VLADJI & the Avatars: The Song of Smoke

Chapter 2 - I Fetch My Brother for Chores (Because I'm So Responsible)

Don't you just love stalkers?

They always have your attention. They always want to know you - but they don't really want to know you. They want your deets, your home, every in-the-flesh detail, but they don't look at getting to know you. It's quite creepy, isn't it? Makes you want to bust the cops out on them.

Once I was sure the smoke trail wasn't following me, I walked up to the house and knocked on the door – rap, rap, rap-rap rap – the Anna-Elsa knock, as I often termed it, because I'd borrowed it from Frozen. (This was back when I thought Disney was worthwhile. I don't highly approve of what they're churning out now.)

I had thirty seconds to rehearse the line – I got 'em for you – and I was getting to the excuse for showing up earlier than expected when Mama opened the door.

My mom is the best person you could ask for – which is a comparison worth making. She had love left over for Daniel and Solomon, sure, but when it came to me, she was always worrying about me the most. I half expected her to fuss over my arrival.

She was presently wearing her best blue jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt with the logo MY FAMILY COMES FIRST, MY COFFEE SECOND. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, which my dad thought looked prettier. Her deep brown eyes glanced into mine like she was examining everything I'd done today.

I braced myself for the worst, but she surprised me.

"Amos, would you come in?"

Well, okay. With that, I entered the living room, where my dad was.

Once upon a time, my dad had been a master basketball player. He'd worked his way from high school into college with a sports scholarship, but he kept studying as well. He understood it as well as anybody – a sound body requires a sound mind. He was constantly reminding us (me, Daniel and Solomon) that we needed to work as well as play in order to keep it up. Daniel didn't take the hint, Solomon did, and I understood but was too much of a klutz to be any good at anything. Or so I told myself.

The five-foot-eleven frame and slim build was about the only thing left from Papa's basketball days. He'd grown a slight paunch, and his hair was graying as well. He was presently in a button-down shirt, khakis and oxfords, which led me to believe he'd just gotten back from work at Academy Sports and Outdoors, where he worked in the supply department.

When my dad noticed who'd come in, he stood up straighter. "Amos! You have the groceries?"

"Right up here," I said, and set down the bag. We liked to do pot roast whenever we could on Fridays, because it left enough leftovers for Shabbat.

"Thanks. And could you fetch Daniel? I need him to clean the kitchen counter, and he should have come up minutes ago. And after that, you sweep the living room."

What? The living room wasn't as cluttered as it was when I was younger and reckless, but it still was a pain to clean up, what with the mud Daniel often tracked in from his time spent in the park. And knowing my brother, he'd be playing video games or binging Bob's Burgers in the den. He was also extremely reluctant to do chores. I'd be here a while.

Instead of back talking – partly because I knew Papa didn't appreciate it, partly because, again, I didn't have that sort of time – I responded with, "Okay."

And then went down to face my brother.

It was pretty well-known that Daniel wasn't the son my parents wanted. He practiced daily on his basketball when we were younger but almost didn't seem to care about studying, which annoyed our father to no end. He's also – I'm not going to sugarcoat it – a real slob. You could always tell which side of the room – which he and I shared – was whose by looking at the mess Daniel routinely left on his side. But you'd have to look fast, because it was usually cleaned up by the afternoon by yours truly. (It's really hard to focus when my space is cluttered. Don't ask me why.)