He's taller than me and has been for a long time now. The center in a cult of personality, he's magnetic, a clever kid who passes gracefully through the hoops of social circles. As his sister, I am utterly possessed by the notion, "He is the good kid. He is the smart one. He does not succumb to peer pressure; he is the peer pressure, hopefully not for devious intent." Despite his academic performance, he's not dumb. In no aspect is he stupid, though sometimes he plays the part. Like any human, he changes depending on who is surrounded by. The tone of voice, his words, they change instantly when our conversation is interrupted by a phone call. Youth nurtures his casual and indestructible persona, complemented by negligence and an infallibility complex. I worry. Over and over and over, I repeat that my fear is to see him die an untimely death. Tonight, he told me he is going to fight another kid. I don't worry about this fight. He has honor and general opinion on his side. We stood talking, him casually framed in silhouetted by the darkened laundry room, wearing boxers and jeans. I had never noticed that he is quite literally "jacked." The weight set in his room is not for show. The nightly crunches are not mythical. He is much older than I remember him, so much cooler than me.
We are so similar in our potential, so different in the expression of those ambitions.
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