him- but that didn’t make him a very good teacher. Seemed to be about the opposite, in fact; he knew it so well that he just did it without thinking about it, which made him a pretty poor candidate for explaining it.

"The equation has to balance," came a very familiar voice from behind my left shoulder, and I froze, physically and mentally.

Ever since our argument on Tuesday, Frank had been avoiding me- and not just me, but the rest of the gang as well. He hadn’t eaten lunch with us today or yesterday, and Iola had told me at the beginning of lunch that he hadn’t been at the bleachers Wednesday after school, either. I suspected that was because of Dad’s order to come directly home after school, but I wondered if there had been another reason. Maybe he’d felt unwelcome. I certainly hoped so.

As he sat down in the empty chair on my left, where he almost always sat, I felt mixed emotions. Mainly I felt a powerful urge to reach out and turn over the quiz paper that Phil and I had been struggling with so my brother couldn’t see the poor score I’d made. He’d be sure to chide me about it, or maybe gloat about how poorly I did when I refused his help. I felt my face heat with embarrassment and annoyance; why had he chosen now to come over, anyway? Why couldn’t he just stay away? Couldn’t he tell I didn’t want anything to do with him?

At the same time, though, a rebellious little part of me was glad. I wasn’t ready to admit that I’d been feeling lonely, but I knew that he could help me with the problems. I was even resigned to the thought of his condescending, impatient manner and the implication that went with it: the implication that he was dealing with someone who was not too bright. It was his usual tutoring attitude, but much as I resented it, he did eventually manage to explain things to me.

"What you do on one side has to be the same as what you do on the other side, or it won’t be equal," he told me quietly. I blinked at the paper and frowned, not willing to look at him. He could tell I wasn’t getting it and picked up my pencil. "What’s on this side- this calculation-" he tapped it with the pencil "-is the same as what’s on that side. So what you do to one, you have to do to the other. It’s like trying to balance a see-saw, you need equal weights at both ends."

I must have still looked baffled. "That doesn’t make sense. Seesaws don’t balance, they just go up and down."

"Um...okay, I guess that wasn’t the best analogy. I was thinking of when we used to try and make it hang straight instead of- never mind, I’m just confusing you. Forget seesaws. Okay...stop seeing the unsolved equation and try it with the solution instead. When you work all this out, you get twenty-eight equals twenty-eight."

"I do?"

"Four times five plus eight equals seven times four."

"Oh, right." I felt like an idiot and was surprised that Frank hadn’t added a "stupid!" to the end of his explanation. I pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, wondering if it was the embarrassment that was suddenly making me feel extra warm.

"Now, just say you subtract two from this side. If you want it to still be a valid result, you have to subtract two on the other side as well."

"But why would I subtract two?"

"On the solution, you wouldn’t. You’re already finished. But on the problem- well, on this particular one, you wouldn’t be subtracting two, you’d be dividing by four. But it’s the same reasoning: you have to balance it. If you do all the work on one side and not on the other, you’ll probably end up with something like a hundred and four equals three, and that obviously isn’t right."

I blinked, a light bulb going on in my head. "Oh," I said in surprise, and then, "Ohhh," in comprehension.

"Make sense now?"

"Yeeaah," I said slowly. It seemed to; it was all in the equal sign. I cautiously worked through a few problems, then glanced over to get Frank’s reaction. I could always tell if I was doing badly or not; he looked disgusted if I skipped a step or mis-calculated or fouled up in any manner. Now, though, he regarded my paper and quietly pointed out that I’d forgotten to carry a one. I wondered if this surprisingly good-natured attitude was due to him feeling guilty, and wished he could be so easy on me all the time.

"Had some trouble, huh?" he asked mildly, returning my glance, and I blushed again, looking away and feeling extremely defensive.

"Some," I agreed, and then I addressed Phil. "I was actually in the top twenty-five percent of the class, though. Mrs. Mallory said some of us got single-digit scores."

"You’re kidding!" Phil gawked at me. "She must’ve left out something pretty major in the class, then."

"Single digits?" Chet repeated from across the table. "Yikes."

"Yeah. The highest score was a fifty-three. So she says she’ll quiz us again tomorrow and average our scores; if we’re lucky we’ll all end up with C’s and D-plusses," I explained. "Not that I usually think that’s good, but..."

"No kidding," Iola murmured. She actually was in the same level math class as I was; I had done so poorly my freshman year that, though I had technically passed, everyone had agreed it would be wise for me to repeat the class. I’d have fewer math credits than most students, but I’d still be fulfilling the required three years. As I thought about it, I realized I could perhaps have asked Iola for help, but she was a freshman...and anyway, the thought made me feel spectacularly shy. You don’t impress a girl by revealing to her how much of a mathematical dimwit you are.

"Joe," my brother said softly, and I started a little in surprise. I had almost forgotten he was there. I turned and saw something in his face that I hadn’t seen in a while; he looked very uneasy. "I- I owe you a major apology," he said, his voice soft but very clear. My mouth nearly fell open at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

"I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said, and- and how I’ve been acting, and you were right to get mad at me. I’ve treated you horribly; I get after you whenever you do something wrong or make a mistake, but I never give you any encouragement or praise when you get it right. I accused you of being lazy and not concentrating, even though I know how hard you work and how much effort you put into it. I’ve pushed you way too hard, trying to make you be as good as me and never considering that some people are just better at some things than others- and that there’s nothing at all wrong with that."

My brother paused and took a deep breath, gazing down at the table. I realized my mouth was hanging open and closed it, hearing my teeth click together. He lifted his gaze again, seemingly with an effort, and his dark-brown eyes were full of insecurity.

