that time Mom signed us all up for some family challenge on hercompanyâs retreat. We spent the entire weekend smelly and disgusting on obstacle courses. We were terrible! Keith face-planted when he fell trying to climb up one of those rope ladders. Lexi kept tripping every time she had to run, and then Jason would swoop in and try to save her like he was her power twin or something. Dad had to carry you and me because we were the youngest. You and I loved it,â I tell him.
âWe did?â Sam asks, biting his lip. I can almost see the wheels turning as he tries to unlock the door to this memory.
âYep, and Mom was the worst of all. She just laughed herself silly every time one of us screwed up. When we finally got to the obstacle course wall, which is this picture here, suddenly you got this look in your eye. You were determined for us to finish the course, even though there was no way we could win at that point. You told us to imagine we were all Spider-Man. You were obsessed with him. You even went first over the wall.â I grab Samâs leg as I remember the feeling of watching him scale that high platform. âYou got to the top in no time and captured the flag that was up there. We were all cheering.â I pull my swing over to his and lock my left leg around his right one so weâre attached. âYou were the big hero of the day. You even got a rewardââ
Sam interrupts me. âA twelve-scoop banana split.â
âThatâs right!â Iâm excited he actually remembers. His facebreaks into a huge smile. âRemember Mom had one too? Extra chocolate, marshmallows andââ
âPineapple!â Sam finishes. I donât remember the last time I saw him this excited. The breeze blows that mop of brown hair out of his eyes, and the two of us just stare at each other for a moment, remembering the sights and sounds of that day. âThanks,â he says shyly. âI remember that now.â
âGood.â I look down at the sketchbook in his hands. I wonder if I should keep going with this bonding thing since it seems to be working. âSo I hear your teacher selected you for the county art show next week.â
âHow did you hear that?â Samâs eyebrows go up.
I donât tell him the truth. His art teacher, Mr. Colligan, whoâs also my art teacher, stopped me the other day and asked if any of us were going to come see his show. I didnât even know Sam was in it. âYour teacher says youâre some sort of art genius, which I find hard to believe.â He knocks his swing into mine. âBut Iâm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt till the show, at least.â I nod to his sketchpad. âWant to show me something award-worthy?â
Sam pulls his pad off his lap and hides it behind his back. âNo way.â
âCome on,â I beg. I put the photo box down and start to swing again. As great as that memory of our family trip was, italso makes me depressed. There will never be a family trip like that again. I try not to dwell on it, but itâs hard not to blink back tears. I donât want my brother to see me cry. Not when Iâm here trying to cheer him up. I have to focus on my breathing, like my psychiatrist says I should in situations like this. â Breathe in and out. In and out. Concentrate on something else ,â I can hear him say.
âShow me where you get your inspiration from,â I suggest to Sam.
But itâs already too late. I can feel my medication kick in and the swing set does a complete 360 before righting itself and bursting into a rainbow of colors that are as comforting to me as a hot cocoa with extra marshmallows.
âI just draw things,â Sam says, starting to swing again a little. âStuff that will take me away from this reality, you know?â
Maybe Sam and I have more in common than I realized. âTrust me, I know.â I nod to the
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