Stealing the Game (4 page)

Dark Secret No. 3: I draw comic books.

This is the darkest secret of all, because if my parents found out, they would probably throw a fit worse than the one they were throwing right now with Jax. My cell phone would be taken away.
My computer use would be restricted to homework only. Bars on the windows were a possibility. Electrified fences and toothy Rottweilers might be involved.

Here’s why: I’m supposed to follow in Jax’s footsteps.

And, despite what you saw today, those are really big footsteps.

Jax has always been the family’s Golden Boy. He was the star pitcher of his Little League team, which started a domination of all sports—one that continued throughout high school and
college. Star football quarterback. Star basketball forward. Star volleyball setter. Tennis, golf, water polo. Whatever sport, Jax excelled. More important, unlike a lot of his teammates, he was
never a jerk about it. He didn’t show off, brag, or hog the ball. In basketball he was known for passing as much as shooting. He went out of his way to make his teammates look good.
Obviously, everyone loved him.

If only sports had been his sole area of accomplishment. No such luck.

He was also a straight-A student, the prized pupil of every teacher. His essays won contests, his test scores broke records, his scholarship offers in both sports and academics made guidance
counselors weep with joy. I had hoped that our nine years’ age difference would prevent any comparisons. Nope! In almost every class, when I walked in for the first time, the teacher would
ask if Jax was my brother. They always asked with a big dopey grin, looking so hopeful that I hated to say yes, because I knew how disappointed they were going to be. There would be no weeping for
joy because of me.

The only thing I had in common with Jax was basketball. It was the only thing I did well, maybe as good as he did.

That and my comic books.

MY
parents don’t know I read comic books, let alone write and draw them. It’s not that they have anything against
comics—Dad used to read them as a kid, and he was the one who took me to the comic book store when I was around eight to give me a tour of his childhood favorites: Flash, Superman, and Green
Arrow. Jax never was into them, which made them even more appealing to me. It was something just between Dad and me.

Here’s the thing, though: I think my parents figured that comics were a gateway into reading, and that once I was able to read “real books,” I’d pack away childish comics
along with LEGOs and Barney the purple dinosaur.

Except I didn’t.

And the reason I don’t want Mom and Dad knowing about my reading or drawing comics is that one of two things would happen: (1) They’d have something to use to punish me, like taking
them away if I wasn’t doing something they wanted (which they did with TV, movies, Xbox, and my computer). Or (2) They would make me take art lessons to encourage me to become the best
graphic novelist of all time, asking me daily about my progress, wanting to read every word I wrote, examine every drawing I made. It’s basically why I stopped playing the guitar.

Comics are my thing now—as long as they never find out about it.

They are not part of the Richards Family Master Plan. The RFMP is for me to do everything Jax has done, but better. Clearly, the RFMP is not working.

Like Jax, I’m good at most sports. Throw a ball into the air in the middle of a crowd and I’ll be the first to grab it. I like playing, and even though I never say it aloud, I like
being on a team. There’s something cool about a bunch of guys from different families and cultures and backgrounds all working together toward one goal. I know most people think that goal is
winning, but I don’t think it is. I think the goal is just to be on a team. Winning is the by-product, the same way Jell-O is made from gelatin, a by-product of boiling animal bones,
connective tissues, and intestines. Mostly, winning gives us something to talk about, our own language that makes us feel special.

I need that feeling of being special, because whenever I’m compared to Jax, I don’t feel even close to special.

Unlike Jax, I suck at school. I’m not a complete dummy. I get A’s in English. I really like reading the stories and poems, and even though I don’t say it aloud (see my
pattern?), I actually understand most of the hidden meanings and stuff that Mr. Laubaugh brings up and that make everyone else groan. A couple weeks ago we read “The Tell-Tale Heart” by
Edgar Allan Poe, and I liked it so much that I went online and read a bunch of his other stories. Poe was one creepy dude. Of course, I’d never mention any of this in class, or everyone would
think I’m kissing up to the teacher. So the Legend of Quiet Chris continues.