"It was on my mind a lot yesterday, especially when I was tutoring Kim- she thanked me for being patient with her. It makes me feel really ashamed to see that I treat everyone else nice and bully you. I have no right to act like a tyrant to you, and I’m not going to anymore- and if you don’t want me to help you at all, I do understand." He paused again, his gaze wavering, his face pale. "I’m not asking you to forgive me, Joe, I just want you to know I feel terrible about it and I am determined to change."

That was a lot to take in in a few moments. I sat still, trying to get over my shock and suddenly noticing that my friends were as stunned as I was; you could have heard a pin drop at our table. I knew Frank was totally serious, and I was astounded that he’d admitted it in public. He’d never humbled himself like that before, and it gave me a very strange feeling. Not of wanting to drag it out and get some revenge, but just the opposite; I felt like I wanted to somehow protect his dignity. I understood why he was doing it, though. He’d humiliated and hurt me in front of our friends; he was trying to atone, at least partly, by apologizing in front of them, too.

And that, in turn, meant he felt it very deeply indeed. Frank just doesn’t make highly emotional statements like that when there are other people around to hear- even people he knows and trusts.

I sat there looking at him for all of thirty seconds while these thoughts flashed through my head. Finally I asked cautiously, "You...don’t want- to be forgiven?" I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

"Not yet," he answered, looking away. It’s usually hard to tell with him, but just then I could see that he was blushing. "Not- until I earn it."

That made me blink again. He wasn’t trying to make me feel like my forgiveness was something he scorned, he was saying how much value he put on it. Something to work for, to earn and-

"Well," I said hesitantly, "I guess...if you want to do it that way." Right then, I felt I could have forgiven him almost anything. I only wondered, half cynically and half sorrowfully, how long this would last. What would happen after he ‘earned’ my forgiveness? Would he backslide to the old, insulting, contemptuous manner?

No one had time to say anything more; the bell rang, ending our lunch and propelling us back to our classes. I had a harder time concentrating that afternoon than I had in the morning and the previous day. Then, I had wanted not to think about how I was feeling and what I was going to do about it; now I did, and the classes felt like a terrible waste of good pondering time.

***

"Did you have any particular need to get home early today?" was how my brother greeted me when I arrived at the bleacher meeting-spot that afternoon. It was a clear, chilly afternoon and the wind had strengthened; I could feel my ears getting cold as the gusts puffed past. We were the only two there and I looked around in some surprise, seeing students go by in clumps and singles but not seeing any of our gang. I wondered where everyone else was. I hadn’t been that quick to get out of class and down to the field, had I?

"No," I answered casually, moving to stand in the sunlight so I wouldn’t start shivering. "How come?"

"I got a project assigned in History, and I’d like to hang out in the library and get the research done on it, if you don’t mind," Frank answered shyly. He brushed back his hair as the wind whipping past sent it in every direction at once. It was doing the same to me, but I ignored that. I felt strangely awkward standing there with just him, and I could tell he felt pretty uneasy about it too.

"It’s fine with me, I can do my homework just as well in the library as I can in my room," I responded. "In fact, if Dad’s home..." I stopped, biting my tongue as Frank cast me a rather troubled glance. "Anyway, no problem. How late do you want to stick around?" I inquired. "And where is everyone?" I glanced back over my shoulder at the football field, hearing a whistle, but it was only the cross-country team coming out to run the track. It seemed strange not to see the football goalposts up; there had been a horrible statewide scandal about high school coaches handing out steroids and all high school football in New York State was shut down for the year- or until they got to the bottom of it, whichever came last.

"About till the late busses leave. And I dunno where they are." My brother glanced around and chewed on his lip, a sign of nervousness. I knew what he was thinking: what if the gang’s absence had something to do with what had happened at lunch? What if they thought his apology wasn’t good enough? Or perhaps-

"Maybe they think they should give us some space to talk." I voiced the thought quietly, blushing a little. Frank’s eyebrows went up as he thought about that.

"Could be," he said softly, ducking his head. That was so unusual for Frank that I was half tempted to ask who he was and what he’d done with my brother. But I had a feeling he wouldn’t be up for the joke.

"Brrr...or, maybe they’re just inside, out of this wind," I offered a moment later.

Frank nodded and pulled his faded jeans-jacket closer around himself. "Let’s follow that example," he suggested, and led the way back up the steep hill to the building. Halfway there, he slowed his steps so we were walking side-by-side, and gave me a sort of slantwise look. I turned to look at him and smiled; not my usual grin at all, but more in the way of an ‘it’s okay, I won’t bite your head off’ smile. I started a little when his hand touched my shoulder, but I didn’t shrug him off.

It’s a sort of a code of ours; Frank knows I won’t tolerate being touched by anyone I’m mad at. So when he’s not quite sure of my mood, he tests to see if I’ll push him away, literally. If I’m mad, I do exactly that; if I’m feeling neutral but not very welcoming, I tolerate the touch but don’t encourage it, and if I’m over my bad temper, I usually respond in kind.

I went a few steps before I concluded that I was feeling more forgiving than neutral, and reached up to brush my fingers against the back of his hand. His fingers were chilly as he squeezed mine, and his tense demeanor relaxed visibly. We weren’t quite back to normal, but we were getting there quickly.

***

It was warm in the library; the radiators under the windows combined with all the afternoon sun made the huge room almost cozy. I sat at one of the rectangular wooden tables, my back warmed by a sunbeam, and worked on my heavy homework load while Frank disappeared among the towering bookshelves. He returned a while later with four thick books and for a long time the only sounds at our table were those of writing and turning pages. Around us, blurring into a background hum, was the noise of students speaking and laughing quietly, teachers coming in to talk to the librarians, the librarians rolling carts of books around, and- once in a while- the thunk of the date-stamp machine as someone checked a book out.

