Anything You Can Do

by R.S. Grey

My mom swears we turned on one another when Lucas was chosen to be the preschool line leader. I tend to disagree—after all, you can’t place all the blame on Mrs. Hallow, even if choosing Lucas over me was the biggest mistake of her entire career.

In high school, he preferred contact lenses. Now, he is wearing thick black frames like he has an audition for some new superhero movie after work and he’s trying to step into the role early. Pathetic. They suit him.

His gaze falls over my cart as he heads toward the yogurt. “Did you leave any zucchini for anyone else?” “Ha! I knew you would bring up the zucchini!”

morning. My diabolical plan seeps from my pores. “You are way too cheerful, even for a Friday,” Lucas tells me when we’re going over the chart for our first patient. “Did your friend from the dating event finally call?” The need to participate in the real world snaps me out of my villainous scheming. “Lucas, you do realize that the only thing sadder than being at a small-town dating event is lurking around outside of one, right?” My rebuttal gets him off my back for a little while, but he’s still suspicious. “You’re smirking again,” he says just before lunch. “Am I?” “Yes. Like the Cheshire cat.”

“Wee-ooh, wee-ooh,” I intone like a warning siren after he accidentally kicks a dozen tongue depressors out of line. I pretend my fingers are missiles, launching in retaliation for the border violation. My index fingers loop and spin to the crude sounds of rocket thrust before taking aim at his nose. They halt an inch before contact, frozen by the glare he’s leveled at me. His brows are pinched together, forming an angry line down the middle of his forehead. I cower. “All’s forgiven,” I say with a shrug and a half-smile. “I’ll just straighten those out again.” Note to self: Lucas is not in the mood for games. Just ask Gary and Glenda.

He knows nothing. He is Jon Snow.

Lucas, you manipulative, adorable asshole.

The car ride to my mom’s house is a wild one. I’m rattling off event after event from our childhood, trying to see it through his eyes. “How about during swim practice?! When I heard you tell Greg Oliver I smelled like a goat?” He shrugs. “He liked you and I didn’t want him to. I was seven.”