Stealing the Game Read Online Free Page B

black, dropping through some rich guy’s skylight, dodging infrared alarm beams, and finally grabbing some art
masterpiece worth millions that he’d bought with money made dishonestly. I’d be like Robin Hood—except I’d keep some of the money so I could have a cool beach house with
skylights. I’d give the rest to Greenpeace, because they’re trying to save whales.
    Dark Secret No. 3: I draw comic books.
    This is the darkest secret of all, because if my parents found out, they would probably throw a fit worse than the one they were throwing right now with Jax. My cell phone would be taken away.
My computer use would be restricted to homework only. Bars on the windows were a possibility. Electrified fences and toothy Rottweilers might be involved.
    Here’s why: I’m supposed to follow in Jax’s footsteps.
    And, despite what you saw today, those are really big footsteps.
    Jax has always been the family’s Golden Boy. He was the star pitcher of his Little League team, which started a domination of all sports—one that continued throughout high school and
college. Star football quarterback. Star basketball forward. Star volleyball setter. Tennis, golf, water polo. Whatever sport, Jax excelled. More important, unlike a lot of his teammates, he was
never a jerk about it. He didn’t show off, brag, or hog the ball. In basketball he was known for passing as much as shooting. He went out of his way to make his teammates look good.
Obviously, everyone loved him.
    If only sports had been his sole area of accomplishment. No such luck.
    He was also a straight-A student, the prized pupil of every teacher. His essays won contests, his test scores broke records, his scholarship offers in both sports and academics made guidance
counselors weep with joy. I had hoped that our nine years’ age difference would prevent any comparisons. Nope! In almost every class, when I walked in for the first time, the teacher would
ask if Jax was my brother. They always asked with a big dopey grin, looking so hopeful that I hated to say yes, because I knew how disappointed they were going to be. There would be no weeping for
joy because of me.
    The only thing I had in common with Jax was basketball. It was the only thing I did well, maybe as good as he did.
    That and my comic books.

GOLDEN BOY VS. BRONZE BOY
    MY parents don’t know I read comic books, let alone write and draw them. It’s not that they have anything against
comics—Dad used to read them as a kid, and he was the one who took me to the comic book store when I was around eight to give me a tour of his childhood favorites: Flash, Superman, and Green
Arrow. Jax never was into them, which made them even more appealing to me. It was something just between Dad and me.
    Here’s the thing, though: I think my parents figured that comics were a gateway into reading, and that once I was able to read “real books,” I’d pack away childish comics
along with LEGOs and Barney the purple dinosaur.
    Except I didn’t.
    And the reason I don’t want Mom and Dad knowing about my reading or drawing comics is that one of two things would happen: (1) They’d have something to use to punish me, like taking
them away if I wasn’t doing something they wanted (which they did with TV, movies, Xbox, and my computer). Or (2) They would make me take art lessons to encourage me to become the best
graphic novelist of all time, asking me daily about my progress, wanting to read every word I wrote, examine every drawing I made. It’s basically why I stopped playing the guitar.
    Comics are my thing now—as long as they never find out about it.
    They are not part of the Richards Family Master Plan. The RFMP is for me to do everything Jax has done, but better. Clearly, the RFMP is not working.
    Like Jax, I’m good at most sports. Throw a ball into the air in the middle of a crowd and I’ll be the first to grab it. I like playing, and even though I never say it aloud, I like
being on a