Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Beau nudges his head into my legs, aiming for more attention. I give him another ear scratch and push off the door.
The apartment is only about seven hundred square feet, and I know every inch of it because I’ve lived here my entire life. It’s rent controlled to the point of embarrassment if not envy by my friends. When my mom left, I took over the lease and never yearned to go anywhere else.
The living room and kitchen are separated by nothing but a counter that’s too narrow to eat at comfortably. There’s no dining room and there’s barely a living room, which has just enough space to hold a couch and a coffee table. A window looks out onto the street if you crane slightly left.
Two bedrooms, both small in a way that only New Yorkers can understand, and one bathroom that requires a schedule. I love this place with an intensity that probably isn’t healthy, and while Dylan, Beau and I are cramped, it’s home.
A thin strip of light glows under Dylan’s door and I knock twice. “You alive?”
“Yeah, come in.”
His room is barely big enough for a twin bed pushed against one wall and the secondhand desk wedged under the single window that looks out onto the building’s air shaft. He’s got it personalized enough that it isn’t depressing, a few posters on the walls, one of which ironically is of the Vipers’ arena lit up at night against the New York skyline. His phone charger is a trip hazard snaking across the floor, and a stack of library books threatens to avalanche off the corner of the desk. He’s sitting in the cheap rolling chair I found on the curb two summers ago, papers spread in front of him and his laptop that I gifted him last Christmas opened. I worked double shifts in holiday retail to save up for it.
“It’s midnight,” I say.
“Congrats,” he drawls as if bored. “You can tell time.”
I grin, because Dylan is the snarkiest of kids, but he never does it in a mean way. “What are you doing?”
“Extra credit,” he says, lifting his head to look at me. “And I just took Beau out about half an hour ago so he should be good the rest of the night.”
I walk to the desk, ruffle his hair playfully. “Thanks, kiddo.” Dylan leans away from me, grumbles with annoyance, but then picks up a highlighter where he starts drawing yellow lines across sentences in a book. He’s always been the type who can move between two or three things at the same time, a multi-tasker at heart. “What’s the extra credit for?”
“Hampton assigned it. Extra credit for students who want to make up for lost participation points.” He makes air quotes around participation points with the energy of someone who finds the phrase personally offensive.
“The teacher who got pissed at you for your opinions on Reconstruction?” I ask.
His eyes lift to meet mine, the same brilliant blue that we inherited from our mother. Outside of the eyes, Dylan totally has Marley’s dark hair and olive skin. “Want to know what the topic is?”
“Sure,” I say, moving to sit on the edge of his bed.
His gaze sparkles intelligently. “It’s on ‘respect in the classroom,’ which is actually a valid topic, but his whole premise is that respect means not challenging what the teacher says, and I genuinely disagree with that.”
“As you should,” I agree wholeheartedly.
He nods toward the laptop. “So I’m arguing that real respect includes listening to all sides of a story, even uncomfortable ones. That a classroom where students only receive information and never push back on it isn’t education, it’s broadcasting.” His mouth curves into a grin. “But I’m doing it in a very mannerly way and providing examples of how I politely disagree with what his teachings on slavery and the aftermath of abolition. I’m peppering in a lot of ‘with all due respects’ and ‘I respectfully request you consider’ into the paper.”
“Devious,” I say with a laugh. “Want me to review it when you’re done?”
“Nah, I’ve got it covered.”
And I trust that he does. Dylan has been getting good grades without me needing to ride his ass to study or complete his homework. In return, I give him the freedom to spread his wings a bit. Seems like a win-win.
“How was work tonight?” he asks, turning his chair my way and giving me his full attention. “I still can’t believe you landed a job driving Julian Langley around.”
“That makes two of us.” I chuckle, but then I quickly sober. “He invited me to watch the game in the owner’s suite.”
Dylan’s eyes flare in shock. “And did you? What was it like? I watched the game on TV while I did my English homework. Was there fancy food? Free liquor? What about—”