It wasn’t until I finished my Spanish and was about to start on English that something dawned on me. Lifting my head, I scanned the big room. The cliques sitting at their own long tables chattering, the loners seated off by themselves, reading or studying...but no sign of any of our gang. I wondered if Frank had noticed. Probably so- he was observant. I made a mental note to ask about it tomorrow at lunch, if no one told me sooner, and bent over my books again.

After I finished with my English, a composition about what I thought ‘honor’ meant and why it was so important to the Japanese (we were studying Japanese poetry- haiku) I gritted my teeth and brought out the hateful math. Mrs. Mallory had quizzed us again, as promised, and this time I had gotten a ninety-five. I hadn’t bothered to average it out with the twenty-two I’d gotten before, but I thought I might end up with a B-minus. I worked through the problems carefully, pausing often to chew on my pencil, consult the math book, and wear down my eraser correcting my mistakes.

"Trouble?" Frank asked after about twenty minutes of this, looking up from his third volume. He has always been a fast reader.

"Kind of," I had to admit. "It’s the same thing as yesterday, but it’s with fractions now, and I hate fractions. Will you check it when I’m done?"

"Sure," he said, and gave me a little smile. "Did you get quizzed again like she threatened?"

‘Very subtle,’ I thought as I nodded. "Ninety-five."

Frank’s smile turned into a grin and his eyes almost seemed to sparkle. "Hey, that’s fantastic," he said warmly. "Way to go, baby brother."

I grinned in return, feeling all warm inside. ‘What a difference between Tuesday and today,’ drifted through my mind. I wondered if my brother knew how good it made me feel to hear praise from him. "Thanks," I answered, trying to convey my happiness. "When you say I’ve done good, I know I’ve done very well."

Frank’s smile dropped away and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment; when he looked at me again, he looked- not sad, exactly, but something close to it. "You often do very well," he answered. "I just never acknowledge it." He sounded angry- at himself, I concluded. "Joe, I- I meant what I said today at lunch, I want to change how I react to you."

"I believe you," I answered, not completely sure if I really did or not. "If you just keep helping me like you did then, like being patient and everything..."

"If I- if I start being a jerk again- I really am going to try, Joe, but if I start messing it up, you- you’ll tell me, won’t you? I don’t want you to have to remind me, but I might not realize I’m being nasty," he said urgently.

‘How could anyone not realize they were being nasty?’ I asked myself, but then, thinking it over, I knew it could happen. Sometimes I didn’t realize I sounded like a jerk until someone pointed it out to me. "Sure, I’ll tell you- as long as you don’t get mad at me for it." I added the last part warily because when Frank gets mad at me, he makes me feel about an inch tall.

Frank thought about that, drawing scribbles on his notebook. "Maybe make it a- a password, sorta," he suggested. "If you just say straight out, ‘you are being nasty’, we’ll stop and get a grip on the situation before it gets worse."

It was my turn to think. I didn’t really like the idea; it was too easy, it left too big an opening for him to debate that he was not really being ‘nasty’ at all. "How about- if I think you’re being too harsh, I’ll just leave and we can both cool down and not end up arguing about what’s nasty and what’s not?" I ventured.

"Good point." Frank tapped the pencil on his notebook, then dropped it on the table. "Okay. Sounds like a good plan." He looked a little subdued. "But I will try," he added quietly. "I’d rather not have that happen."

I nodded, letting myself hope. I’m known to be extremely stubborn, but my brother has a strong will, too. If he was determined to change his attitude, he’d probably manage to do it. "I like this way a lot better."

"So do I." Frank leaned back in the chair, stretching. The sun was moving lower, it shone on his sweatshirt and made the dark red look lighter. He stood up. "I’m going to get a soda from the machine- want one?"

There are several vending machines in Bayport High that dispense soda and juice, and two that carry candy bars and bags of snacks. There’s been a lot of talk about getting rid of them, as they aren’t ‘healthy’; we kids are all hoping the issue gets locked up in debate for another three years. After that, it won’t matter to us; we’ll be out of there. One of the drink machines is right outside the library and it gets refilled at least three times a day.

"Sure, if there’s anything left," I answered, digging in my pocket for seventy-five cents. I finally found three quarters, but by the time I looked up, Frank had already left the library. He returned a few minutes later with two cold cans of Coke and I thanked him as he handed me one. He wouldn’t take my seventy-five cents, either. "Just return the favor sometime," he said, smiling. I agreed and got back to my math, pausing every so often to sip the soda.

I finished my homework about an hour later, noticed that Frank wasn’t done researching, and went to fetch a book from the science-fiction section. It was a Cherryh novel and I got very absorbed in it; it wasn’t until I noticed my back getting chilly that I looked up and realized how late it was. My neck had grown stiff and I put down the book to stretch, then saw the wall clock.

"I dunno about you," I sighed, "but I’m ready to go home and have something to eat- before we get locked in for the night. The late busses left half an hour ago."

"And I can’t find any more info on Aztecs," Frank agreed, looking up and rubbing at the back of his neck. "These are not comfortable chairs," he complained.

"Aztecs?"

"That’s the project." My brother stood up and took the reference books back to the shelves. I put my textbooks into my backpack, then changed my mind and took them out again as Frank came back to our table. We were the only two in the library now, aside from Mr. Reese at the stampout counter.

"Mind if I stop at my locker? I don’t want to lug these home for no reason."

"Not even for the exercise?" Frank asked, and laughed when I rolled my eyes at him. "I’ll stop at mine, too. I’m done for the night."

It was strange to walk through the empty halls, to look out the windows and see the sun so low. It still cast bright patches on the polished floor, but things had that long-shadow sunset look. Our footsteps sounded hollow on the stairs- Frank’s locker was on the second floor, while mine was on the first- and the thunk of the metal door closing seemed very loud.

