This choice: Switch to Alex as he plots on how to catch Zack’s eye • Go Back... Alex’s POV
If you ever want to know how it feels to be both invisible and the center of the universe at the same time, try being the youngest brother in a Vietnamese-American family where both older siblings are, to put it mildly, demigods. Derek is the school’s golden boy, six-foot-one, the only player to make all-state last year on both offense (tight end) and defense (linebacker), all broad shoulders and easy grins—he’s the kind of guy who makes algebra look athletic and football look intellectual. My sister’s away at Stanford and still manages to win every family argument via FaceTime.
And me? I’m five-foot-three (on a good day, after stretching, with thick socks). At an all-boys school that makes me shorter than almost everyone I know. I am, as Mom says, “the special one,” which in translation means “please don’t cause any more incidents at chess club, Alex.” But this Friday, I have a plan. A big one. One that may finally get Zack’s attention in a way that doesn’t involve video game humiliation or philosophical debates about the merits of original Dragon Ball versus DBZ.
But let’s rewind to the beginning of the week, right after the FIFA Tournament of Doom, when Zack somehow wound up in our kitchen again. Derek had invited him to “study,” which, in practice, meant playing Madden while ignoring homework and demolishing the snack cabinet.
I kept to the edges—after all, it’s not cool to hover. Still, I managed to time my cereal runs and fridge raids for when Zack was alone. It’s not subtle, but it beats announcing “hey, I’m here to ogle the quarterback.” Mom would approve of the attempt, anyway.
Here’s the thing about Zack: he’s built like a comic book hero, all arms and legs and freckles, with this smile that belongs on the poster of a movie you don’t want to admit made you cry. His hair is the brightest ginger I’ve ever seen—seriously, you could use it as a traffic cone—and he always seems to be half a second away from making a joke at his own expense. He’s not just “cute,” he’s stupidly cute, the kind of cute that makes you do dumb things, like put on cologne after swim practice just because you might run into him in the hallway.
And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to know it. He’ll just smile at you, all teeth and sun, like he can’t imagine anyone not wanting to be his friend. Which makes my job, such as it is, way harder. Because every time I start to say something flirtatious, Derek barrels in like a Labrador and Zack immediately shifts into “bro mode.” Derek’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but subtle he is not. One time I called a timeout at dinner and he asked if I was glitching.
I wish I could say I’m smooth and mysterious around Zack, but mostly I just try to keep my sarcasm dialed down to a four out of ten. (Anything higher and Derek starts asking if I’m feeling feverish.) I stick to side-eye glances and “accidental” hand brushes when we pass each other by the fridge. I don’t act obvious, but man, if the fridge light ever flickered, I’d be exposed.
Take this Tuesday, for example.
Zack and Derek are sprawled on the living room floor, trying to solve a history worksheet. Derek is reciting dates in a monotone, and Zack, tall enough that his legs are draped halfway up the coffee table, is fidgeting with a pencil between his toes. I’m in the armchair, laptop open, supposedly writing a script for drama club but really just watching Zack out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t get what it is about his feet—maybe it’s just that they’re so big. Everything about him is supersized. He stretches, and his shirt rides up, showing a pale slash of stomach and the shadowy line of an armpit. My brain fries itself for a second. This is deeply unfair.
“You know,” I say, not looking up from my screen, “if you guys actually studied, you might pass.”
Zack laughs. “I don’t see you volunteering to quiz us, Alex.”
“Why bother?” I reply, giving him my best nonchalant smirk. “Derek only listens to me when I’m critiquing his Madden strategy.”
Derek flips me off good-naturedly and goes back to droning about the Treaty of Versailles.
Zack glances at me, eyes twinkling. “You want to play?” He wiggles the controller at me, toes curling over the plastic. “Winner gets the last can of Sprite.”
I hesitate, then give in. When Zack asks, I always do, even if I have to pretend otherwise. As I settle in next to him, I catch the faint, clean-soap smell of his skin—he must’ve showered after practice. I’m momentarily aware of every inch of space between us. Not that there’s much; Zack sprawls like a golden retriever, taking up at least half the floor.
Derek, oblivious, starts narrating his own play-by-play of our match. I keep my focus sharp, sarcasm sharp and dialed back, trying to enjoy the tiny victories—like the brush of Zack’s knee against mine as we jostle for space, or the way he laughs when I pull a surprise move in-game. A minute after Derek leaves to fetch more soda, I catch Zack watching me as I lean forward to concentrate, and for a split second, I think he’s blushing. Or maybe it’s just the game.
It’s never enough, though. Not when Derek’s around, anyway. As soon as he reappears, Zack becomes all older-brother-charming, talking about football practice and homework. I make my excuses and retreat to my room, pretending to text but mostly just replaying every word Zack said in my head.
⸻
On Wednesday, I get my weekly dose of sanity at drama club. It’s one of the only places where I’m not “Derek’s little brother” but just Alex, the kid who can do a perfect Gollum voice and ad-lib Shakespearean insults. Jamie’s already there, script in hand, looking like a lost puppy in thrift-store jeans and a hoodie that says “THIS IS MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT SWEATSHIRT.” Jamie’s my age—well, technically, he’s three months younger, a fact I will never let him forget—and just as much of an outsider as me, though in a softer, blurrier way.
He grins when I plop down beside him. “You look like someone who’s been up all night writing fanfiction.”
I sigh theatrically. “If only. No, I was up all night obsessing over a boy.”
Jamie raises his eyebrows, delighted. “Finally! Spill. Is it that junior in art club? The one who paints with his shirt off?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s—Zack.”
He blinks. “Zack, as in, your brother’s friend Zack? The giant?”
I nod, and Jamie lets out a low whistle.
“Damn. Go big or go home, I guess.”
I snort, then glance around to make sure no one else is listening. “He’s just… so annoyingly perfect. He’s funny, he’s smart, he can beat me at nothing except basketball and being tall. And every time I get close to flirting, Derek shows up, and I have to play it cool. I don’t want Derek to know, you know? He’d be weird.”
Jamie nods in agreement, crossing his legs and chewing on a pen cap. “Oblivious older brothers are the worst. At least Zack actually talks to you, though. And you already beat him at Street Fighter, which is more than most people can say.”
I laugh, remembering the look on Zack’s face when Chun-Li had wiped the floor with him. “Yeah, but that’s not enough. I want him to actually see me, not just as Derek’s kid brother, or the shrimp who keeps stealing his cereal.”
Jamie’s eyes go wide. “So what are you going to do?”
I lean in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have a plan. I just need the right moment. Friday’s the next football game, right? I’ll do something he can’t ignore.”
Jamie’s expression turns mischievous. “Is it dangerous?”
I grin. “Not unless you think a little embarrassment is fatal. Trust me, I know how to make an entrance.”
Jamie giggles and bumps my shoulder with his. “You’re such a drama queen.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Takes one to know one.”
Inside, I’m buzzing. I have no idea if this plan is genius or deeply stupid, but either way, I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of being the little brother on the sidelines, always watching and never playing. If Zack likes me, I want him to really see it. And if he doesn’t… well, at least I’ll have a good story to tell.
That night, lying in bed with the blue light of my phone painting my ceiling, I can’t help but replay the last few weeks in my head—the way Zack’s face lights up when I make him laugh, the brief, electric touches, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’s as nervous as I am.
Friday can’t come fast enough.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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