Football players are assholes. I know; I'm related to their king. My older, and annoyingly overprotective, brother Jake is the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him but hate living in his shadow. Everyone worshiping the air he breat...
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"Ugghhh.... World, I hate you."
Liquid irritation, not blood, flowed through my veins. And it came from multiple sources, including the blood drive coordinator's email. The mental image of one hundred bags of blood drained mine from my face until my cheeks chilled.
Incoherent grumbles and shuffled steps carried me through my morning routine. I fought the urge to pillow-pummel the giant snoring lump on the sofa. Stupid brother and his stupid parties. I grunted at Mom and Dad's good mornings, squinted under the fridge light, and removed a stack of containers.
Stupid Logan antics. He baited me this whole time.
Rival quarterback retribution pawn was nowhere in my plan. Was any of it genuine? And what the fuck will I say to him? I hated the way my heart quickened at the thought of seeing him. It shouldn't. He was an asshole, and I dodged a bullet. Focus on the blood drive, just forget him. Yeah, because that worked so well at the Meals on Wheels event. A small smile tugged up the corners of my lips. I wrenched it down. No feelings today, Ellie. Food.
I bit into buttery, crumbly goodness. Our search suggested proteins, raisins, and whole grains for a post-blood-donation snack. Last night Mom, Harper, and I replaced sugar with honey and added calorie and Omega-3 boosters like olive oil, flax, and chia seeds in a granola bar recipe. They looked like failed oatmeal raisin cookies, and broken-off crumbles tickled my chin. "Hope they like them."
"If not, then Jake's team will inhale them." Mom smiled behind her coffee mug. "We made four hundred."
I squinted at the only reason I was awake, as quiet and nimble as an elephant in a ballet class. He bounced that elephant-skill-level knee under the kitchen table. "Dad?"
He flipped the newspaper top-down and grinned. "Can't ruin the surprise. It'll be here soon."
Surprise and Dad were never good together. "Mom?"
"I can't imagine," she mumbled, but her eyes screamed, 'Not again,' and her mouth flatlined. "Dale, don't you have enough someday-maybe projects?"
"Yeah." I cupped my chin and rested my elbow on the table. "There's enough weird shit in the garage."
She shot me a dead-eye look. "Ellie, language."
"What? It's weird." Dad's furrowed eyebrows needed an inventory reminder. "Broken violin you thought I would play when I was six? Jake's surfboards? Nappy, water-damaged comics? A Bob-Ross-inspired landscape painted on a saw? The last hardcover encyclopedia set sold door-to-door?"
"Jake uses the surfboards," was the indignant response from the hoarder side of the table.
"Not all eight!" I rubbed my forehead. "Dad, you gotta part with the junk. All it's doing is collecting cobwebs."
Mom smiled behind her coffee steam. It wasn't just the weird shit Dad came across, it was his attachment. No surprise when he said, "Someday maybe, Ellie." There was no point in arguing. By Mom's eye roll, she preferred taking a match to the whole garage and roasting marshmallows while it burned. What the fuck junk treasure was he eyeing this time?