"School’s not half-bad when there’s no one here," I mused as we went out the front doors. "Especially when we don’t have to wait for the darn parking lot to clear out." I shivered in the icy breeze as we hurried across the parking lot- we get some fierce winds off the ocean. "Today would not be a good day to walk home," I muttered as I got into the car and closed the door.

"You walked?" Frank stopped with the key a few inches away from the ignition and turned to look at me. "Why? Why not just take the bus?"

"I didn’t want to. Too many people. And then I missed it anyway, so-"

"You shoulda called, I would have come and got you."

I just looked at him patiently.

"I guess not." Frank sighed and started the car. "I knew you were mad at me, but..."

"Speaking of mad, is Dad going to get after you for staying late?" I inquired, suddenly remembering that aspect of things.

"Not when I tell him I had a project assigned." Frank glanced at me as we reached the main road. "So are you ready to start thinking about giving us a hand with this?"

"You don’t need my help," I said calmly, looking out the passenger window. "And you heard what I told Dad, anyway- didn’t you?"

"I heard you saying to count you out," my brother said softly. "I figured you didn’t want to work with me, since you were mad at me. Or is that, ‘are’ mad at me?"

"I’m not mad at you," I assured him. A little nervous, a little uncertain, but not angry. And then, to my own shock, I heard myself say that aloud. "A little worried, maybe-"

"Worried?"

"I’m- I guess still uptight about Tuesday. I know you said you’ll change, but I’m still worried anyway, I guess I can’t help thinking that you’ll try to be nicer for a while and then kind of forget about it. And- if I do start feeling picked on and get up and walk out, won’t you just get disgusted and think I’m overreacting or being too sensitive? It’s just another way of saying ‘you’re being nasty’, and we’re just as likely to argue about it. I don’t want that, I hate fighting and being mad at you. It makes me lonely." I bit my tongue to shut myself up, feeling my pulse quicken in apprehension. What was wrong with me? I hadn’t spilled my guts like that in at least a year, maybe longer.

"It makes me lonely too," my brother said gravely. "And I can’t promise not to think that you’re overreacting, but you getting up and leaving will give us both a chance to think things over and decide what’s wrong. We might not figure out right away what the problem is, but at least we’ll be thinking about it, not fighting with each other about our reactions and making everything worse. Kind of a cooling down time."

I nodded. "So you can try to see it from my point of view and I can try to see it from yours," I ventured.

"Yes. I...I guess it’s hard for you to believe that I’m changing my attitude just like that, but I’ve had two days to think about it and make my decision- it’s not as sudden as it seems, Joe."

"You make it sound like I..." I trailed off. It wasn’t him; I was the one who was sounding like I didn’t trust him. "It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I know how hard it is to break a habit."

"It is, but I’m going to anyway. For my sake, too; I took a long look at the way I’ve been acting, and I don’t like it at all. Joe-"

"What?"

"Is it- my attitude, is it...am I being like that in other stuff too? Like, not just tutoring you, but other stuff we do together?"

"That’s the weird part," I answered slowly, thinking about it. "It’s only been my schoolwork that you’ve been getting so harsh about. I can’t figure it out, to be honest. I keep worrying that it’ll start to show up, though- like all of a sudden you’d get on my back to keep my room as clean as you keep yours, or- well, I dunno, there’s dozens of things for you to start bullying me about. But you haven’t- just with homework."

"Good. I couldn’t tell and the thought was really bothering me," he explained. "Was I- did I do it before this year?"

"No, and that’s weird, too." That one, I didn't have to think about. "I mean- there’s been a lot of times when you’ve showed me or told me how to do something, but it wasn’t till you started tutoring me that you got all...unkind about it." He had decided to help me with math right around the time our parents and my teachers decided I should repeat the subject.

"I guess I hate to think of you failing," my brother said very quietly. "So I pushed you-"

"What, ashamed of me?" I could hear the hurt in my voice.

"No! I-"

"Afraid it would reflect badly on you, having a double-failure for a brother?" I flung at him.

"Let me finish," Frank said, with remarkable patience. I didn’t reply, just looked out of the window at the passing scenery; buildings and streets and cars. "I hate to think of you failing because of what you just said. I know how hard you are on yourself when you don’t get things right the very first time. That’s why I was hard on you; I figured I wasn’t pushing half as hard as you were pushing yourself. But that didn’t mean I was right to do it; just the opposite, you were pressuring yourself quite enough without me getting in on it too."

"Oh," I said softly, feeling foolish. "I...sorry I snapped at you. Guess I jumped to a conclusion again. But it- it kinda worries me sometimes. I hate the thought of anyone feeling ashamed of me, like I’m not good enough."

"That’s not a feeling I’ve ever had about you," he told me, and I blushed, glancing over at him. He hadn’t looked at me once since the conversation started, not even at the stoplights, and I figured he was feeling as uncomfortable as I was. I thought rather wistfully of the times when we used to be able to talk about things that were bothering us without feeling self-conscious about it. But that had changed the year Frank left Elementary school and left me alone in sixth grade while he was in seventh. It had only been a year’s separation, since Bayport High was actually a junior-senior high school, but we were no longer as close as we had been and I regretted that a lot. The detecting helped...

"Anyway, I’m glad you’ve gotten over being angry at me," my brother said into my thoughts, sounding a little shy again.

"Me too. I’m furious at Dad, though," I admitted, suddenly feeling daring. I liked this conversation, awkward as it was. It was good to get all this crap off my mind instead of brooding over it till I got a headache. "I told him how I felt about investigating now, and about how he was making me feel, and I told him repeatedly to count me out. And what does he do? Acts like I never said a word."

