It is quiet. My father and brother are out of the house. They are doing their “Father-son” bonding time. I sit on the couch, watching a show. It is mindless a drama show where people fight for no reason. It is nice to let go every now and then, forgetting all the strife in life. “What is this?” my mother asks me. She is holding up my report card. I sigh, “My report card.” I know what is coming next. I pick up the remote and turn off the television. I prepare myself for her anger. “I meant the grades,” my mother is tapping her foot. “They are deplorable. Look! A ‘C’!” my mother hit her hand on the sheet, waving it like a flag. Ah, that must be my history grade. I reply with nothing. When it comes to grades, it is better to listen than explain, excuse me, argue. A ‘C’ is as good as sacrilege in my house. Nothing below perfection for my mother.
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I look down to the little pamphlet we were given at the beginning. I see next to my brother’s name “Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Piano Concerto No. 1 Op. 23.” My brother is the final act so my mother gets up to run to him. She tells everyone that it was a gift. My brother is smiling on the outside, but I know that it’s for the pictures. He’s like me, tired. But he is always better at disguising it. Especially around the reporters. I take my usual place by my brother for the pictures. We stand up straight, a smile not showing our bottom teeth, our eyes somewhat squinted. We do exactly what we rehearsed. Microphones are soon shoved in my brother’s face after the photos are done. How are we feeling? How long do you two practice? When’s your next performance? What are our plans for the future? Most of these questions are aimed at my brother. I sit there, looking pretty. One of the microphones turned to me. What was it like to live with a prodigy such as my brother? Silence filled the room. I keep smiling, what am I supposed to say to
I look down to the little pamphlet we were given at the beginning. I see next to my brother’s name “Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Piano Concerto No. 1 Op. 23.” My brother is the final act so my mother gets up to run to him. She tells everyone that it was a gift. My brother is smiling on the outside, but I know that it’s for the pictures. He’s like me, tired. But he is always better at disguising it. Especially around the reporters. I take my usual place by my brother for the pictures. We stand up straight, a smile not showing our bottom teeth, our eyes somewhat squinted. We do exactly what we rehearsed. Microphones are soon shoved in my brother’s face after the photos are done. How are we feeling? How long do you two practice? When’s your next performance? What are our plans for the future? Most of these questions are aimed at my brother. I sit there, looking pretty. One of the microphones turned to me. What was it like to live with a prodigy such as my brother? Silence filled the room. I keep smiling, what am I supposed to say to