Some Are Sicker Than Others by Andrew Seaward Read Free Book Online Page B

then took everything back with him to the kitchen table. His son, Larry, was sitting there at the table, happily coloring in his Blue’s Clues coloring book. His tongue was out and his head was turned sideways, and he was making a noise that sounded like a high-powered motorboat.
    “Hey daddy,” the kid said, looking up at him, little drops of drool glistening the corners of his cheeks.
    “Hey kiddo,” Dave said, as he sat down at the table then set down his coffee, bagel, and cream cheese. “Watch ya working on?”
    The kid set down his crayon and held up the coloring book, proudly displaying his current masterpiece.
    “Wow,” Dave said, without really looking at it, concentrating more on smearing his cream cheese. “What is it?”
    “Ith uh twee bwanch.”
    “A tree branch? Really? Wow, that’s…super.”
    “Yeah, I know.” The kid placed the book back down on the table then grabbed his crayon and went back to scribbling.
    Dave let out a long sigh and put his elbows on the table then started rubbing his forehead in long, counterclockwise circles. The pain in his neck was unbearable. It felt like someone was taking an aluminum bat to his vertebrae. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen microwave. It was only six-thirty. Damn, he still had another hour. His dealer told him to never call before seven-thirty. Bastard. What was he doing, still sleeping? Didn’t he know people actually had to work for a living? He had to be up at the high school in less than two hours. He had to grade Earth Science exams then pack up the school bus. His girls had a big volleyball match tonight up in Estes Park. How was he supposed to coach if he was feeling this shitty? How could even drive a school bus if he was coming down this bad?
    He lifted his mug and took a long slurp of coffee, feeling as the caffeine diffused into his blood. Ahh…that felt good. Just what he needed. A couple more sips and maybe he’d be ready to go.
    As he set down the mug, he heard a loud crash echo from the upstairs hallway. It was the girls, Megan and Mary, probably getting ready for another day of middle school. What were they doing up there? Why were they stomping? Did they really have to be so god damn loud? It was bad enough he had a migraine the size of Connecticut. Now, he had to put up with a bunch of stomping teenagers and slamming doors? And to make matters worse, Cheryl was still banging away with the dishes. It was like she knew he had a headache and was trying to annoy him, seeing how far she could push him before going over the edge. At least Larry, the little angel, was sitting somewhat quietly beside him and not running around screaming like he usually did in the mornings. It probably had something to do with that coloring book he bought him. The kid seemed to be completely engrossed.
    Dave lifted his mug and blew across the surface of the coffee, while studying the kid as he scribbled with his blue crayon. It was funny. The kid looked just like Dave, only chubbier—same curly red hair, same droopy eyelids, same freckled complexion, and same flat, two-by-four forehead. He probably even weighed about the same as Dave, even though he was only eleven. Of course, he still had the reading level of a first grader. Poor kid. The doctor said it was some kind of abnormality in his chromosomal makeup, something called Klinefelter’s syndrome or forty-seven XXY. Whatever the hell that meant. Back when he was growing up, they just called it retarded. Of course, you weren’t supposed to say that anymore. It was insensitive. Nowadays everything had to have its own politically correct terminology. Black people weren’t black, Mexicans weren’t Mexican, and retards weren’t retarded—they were mentally challenged or developmentally disabled or someone with special needs. Ha. Yeah right. Special needs. That was one way of putting it. If that meant screaming at the top of your lungs and marching around banging a wooden spoon against a metal pot