Frank said, "Well-" and then he stopped and just drove, frowning. "Mind if we go into this later, when I’m not driving? I can’t concentrate."

I was a little disappointed, but assured him I didn’t mind. "Concentrating in rush-hour traffic is definitely the priority here."

***

Mom was in the kitchen when we got home, preparing dinner. She looked a little worried, but as we came in the worried look faded and she smiled. "I was starting to wonder where you two had gotten to," she said, gently chiding. We both got a quick kiss on our way to the coat closet to hang up our jackets.

"Sorry- I have a new History project, so we stuck around in the library. I figured I might as well research there as online," Frank replied, returning to the kitchen and leaning against the doorframe. He’d lately discovered the Internet, that complicated and bewildering collection of ‘web sites’ that seemed to be located in some dimension I didn’t know about. I knew it had a better explanation that that, but I’m not very technology-minded and wasn’t terribly interested. The part that most caught my attention was the fact that you had to pay to spend time on it, and yet you didn’t really seem to come away with anything when your time was used up. Seemed a bit silly.

"Oh, I see," Mom answered placidly as I slipped past Frank and stood by the counter near the stove. It was my favorite place in the winter; I could feel the warmth of the oven right through my heavy jeans. "Well, it’ll just be us three at dinner tonight. Your Aunt Gertrude is taking in a dinner theater with her friend Maude, and your father is going to be away until tomorrow afternoon."

That piece of news actually lifted a weight off my shoulders; I hadn’t been looking forward to facing Dad again, and I fancied Frank looked a bit relieved, too. "What play is Auntie seeing?"

"I believe it’s ‘Oklahoma!’," Mom said distractedly, opening the refrigerator. "So you two both have your homework done by now, I’d hope?"

"Oh yeah, that was no problem. Oh Mom! I got my math quiz back- ninety-five," I told her, trying not to sound like I was bragging.

"Honey, that’s wonderful!" My mother turned and beamed at me. "I’m proud of you."

"I wouldn’t’ve done so well if Frank hadn’t helped me, though." I cast a half-shy glance at my brother, who was opening the cabinet to get out the plates. "Phil was trying to help, but he couldn’t explain it very well."

"That’s the problem with asking a genius," my brother said lightly, turning around with three plates in his hands. He looked a little flushed and didn’t quite meet my eyes. "It’s all so easy to them that they don’t think about how they do it. They just do it. So they can’t explain it."

"You read my mind." I started rummaging around in the silverware drawer, and then a thought hit me. "What are we having, anyway?"

"Grilled salmon, New Orleans rice and broccoli," Mom answered. I nodded and got out forks and knives, but no spoons. I’ve never seen the point of putting out silverware that you’re not going to actually use. I went out to put them on the table and heard Mom say, "Oh, and I was almost forgetting. Your father called, he wants you to-"

I tuned out, hurriedly putting the silverware down and then retreating upstairs with my empty backpack. I didn’t want to hear a thing about his case. He’d probably sent the message to both of us, and I knew I’d just get mad all over again if Mom confirmed that. I went into my room and sat down at my desk, rummaging around in a listless fashion. It was time I did another cleanup; I could hardly see the dark wood of the desk at all, and the rest of my room was in similar shape.

A few minutes later, Frank loomed up beside me. "You okay?"

"I’m fine- why?"

"You left. Mom’s wondering if you feel all right, that’s all."

"I didn’t want to hear that message," I explained rather curtly.

"Thought that might be it." Frank sighed. "So...let’s talk a minute, while we’ve got some time."

"Okay." I put down the papers I’d picked up and turned to look at him as he sat down on my bed.

"Dad thinks the reason you’re not getting involved anymore is because you’re mad at me," he said cautiously. "He told me that Wednesday, after you didn’t come home when he wanted you to."

"He what?" I sputtered, outraged. "He thinks this is your fault?"

"I, well, when you walked out Tuesday night he asked if I had any idea why, so I told him what I said to you at school. He said you’d probably get over it in time, but that I ought to apologize and- and encourage you to start working on this thing with us."

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and leaned sideways against the back of the chair. "And did he come up with some explanation of all that stuff I told him, of why I said what I did about him only caring about his cases and nothing else?" I asked, bitterly sarcastic.

"Joe," my brother still sounded hesitant, "you- sometimes, you know, when you get mad, you say things...and later, when you’re not angry anymore, you admit that you didn’t really mean it, or not quite that much anyway."

"I know," I grumbled. "I overreact- or exaggerate- but that’s ‘cause I feel so much like no one really listens unless I say something drastic. And not even then, sometimes. You’d think hearing ‘count me out’ would be something pretty drastic in Dad’s mind, but no, he just decides he’s not going to pay any attention to it. Or when I said that about how he doesn’t care about us, he obviously decided not to listen to that either, ‘cause that would mean blaming himself. He’d rather just blame you and ignore what I told him." I hadn’t realized just how much anger I was holding against my father; my tone was sullen and the words sounded incredibly harsh.

Frank looked taken aback. "You said," he ventured, "that he didn’t want you, or need you, or something."

"Both."

"So- then why is he trying to get you to help with this one?"

That was a good question and I thought about it for several minutes. I was tempted to say ‘he doesn’t mean it,’ but I wasn’t going to follow Dad’s own example.

"He doesn’t want me as me," I explained after a while. "The way I am now isn’t much good to him. That’s why he’s always reprimanding me, always telling me ‘you know better’, always criticizing what I do. He wants to- to change me into what he thinks a detective ought to be. And he should know, ‘cause he’s the best there is- but I don’t want to change. I want to be myself, and if it means being a poor detective, or even not being one at all, then that’s just how it is. Besides, I think he doesn’t want you working by yourself," I added in afterthought. "He can’t be with you all the time, and you’re not really enthusiastic about doing it all alone, right?"