“Are you insane?!”
my father yelled so loud that it actually rattled my door. “That’s not a rhetorical question, Jax! I truly want to know if you’ve been
examined by a psychiatrist!”

I heard Jax laugh. Which caused my dad to yell even louder.

I’m also good at history. There’s something comforting about history. Like sometimes I think about some boy my age a hundred years ago, or two hundred years ago, or a thousand years
ago, and I know they were probably sitting at their desk or by the river or in a stable and doing something their parents didn’t want them to do.

It’s math and science that are killing me. I hate math and have no interest in it, so I’m just treading water there, trying not to fail. But I actually like science and learning how
birds fly and why we have volcanoes and where Jell-O comes from. It’s just that there are so many technical terms to memorize for the tests that I get them mixed up. And, no, I’m not
dyslexic. My parents had me tested. Twice.

I think they would have been relieved if I was dyslexic, because that would explain my math and science test grades. And they would have been able to formulate a plan of action (they loved to
come up with plans of action) that would have included more testing, medication, tutors, and therapists. Unfortunately for them, I’m just bad at those subjects.

Also unlike Jax, I’m not good at social stuff. Jax could walk into a prison filled with the worst, most ruthless, most violent men in the world and he’d come out with three close
friends. And at least one of the guys would be offering to set him up with his sister. When Jax was in high school, if someone was invited to a party, the next question was, “Is Jax going to
be there?” And, to tell the truth, everything was a lot more fun when Jax was there. He was funny and lively and daring and kind. Even though he was nine years older than me, he was always
taking me along with him and his friends when they went to the beach or the movies or Disneyland. He didn’t have to, he just did. And he always made me feel like I was part of the gang, not
just some punk kid brother he had to drag along.

See? You wish you knew him, too, don’t you?

To my parents, Jax was the Golden Boy, who shined like the sun. I was more the Bronze Boy. Bronze looks like gold from a distance, but when you get closer you realize it’s not as
attractive, not worth much, and is easily forgotten.

NOW
I’m going to tell you something I probably shouldn’t. Something the family rarely talks about. And then only in a
hushed voice, like kids planning a party they don’t want their parents to know about.

I was a “designer baby.”

No, it was nothing to do with fancy diapers or silver spoons or an English nanny.

The other term for me is “savior sibling.”

What it means is that I wasn’t conceived in the usual way that they tell you about in health class or romantic comedies. And my parents didn’t decide to have me because they were
overwhelmed with a desire for another child. They had their hands full with the one they had.

They decided to have me to save Jax’s life.

I’m not going to go into the medical specifics, but he had a blood disease that required having transfusions every three weeks and a bunch of painful injections that took twelve hours to
complete. The doctors didn’t give him much hope of living to his tenth birthday.

The only thing that
maybe
would save him—and it was a very, very shaky maybe—was a transplant of blood cells with the same immune system genes. For that, they would have to
make another baby. There were a billion things that could go wrong, the most probable one being that I wouldn’t be a match. But my parents decided to take the risk and have me. They used stem
cells from my umbilical cord to jump-start Jax’s immune system, and then blood from my cute baby self to keep him going. For most patients in Jax’s position, recovery is slow and
tedious and even then not necessarily guaranteed. But Jax defied all medical expectations by making a full recovery. I think the whole experience is what drove him to excel in both athletics and
academics. Like he was proving to everyone that they had made the right decision going through all that pain for him.

Like I said, we rarely talk about it. Not because we’re ashamed or broke any laws, but because there are a lot of nut jobs out there with all kinds of opinions about everything, especially
what’s moral and what’s not when it comes to science. I’ve read about other families that have done the same thing and received death threats from their neighbors. So you can see
why we don’t broadcast the whole “savior sibling” thing.

