Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him, it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at lea...
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The coffee in my ceramic mug swirls from the vibration of my phone on the table. I've ignored my brother's calls since that night at his apartment where he attempted to Shanghai me. It hasn't stopped him from calling me every day since, and texting in between the voicemails. If I didn't know any better, I might mistake his little antics as a sign of his caring, but I've known Callan for far too long. Whatever is motivating him to reach out to me has a pay out for him somewhere. And I know a good conscience isn't shiny enough.
I return to my reading, but only make it a few more lines before the screen lights up again. I roll my eyes at the younger version of Callan who fills the screen. It's one of my favorite pictures of him. I took it when I got my first camera on our tenth birthday. He's way too close to the lens with his squinted eyes and the smallest tinge of gums showing in his otherwise close lipped smile. The best part of the picture though, is the fact that it's slightly blurry. It's what encapsulates Callan in the single frame. He's always on the move, never occupied by something for more than a second or two.
Our mom used to joke that football might not work out because it's not fast paced enough, that Callan would be better suited to spend his life training for triathlons or another sport where he doesn't have to spend half the game watching from the sidelines. Of course our dad never found the joke funny. He's never found any joke funny. It's one of the biggest reasons we don't see eye to eye. I'm sarcasm if it took a human form, and he's never even heard of a punchline.
When Callan calls a third time in a row, I decide something might be wrong so I pop my airpods in, and hit the accept button.
"What's so important that I can't just read about it on social media like a normal person?" Callan ignores my question completely. "Can't I just want to know how my favorite little sister is doing?"
"Technically I am older than you," I say, flatly.
"But you're shorter than me, hence little sister."
"Did you really call me to point out my height deficit or is there a purpose to this interaction?"
"No," he clicks his tongue. "I just needed to remind myself why I don't actually enjoy talking to you." I remind him that he could have done that with his memories rather than testing the theory. He ignores me and continues. "I do have something to ask you."
"I can feel the osteoporosis setting in," I mutter, which is immediately followed by a "What the fuck is that?" from Cal's end.
"I'm growing old here."
"Fine! I'm having a 'We Survived the First Week of Classes' party and I want you to come," he says. If I could see him, I would find him pacing back and forth, a hand in one pocket. It's the only way he knows how to talk on the phone. Just like the only thing I know how to do right now is let my eye roll be accompanied by an exasperated sigh.
