Longshot Read Online Free Page B

That was intentional.
    Raphael, or “Ruffles,” was the eldest and eight years my senior. We kept our distance, or more accurately, I kept my distance from her. She was a tomboy with attitude who rode horses and had a permanently braided ponytail. She had a fat black cat who was just an extension of her intolerant self.
    Raphael showed no hint of emotion or love or anything of the kind toward me. She simply tolerated me. Every so often she would deign to speak to me, but usually in the form of a command. At the age of twelve, Raphael made the commitment to become a medical doctor and would lose herself, as well as her love of horses and Piers Anthony novels, in her studies because she was a dork. But she always found time, or made the time, to torment Vanessa, who in turn tormented Raphael by simply choosing to exist.
    Vanessa, the second-oldest child, was my caretaker, my second mother. She loved for Mom to leave on errands so she could assume the protective role over me. She loved to show me off and take me places. At theschool Halloween party, she took me by the hand and introduced me to everyone she knew…. Scratch that: just everyone.
    If she could’ve taken me to school with her every day, she would’ve had me sit right at her feet and color while she learned algebra.
    When I was old enough to enroll in the afternoon kindergarten program, I was able to take the bus home with all my siblings. The bus driver, George, was a scary man with a crow’s nose and a perma-sunburned neck who yelled and barked orders from the front of the bus, eyeing us all from his rearview mirror. No one said a word on the bus, let alone moved or, heaven forbid, stood up. If there was a hint of movement in the mirror, George looked up to eye you and the hand that was scratching your nose. I’d freeze in terror, telling myself, “If I don’t move, he can’t see me.”
    If anyone acted up, George had no qualms about dropping them off and letting them walk the rest of the way home. I love Montana. George was Montanan to the core: he spent all day shoveling shit on his own yard; he had no time for anyone else’s.
    One day I climbed on the bus, melancholy from a long afternoon of stares and brutally honest questions from brutally honest five-year-olds who’d ask, “What are those things around your ears?” or comment, “You look funny” or “You talk weird.” George said something to me that I didn’t hear. He then barked, “What are you, deaf? I’m talking to you!”
    Vanessa, right behind me, turned around with her fists on her hips and stared George down: “Yes, he is, as a matter of fact. Do you have a problem with that?” It was the only time I had ever seen a sheepish George. All the kids sat with their jaws dropped, amazed that my sister had stood up to George. Vanessa would’ve stood up to Satan himself to defend me.
    Raphael and Vanessa were always regarded as “the girls” and allowed different privileges as the elder. Poor Tara, also a girl, was always regarded as one of the kids along with us boys. There was an incident where Tara called for my father while he was taking a shower and he kindly, unknowingly replied, “Yes, son?” Tara ran off screaming in trauma.
    Tara was my enemy.
    The poor middle child had some issues, mostly about wanting to be regarded as one of the girls and respected by her younger brothers. If I didn’t listen to her or obey her every command, she’d hit me, as though Days of Our Lives, a massive hit in our estrogen-dominant, pant-wearing family, was a true rendition of life.
    Mom and Dad bought Tara Care Bears to remind her to be nice to her younger brothers. They also got her a bunny—a live one. One Sunday morning, Mom thought it would be fun for Szen and the bunny to play and be friends while we left for church. We came back home a few hours later to find the animals still playing,