Illicit Entanglement

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ALEX

I hate my family, well not all of them, but if I am giving the chance, I will burn them all to the ground.

The clinking of silverware echoed in the tense silence. Mashed potatoes threatened to erupt from my volcano-shaped bowl as my dad cleared his throat. I braced myself. Here it comes.

“Alex,” he began, his voice a touch too loud, “How about those, uh, report cards we discussed getting framed?”

I stabbed a rogue broccoli floret with unnecessary force. “Right,” I mumbled, my eyes glued to the massacre on my plate. “About that...”

“Seems Caleb got straight A’s again,” my stepmom, Brenda, chimed in, her smile as sharp as a freshly peeled carrot. Caleb, ever the golden child, beamed back, a halo of perfect curls framing his smug face.

“Must be nice,” I muttered, the air thickening with unspoken frustration.

“It is,” Caleb chirped, “Especially when Dad lets you pick any video game you want!”

My dad chuckled, a sound that grated on my nerves like a rusty fork on a plate. “That’s the spirit, champ! Now, Alex, maybe you could take a page out of Caleb’s textbook, huh?”

My textbook? More like a dusty tome of boredom. History lectures felt like watching paint dry, and dissecting frogs in Biology class only made me want to become a vegetarian. But explaining that to Dad, a man who practically lived on steak, was like trying to teach a dog calculus.

“It’s not that easy, Dad,” I mumbled, shoving another reluctant broccoli floret around my plate. My cheeks burned; I hated being compared to Caleb, the human homework machine.

“Easy?” Dad boomed, his fork clattering onto his plate. “School shouldn’t be easy, son. It should be about pushing yourself, striving for excellence!”

“Like that time you tried to fix the leaky faucet and ended up flooding the basement?” I shot back, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

Brenda choked on her wine, and Caleb snickered. Dad’s face turned the same shade as the overcooked beets on his plate.

“That’s different,” he sputtered, “That was a plumbing issue. This is about academics!”

“Maybe school just isn’t my thing,” I mumbled, a tiny voice of rebellion rising within me.

“Nonsense!” Dad boomed, then softened his voice, attempting a conciliatory tone. “Look, son, I just want you to succeed. You have so much potential, you just need to...”

“To be more like Caleb?” I finished for him, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dad sighed, a sound like a deflating balloon. “Look, Alex, I’m not saying copy Caleb exactly. But maybe you could, you know, borrow some of his study habits?”

“His study habits involve color-coding his notes and reciting Shakespeare while juggling flaming chainsaws, Dad,” I deadpanned. “Pretty sure that’s not something a normal person can replicate.”

Brenda gave a pointed cough. “Actually, Caleb does juggle,” she said primly.

“Well, good for him,” I muttered, collapsing back in my chair. This conversation was going nowhere fast, and the roast chicken was starting to sound very appealing.

“Maybe Alex just needs a little motivation,” Caleb piped up, his voice laced with a hint of mischief. He leaned over and whispered in Dad’s ear, his eyes twinkling. Dad’s lips stretched into a wide grin.