"That’s true, he did say something about safer with a partner," Frank murmured, scratching his arm absentmindedly. "But you said in the car today that we don’t need your help- actually, we do."

There were at least a dozen answers I could have given, but I let out the first one that came to mind. "Oh, Frank, you've never really needed me," I said tiredly, leaning back against the chair. "You just got used to me being there, that's all. I was a habit, and an annoying one at that."

"What?" I hadn’t heard him sound so incredulous in a long time, and I looked at him curiously.

"It’s the truth-"

"It is not!" Frank replied forcefully.

"It is to me!"

"Well, it isn’t to me. We need your perspective, your-"

"You don’t need anything from me," I interrupted crossly.

"Joe-"

"Dinner’s ready!" Mom called out from downstairs, and I sighed and closed my eyes. I’d lost my appetite and my good mood. I wanted to stay right where I was and just brood until I felt better. I wasn’t sure I would feel better, though; my head was starting to ache.

Frank stood up and laid his hand on my shoulder, and to my surprise it made me feel a little better. "I guess this wasn’t a very good time after all," he admitted. "C’mon down and let’s just forget about Dad and mysteries for a while. Mom said she has a surprise for dessert, too."

I hesitated, then slowly got up and went down the hall to wash up. The enticing smells were drifting through the entire house, warm and savory, and that did a lot to restore my appetite.

The meal itself was delicious and Frank kept his word, not mentioning Dad or the case he was on. I managed to lose my low mood and had Mom laughing a few times as I described some antics that had taken place during my Science class. We were studying frogs, prior to dissecting them- which I was not looking forward to- and several had gotten loose during the class, causing a major disruption. There was no way of guessing who’d opened the tanks, either, so whoever had done it had gotten away with it.

After supper we both helped Mom clean up- it went faster that way- and had her surprise dessert: pumpkin pie, one of our absolute favorites. "Isn’t it kind of early for this?" my brother asked, spreading whipped cream all over his plate as well as on the slice of pie. "Not that I’m complaining, but it’s not Thanksgiving yet."

"Just getting into practice," Mom answered with a smile.

We added our pie-plates and forks to the dishwasher when we were done, started the wash cycle, and then headed upstairs. I went into my room and started looking for a good book; Frank went into Dad’s office, so I knew he’d definitely been given some kind of assignment. It made me feel a little left out to know that he was working on something without me, but I pushed that feeling away by reminding myself that it was Dad’s job, not mine. I picked up ‘Watership Down’, sat at the head of the bed with my pillow behind me, and started to read.

***

I was in the middle of the third chapter when Frank tapped on the doorframe. Usually he just comes in without asking. I put the book down beside me on the bed and gave him a questioning look. "Can we talk a little more?" he asked hesitantly.

"Sure. Just close the door," I requested. I didn’t really want Mom to hear our discussion; if we started arguing again and she heard, she would come up and tell us to quiet down. Plus, I knew she was glad I wasn’t involved in mysteries anymore, even though she hadn’t said anything to me about it, and I didn’t want her thinking that I was going to change my mind. Besides that, I didn’t want her to hear me being critical of Dad.

My brother nodded, shut the door behind him, and came to sit down on the side of my bed, near me. I leaned against the pillow that was cushioning my back from the wall and waited.

"I don’t want to argue again, but I think we need to clear up what we were, um, talking about before," Frank started. "And I didn’t mean it to sound like I was brushing you off...I kind felt a little dismissed myself, there."

I had to nod. "We were too busy stating our own opinions to listen to each others’."

"Yeah. So...why do you think that we don’t need or want you?"

"You’re the ones with the logic, the intelligence, the deductions, the theories, the plans. I just tag along asking what we’re going to do, acting on my emotions, leaping to conclusions, not thinking things out ahead of time, getting myself and other people into awful danger. I’m a liability, and a dangerous profession like this one hardly needs ‘friendly fire’ like me hanging around." I got it all out in a rush, then stopped and looked at Frank.

Frank had closed his eyes and was sitting very still; I had the uneasy feeling that he was trying to control his temper, which was very unusual for him. But when he looked at me, he didn’t look mad or even impatient; he looked baffled and a little upset. "I happen to disagree," he said slowly. "I have seen you make deductions and use logic, frequently."

"Not as well as you or Dad."

"Who said you needed to be as good as anyone else?" he asked patiently. "You make it sound like you never use logic, and that’s not true. And by the same token, we don’t have the intuition you have. We use what we’ve got but it’s not as good as yours. And intuition is just as important as logic, Joe," he added before I could protest. "Sometimes your hunches are wrong, and sometimes our logic turns out completely mistaken. Process of elimination, remember?"

I remembered. Eliminating a false lead and having to start in over a different direction is maddening, but it happens a lot. When you have to look at every possible angle, you get a lot of false leads. "Maybe you don’t think I need to be as good as you, but I do, and Dad does too or he wouldn’t always be telling me that what I’m thinking of isn’t logical," I retorted sulkily.

My brother tilted his head sideways. "And haven’t you heard him tell me, time after time, that I need to rely on my instincts more instead of pinning everything down to logic? Because after all, people don’t always behave in a logical manner."

I couldn’t argue with that. I turned my gaze away and shrugged slightly. I was a little surprised when his hand rested on the back of mine; he hadn’t done that in a long time. "I guess," I admitted grudgingly.

"It doesn’t take much talent to be logical, but what you do- you put together little pieces of information that you notice about people or situations and make hypothesis about them. You’re the one who suggests motives, who points out that someone who we aren’t really suspecting might have some hidden reasons to be jealous, or want revenge, or be working as an accomplice to get someone’s favor..."