Except sometimes Jax jokingly called me SP (for Spare Parts). He told me once that English royalty used to refer to their children as “an heir and a spare.” That meant they would
have one child who was expected to inherit the throne, then another “spare” child in case something happened to the heir. When he called me SP, I’d call him BB, for Blood Bank,
since I made so many deposits of my blood into him. That was our private joke.

He doesn’t go around thanking me all the time for saving his life. After all, I didn’t really choose to do it. But there is a special bond between us because of what happened.

Or so I thought.

Now I wasn’t so sure what was going on with him. And it scared me.

I WAS
sketching a new supervillain when my bedroom door suddenly flew open.

In a panic, I plunked my laptop on top of my sketches and began to type furiously. My heart beat as rapidly as my fingers clacked on the keyboard.

“Relax, Stan Lee,” Jax said with a chuckle. “I’m not here to bust you.”

I stopped typing and waited for my blood pressure to go down. Fear of discovery had left a weird taste in my mouth, like I’d been sucking on a rusty nail. “Thanks for the heart
attack, Jax,” I said.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything, SP,” he said.

“Ditto, BB,” I said.

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, releasing a deep sigh and pretending to wipe his brow. “Whew!” He grinned. “And that was only Round One. Can’t wait
to see what Mommy and Daddy dearest have in store for me tomorrow, after they’ve had all night to discuss it.” He made the sound of an explosion while his hands pantomimed an expanding
mushroom cloud.

“You can’t really blame them,” I said sternly. I was instantly annoyed with myself for taking Mom and Dad’s side. But I was mad at Jax for not telling me he’d
dropped out of Stanford, a place I had no hope of ever getting into. Or that he was coming back home. I get his not telling Mom and Dad, but I’m his
brother
! “You did kinda
spring this whole dropping-out-of-law-school thing on them.”

“It’s like a Band-Aid, bro. Just yank it off before you have time to think about it. Less painful that way.”

I stared at him, trying to figure out why he was acting so weird. He wasn’t usually this sarcastic about Mom and Dad.

He walked over to my desk and pulled the sketches out from under the laptop. “Who’s this?” he said, holding up the supervillain I’d been working on.

Remember earlier when I said I drew comics? I may have exaggerated my ability. My characters look stiff and mechanical, like they were drawn by a circus dog with a pencil in his mouth.
Basically, I draw a vaguely humanoid shape, then I design the costume and describe the powers with arrows pointing to appropriate body parts. Thinking up powers is what I’m good at. I’m
hoping that someday I’ll meet a real artist who might want to work with me. At school, I’m always secretly looking at kids’ doodles, trying to find someone who can actually
draw.

“Where’s Master Thief?” he said, referring to my main superhero. Master Thief is the me I was telling you about earlier: the sophisticated thief who can go wherever he wants
because he can break into anything. No secrets are safe from him, and he can’t be contained. You could lock him in a steel box and drop it into the ocean and he’d find a way out.
I’m still not sure what superpowers to give him. I could give him super-hearing so he can hear the tumblers in safes that he’s cracking. Or super-vision so he can see all the traps that
are laid out to capture him. But I don’t want to make it too easy for him. There has to be risk, or the story will be boring. It’s like Superman, right? He’s got dozens of
superpowers so it’s hard to believe anyone in the universe can defeat him.

“These are the villains Master Thief has to fight. I figure if I get them right then I’ll know what powers Master Thief needs.”

“If he’s a thief, why would he fight villains? Isn’t
he
a villain?”

“Well, he’s a villain to some, just like Catwoman and Black Canary are, but he also fights against really bad guys.”

“Sounds like an identity crisis.”

“He’s complicated,” I said sharply, hoping to end the conversation. Truth was, I hadn’t really figured it all out yet.

He nodded as he leafed through my sketches. He held up the sketch of a man with six arms, each one holding a different weapon. “Who’s this?”

“I call him Armed and Dangerous.”

Jax laughed. “That’s funny, Chris. Really funny. Did you mean it to be funny?”