2. Arlo

“Package,” my younger brother Noah calls, coming into my kitchen and dropping the cardboard box on the counter with a thud. “Can I open it?”

“Is it addressed to you?” I ask, putting down my sketchbook and climbing from the couch.

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“But it’s from your publisher. I want to see it.”

“It’s my book. Oh, then the answer is hell no.”

“I’m calling Gordon, he’ll want to see it, too. Don’t open it yet.”

“Open it, don’t open it, make up your mind, little brother.”

“I’m bigger than you now.”

“But you’ll always be little to me.”

Noah laughs and pulls out his phone to dial our big brother. He’s right. He hasn”t been little to me in years. Both Noah and Gordon are what you might call Herculean guys, while I’m the dictionary definition of gangling. Tall, thin, and awkward AF.

Gordon answers on the first ring, he’s nothing if not dependable, especially when it comes to us. I hear Noah tell him about the book delivery as I grab scissors from the top drawer. I cut down the center of the top of the cardboard box but hesitate to open it up. Inside is everything I’ve ever wanted. All I have to do is flip the lid and my dreams of becoming a published author are realized.

“Hurry up,” Noah whines, reaching across the kitchen island to try to grab the box. “We want to see.” He almost gets a hold of the lid, but even his long arms are just not quite long enough to reach it. Both my brothers have long arms, legs, too. When I said they were Herculean, I wasn’t kidding. They’re tall, tanned, athletic, perfect eyesight, coordination, reflexes, you name it, they have it. Me, I’m a foot shorter, skinny, two shades paler, wear glasses, because no way can I stomach sticking a finger anywhere near my eye, and am currently sporting a really itchy cast on my left wrist. Name another human that can break their wrist and two fingers tripping over their own feet on flat ground in their own home?

“Turn me around,” Gordon says from the phone in Noah’s other hand. “I want to take a screenshot of his face when he sees it.”

“You two aren”t making this any easier,” I complain, pushing my glasses back up my nose for the billionth time today before slipping my fingers under the folds of the lid. Inside this box are the first copies of my book. A book I never thought in a million years someone would want to publish, and with my own illustrations in it, too. “What if it’s crap?”

“Oh my god, it’s not going to be crap,” Noah says, trying again for the box, but he drops the phone and Gordon yells at him to pick him up.

Gordon has his face pressed right up against his phone so that all I can make out on the screen is his right eye and half his nose, like coming closer to the screen will help him see anything.

“Keeping the box closed won’t stop the world from getting their hands on your book,” Gordon says, his words slightly fogging up the screen. “It will be released in bookstores tomorrow.”

He’s right. The time for backing out is well past. Fuck it. Let’s do this. I flip the box open and pull out the brown packing paper scrunched in bunches on top. Then I spot the bright yellow text of the title, Gordie Goes Bananas. Holy fucking shit.I toss the last of the paper and stare down at the full cover. My illustration is shiny and bright looking back at me.

“Is it crap?” Noah asks, and Gordon hushes him.

I reach in, hesitating for a second, like if I touch it it might disappear. Or I might wake up. But when my fingers make contact with the hard cardstock of the glossy cover, a lump rises in my throat.

“It’s real,” I whisper, and Gordon chuckles.

“Come onnnnnn,” Noah whines, and I lift the top copy out of the box and turn it to face them.

Gordon’s eyes go wide, and Noah’s mouth drops open. For the first time in his life, Noah’s actually speechless. If my book achieves nothing else, it achieved the impossible with that.

“Is that me?” Gordon asks, and I nod. He knew my children’s story was about a baseball player on a Banana Ball team, but I never told him I based the main character on him. I left the team names off the uniforms but kept the colors. Gordon’s Animal Control neon orange pops so well with the yellow text. “Noah, move me closer.”

Noah stretches the hand holding the phone forward but still says nothing. His eyes are scanning the cover.

“That is my copy, right?” Gordon says, and Noah turns the phone to face him.

