Tuesday passed. Chris gathered
his baseball supplies and put them
in a grocery bag marked “My Favorite
Hobby.” He was ready for Friday,
but something still felt wrong. He
walked out of his room, ignoring
the sketchpad on his desk.
Wednesday. After school Chris
sat at the kitchen table with a cheese
and ketchup sandwich and a glass
of milk, but he wasn’t hungry.
“What’s up?” Chris’s brother
Wes asked, bursting through the
door from soccer practice.
“Nothing,” Chris muttered.
Wes pulled a bag of pretzels
from the pantry.
Chris picked at his sandwich.
“Hey, today Nick said that Brian
was a fake.”
“Why?”
“Because he lies a lot. Makes
stuff up to impress people, I guess.”
“Oh,” said Wes, chomping on a
pretzel. “I guess Nick must be right,
then. Brian sounds pretty fake.”
“I don’t want to be fake,” said
Chris.
“Why would you be?”
Chris thought for a second.
“No reason.”
“Good,” Wes said, as he left
the kitchen.
Chris sighed. He didn’t want to
be fake, but he wasn’t sure he had