Away From Everywhere by Chad Pelley

will remember me!”
    By grade twelve, it was obvious that Owen had inherited their father’s way with words. But writing was the only thing Alex thought his brother could do better than him, so he wasn’t jealous of it.
    â€œC’mon, man, you gotta write it for me. It’s gotta be perfect, man. This is a big deal.”
    Laughing, Owen cut him off. “It’s high school, Alex. It’s probably the most irrelevant thing you’ll ever do in your life. Besides, a rock could graduate high school with honours.”
    â€œOwen! Stop that right now. You should be proud of your brother and–”
    â€œOh shut up, Owen! We’ll see who’s where in ten years, okay? I’d say I’ll be a lawyer, and you’ll be a goddamn bum or criminal who’ll need my help, shitface. I bet you’ll at least need my money–”
    â€œBoys! Stop this right now!”
    â€œCalm down. I’ll write the goddamn speech. I’ll write it if you give me your allowance Friday.”
    â€œOwen, for God’s sakes, watch your language. At least in front of your mother. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”
    He smiled and nodded, Sorry. “It’s just that …it’s sad. He thinks finding some unknown angle in a triangle faster than the shit-for-brains next to him matters.”
    â€œ Owen! ”
    Owen wrote Alex’s valedictory speech, and it inspired even the adults well past their “carving out a life”stage. He got a kick out of writing it so melodramatically. He thought it was corny, and that anyone even remotely cerebral would see the dark satire permeating the speech. So he was surprised at how well it was received – and the standing ovation. He also got a kick out of lacing the speech with words spelled differently than they’re pronounced, knowing his brother would be too proud to ask him how to pronounce them. During the speech, Alex said malevolent wrong. He said mal-vo-lant, and someone snickered. Owen did it to prove to himself that contemporary prestige is a sham, an illusion, and that the real geniuses of the world are the ones who don’t play the game of life: the Wordsworthian writers living in small cabins near nature, or the fiery-eyed, passion-infused city dwellers who were capable of more, but satisfied with less. Because, at that age, he felt that money and material things were just things that could be thrown into a fire and burned. They were that meaningless. So surrounding yourself with those things was like insulating yourself against the world.
    As Alex walked across the stage, shaking hands and bowing to the applause, their mother wiped a tear from her eye with her bumpy knuckle and leaned into Owen, her dress spilling over the side of the chair. “I know all this means nothing to you, but you should know how proud your father would be of you two. His little writer and his little valedictorian.” A whimper, a smile on her face, twitching lips. He knew if his eyes met hers she would tear up, so maybe he would have too. “You’ve got a way with words, honey. You’re just like him …your father.”
    He changed the topic to keep her from crying. All the while thinking of that silent understanding that had always existed between him and his father. Embracing it. Alex, and even their mother, was almost jealous of that inherent understanding. One night, Christmastime, after far too many drinks, and after the crowd of visitors had left,Owen’s father called him into the kitchen and made him promise that on his fiftieth birthday the two of them would take an Alaskan cruise together. His mother too obviously listened in on the conversation as she rinsed mugs and cutlery in the kitchen sink, scrubbing the forks extra long just to linger, because her husband never talked of vacationing. Not with her anyway.
    His father was sitting in a chair, but swaying like a man fresh off a merry-go-round.