I did do that, I admitted to myself. And it was a fairly important part of some cases. "But not under pressure, like you do," I pointed out. I needed calm and time to think, two things that were often in short supply during an investigation. Frank not only didn't need calm or time to consider, but actually seemed to come up with the most logical notions in the middle of high-pressure situations. How he could analyze and deduce and make split-second connections in the midst of an uproar was beyond me.

"Yeah, that’s ‘cause when you’re in danger, you concentrate on the danger, not on trying to solve puzzles," Frank retorted. "I’m the fool who tries to stick around longer, get more information, even when we’ve got enough. I even try to figure stuff out when I’m looking for escape routes. That’s why I run into ambushes, I’m distracted with thinking. You’ve got more sense; you save your deductions for times when you’re not in danger of being caught, or killed. That’s another thing Dad’s gotten after me for, you know- safety first, then deductions."

"But he never goes and grounds you for it," I muttered. "And if it’s danger we’re talking about, I’ve done more than my share of getting us into it- pretty stupidly, too. I always charge in too fast-"

"Where I hardly charge in at all; all my dilemmas are the result of careful planning." Frank sounded sarcastic, then his voice changed. "Remember the time I ended up taking a ride on the outside of the airplane?"

I shuddered, remembering all too vividly. The sight of the single-engine plane taking off with my brother clinging desperately to the tail still gave me nightmares. I'd been positive he'd fall to his death. "Yeah..." I gripped his hand without thinking, and felt him squeeze gently in return.

"And you can't say that I couldn't have predicted that outcome," he remarked dryly. "Planes do take off- I did not think at all before I hopped on."

"You hardly ever do stuff like that, though. I'm the one who doesn't see what's coming when I act- like running into the street in front of cars, trying to catch someone."

"Well, that incident did teach me to be more cautious," Frank said wryly. "I think it pushed me in the opposite direction, honestly. There's been any number of times when I stood around thinking about consequences for too long, and would've missed a chance if you hadn't seen the need to act and done so. We would’ve missed out on a lot of important clues if you hadn’t pulled us into a situation-"

"And we would’ve been in a lot less danger-"

"Danger goes with this profession," he countered. "Mom and Dad don’t want us walking into danger, but sometimes there’s no other way."

"But I always ruin your plans by acting impulsively."

"Stop exaggerating, it’s hardly ‘always’," Frank sighed. "I’ve ruined quite a few on my own, you know."

"Anyway, you’re always the one who knows what to do," I went on with a sigh of my own. My annoyance was fading, but it was leaving a sort of sadness behind it as I confronted how useless I often felt. "I’m always asking, ‘what now, what do we do, where do we go...what do you mean?’," I concluded.

Frank’s hand squeezed mine again. I looked straight at him for the first time since he’d sat down, suddenly becoming vividly aware of my surroundings: of the clutter in every corner and on the desk, the clothes lying around the hamper- and the chill coming in from around the windowpane in the wall next to me. I slid my hand free and pulled the heavy curtains across, shutting out some of the creeping cold. It made the room seem brighter, too; the lamplight glowed on my brother’s dark hair and lit up half his profile. He had been perched on the side of the bed all this time; now he shifted and sat cross-legged in the middle, reaching out to capture both my hands. It was a peculiar feeling, but not at all unwelcome.

"Don’t get mad," he said slowly, "but- I always figured those were rhetorical questions. Because every time you asked and I didn't have a plan, you made a suggestion, came up with our next move."

‘I did?’ I wondered. Then I felt a strange pang. We were talking in the past tense.

"I always felt you were checking to see if we were on the same wavelength about what to do next," my brother went on. "Lots of times, you'd bring up things I had overlooked or forgotten about. Or point out weak spots- especially in how the people we were after might respond. I never think of it as me coming up with a plan for you to follow, brother. I think of it as me holding out a blueprint and saying, where's the weak spots? You catch a lot of stuff that I wouldn't."

I gazed at him, blinking in disbelief. Weak spots? Approving his plans? Things he'd overlooked? "But," I started feebly, and then stopped, because I wasn't sure how to voice my protest. "I never..."

"You didn't see it that way, did you? You just saw me taking charge again," my brother murmured, looking down at our hands with a regretful expression. "Well, I may’ve come up with the ideas most of the time, Joe, but they wouldn’t’ve worked if it wasn’t for you. And I’ve really come to appreciate just how much I need your input, over the last couple days. Dad and I are getting nowhere on this case, and it’s bothering us both a lot."

"But- but you should work perfectly together," I said weakly, amazed. "You think alike, you act alike- you’re both logical and- and everything. I’m the odd one out!"

Frank looked up and shook his head. "We don't, though," he told me. "And that's exactly the problem- we're both very logical, but we’re sadly lacking in the intuition department. Dad's got some, but I don't have much at all, and his isn’t enough for both of us. I need someone who’s really strongly intuitive, like you, to be a good partner for me. As it is, he’s doing the majority of the work because he and I just don’t mesh. You’ve always been like the- the bridge between us. Joe...do you have any idea how jealous I've been of you sometimes?"

"Wh-wh-at?" I stuttered, feeling my eyes nearly pop out of my head in astonishment. Frank- jealous of me? I felt like the world was turning upside-down.

"You have this way with people that I can't hope to match. Whether on a case or not. You get them to respond to you, open up to you. You make friends quickly, and you get information from people very easily. And I don't. I often can't tell when people are lying, either, or when they're holding back. Sometimes your emotions do throw you off, but like I said, my logic crumbles a lot, too."

I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment. There was an awful lot I needed to think about here!