“No way, I’m the one taking him to his signing tomorrow, I get the first copy.”

“Pretty sure they sent me enough that you can both have one, but the first one out of the box is mine,” I say, turning it back over and flipping open to the first page. It’s perfect. The art department has done an amazing job turning my drawings into incredibly clean graphics with super bright colors, and as I turn through each page and read my words, my story, it all really sinks in. I did it. I published a book.

Noah rounds the counter and pulls out the next book in the box, flipping through the pages while Gordon watches from his phone.

“You have to bring my copy over tonight,” Gordon says, and Noah passes me the phone and moves to the couch with the book.

“It’s Friday, don’t you have plans already?” I ask. He’s moved back from the screen, and I can make out the pool of his Savanah house in the background.

“I’m staying in tonight. Training starts up soon, so I figured a few quiet nights might be a good idea.”

Noah scoffs from the couch, and I have to agree. Gordon doesn’t do quiet.

“You can grab your copy tomorrow,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“No way. My younger brother’s book, about me playing Banana Ball arrived, and you expect me to wait to read it? Come on, we can have a late dinner. Chill on the couch, it’ll be fun.”

Noah calls from the couch, “I’ll drive him over. What time?”

I interject before Gordon can answer.

“You’re already driving me tomorrow, he can wait till then.” I had every intention of calling a cab to take me into the city for the signing, but if I told the cab driver to turn around and take me home halfway there, he would listen to me. My brother won’t. As much as I wanted to be a published author, I’m equally terrified of having to talk about the book or read it in front of people I don’t know, and the publisher has set up readings at libraries and bookstores, and all I want to do is curl up under a blanket with my pretty, pretty book and let everyone just read it for themselves.

“Stop thinking about tomorrow,” Gordon says, and I snap out of my spiraling thoughts, attention back on him.

“Come on, bro. You should be celebrating. This book is awesome. We can order Vinnies, you love Vinnies,” Noah adds, and I look down again at the cover and its beautiful colors and the caricature of Gordon front and center. I drew so many sketches at those games, but I always knew, if I had a choice, the cover would be this one. Him in a yellow baseball uniform, standing like he’s just thrown a pitch, but instead of a ball, he’s throwing a banana. It would be good for him to see it in person. He was the inspiration, and he did get the team and the players to sign waivers so I could use their likeness in it in the first place.

“Are you sure you don’t have plans already? I don’t want you to change things around for me. You both already have to do that too much.”

“We do things for you because we want to. And I swear, I had no plans to go anywhere tonight.”

Noah pipes in, “What he said.”

Sure, Noah must just love living with his older brother instead of at the college with his frat buddies. When I broke my wrist, I thought I would be fine here alone. Turns out, it’s really hard for an accident-prone guy like me. A few days in, I had to have a revision surgery after I dropped a pan off the stove, and when I instinctively reached for it, smashed the open side of my half cast against the counter. The pain was so intense I passed out. I was lucky I was only out for a few seconds, but the hospital called Gordon when I was in surgery, and when I woke up, Noah was already moved into my spare room.

I still don’t think it was entirely my fault. Like who sends a person home with half a cast? I get that the swelling had to come down more before giving me a complete cast, but is it really safe to wait for that at home? I think my situation proves it’s not. At least after the second surgery, they kept me in until the swelling went down enough to put on the full thing that goes half up my forearm and only leaves my fingers free to move.

“Fine,” I agree.

“Awesome,” Gordon replies, and then I hear someone call out something to him that sounded an awful lot like, “Where’s the bar.” “I’m going to fit in a quick workout. Get here at about seven thirty. I’ll take care of dinner,” Gordon blurts, then hangs up.

“Did someone just ask Gordon where the bar is?” I question Noah, and I swear I catch the slightest of smirks on his lips before he stands.

“It was probably a teammate,” he calls back on his way toward his room. “They’re working out. You use bars and dumbbells, all that shit in a gym. I’m going to take a shower,” he finishes before closing his door behind him.

I think they’re both full of shit.