I wondered first why he was trying to persuade me I was a good detective. I’d had it fixed in my mind for a long time that I was distinctly inferior to him in the work we did, and hearing all of this was confusing me. Frank is honest to a fault, so when he tells me something he's observed about me- I may not like it, but it's not something I can argue with- not successfully, anyway. I wondered whether he was hoping to talk me into helping close the case, since they were stuck, or if he was trying to atone for his harshness by telling me how he saw me. The second reason seemed the most likely, and it was the one I preferred.

"You're observant," Frank said quietly through my thoughts. "You know to keep details in mind, details that might be very important. Not just physical things like matchbooks and keys; mannerisms, habits."

"So are you," I countered stubbornly. "And you keep your temper. You don't jump to conclusions. You've never gone and blabbed about a case that was confidential." It was all I could come up with in terms of arguments; for some reason it was very important to me to be right about this. Being wrong would mean that all the reasons I'd given Dad for not getting involved were invalid, it meant that I’d have no logical reason not to get involved.

No logical reason, just a bunch of emotional ones. Well, emotions were valid enough as reasons, weren’t they? People make decisions based on logic, but they also make choices on the basis of how they feel...

"Don't lose my temper?" Frank startled me out of my musing. "Joe, you've seen me lose my temper. And I do certainly jump to conclusions. Like when I decided Matlack was the guy who Dad was after who'd put him in the hospital- and it turned out I led us to New York on a wild goose chase that ended at Matlack’s grave! And I've definitely let the cat out of the bag when I shouldn't've- trusting people who weren't trustworthy because I didn't have your gut feeling about them. You're making me sound like the perfect investigator, brother, and I'm not, not by a long shot. And I'm not better than you, either," he added, reading my mind.

I just shook my head again, bewildered and suddenly close to tears. He'd left me nothing to argue with. But if I admitted he was right- and I still didn’t feel convinced that he was- he and Dad would keep expecting me to give in and start helping them again.

"Joe, you're my partner and I miss working with you. We work best together because we both have strengths and we both have weaknesses. Your strengths compensate for my weaknesses, and the other way around. Together, we're almost as good as Dad."

‘You mean, you’re almost as good as Dad, and you’d be as good as him if I wasn't such a nuisancy troublemaking hotheaded idiot,’ I thought reflexively. But the thought lacked the stinging conviction it had always held before. Which of us was right, anyway?

"You just aren't going to believe me, are you?" Frank asked quietly, letting go of my right hand and reaching up to brush my hair out of my eyes. "I wish I could convince you. I really need your help on this case."

"I don’t want to help!" I protested, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I told Dad to count me out, and he’s acted like it was some stupid passing whim. If I help you, he'll conclude he was right- and he won't take me seriously when I'm angry again. Either I stand my ground or I cave in, and I won't cave in."

Frank studied me for a long moment, comprehension flickering over his face. He squeezed my hand, his free hand dropping down to rest on my shoulder. "I understand," he told me quietly. "We both have a good deal to answer for on the way we've behaved towards you. I've been too harsh on you, and he's been too..."

"Indifferent. He used to care, Frank. He used to do things with us that had nothing to do with his work. He never does anymore, he never even talks to us about anything but cases and mysteries and- and he's hardly ever around-" I clenched my fist around the quilt as my anger wrenched inside me, mingling with aching sadness. My head throbbed and I closed my eyes, but it didn't help. "I need to go get an aspirin," I muttered, letting go of the blanket and pressing my hand against my forehead. "My head's about to split."

Frank tugged on my hand- the one he was still holding- before I could slide off the bed. "Lie down," he suggested. I gave him a puzzled look. "Lie down," he repeated encouragingly. I shrugged and obeyed, flopping down on my back and looking up at him resignedly. He let go of my hand, scooted closer, and started stroking my forehead with gentle, warm fingers. It was amazingly soothing and I closed my eyes. I soon relaxed and the wretched ache faded away, leaving me very sleepy.

"Thanks," I whispered gratefully. I was past being surprised, past thinking how long it had been since he’d soothed me this way. I just lay quiet and enjoyed the feeling that he was looking after me.

"Stressed out, little bro?" he whispered back.

I nodded, then realized that had been a rather silly thing to do when Frank's fingers banged into my nose. "Oops."

"Watch where you're nodding," he teased softly.

"You see how I don't think?" I couldn't resist saying.

Frank stopped, his fingers lingering motionlessly on my forehead. "Oh, kid..." he said sadly. "I wish I could persuade you...but maybe I just can't. Maybe this is something you have to convince yourself of. You've been feeling inferior for a long time, haven't you?"

I hesitated, then shrugged mentally and nodded again. Might as well admit it.

"And it didn't help that I was so rough on you...or that Dad's so demanding and single-minded about his work. I guess you need the break, Joe. You need to stop thinking that you've got to measure up to me or him. The only person you need to win approval from is yourself."

"And you say I'm good with people?" Getting a philosophical pep-talk from my brother about my self-esteem was a wholly new experience for me. He sounded like a cross between Mom and a shrink.

"You are. You understand how people think and feel. I understand one person, most of the time. You. And still I screwed up. I let you think that I looked down on you; not only let you think it, reinforced it by trying to make you equal or surpass my standards. And that was totally wrong of me. You need to be yourself, with your own strengths and weaknesses, not work yourself into a misery trying to match my expectations."

I opened my eyes again, very taken aback. I'd never heard my older brother talk like that before, and as I looked at him, I saw tears glittering in his eyes. "Frank?" I asked hesitantly.

"When I think of all the times I called you ‘stupid’ and worse, all the times I’ve tried to insult you into doing better...I feel horrible," he answered shakily. "I don't know when I turned from rooting for you to burying you in criticism, but I'll stop if it kills me."