Deadly Design (9780698173613) Read Free Page B

him. I know you two haven’t been that close, not for a long time, but you used to be. It’s probably my fault. Maybe if I’d have tried harder to get you involved in sports, or maybe a little less hard with him, then . . .”
    That’s when I agreed to come to the meet. I hate it when my parents start analyzing the ways they may or may not have screwed up their kids. Right or wrong, Dad loves sports, and he loves watching Connor. I don’t want him to feel guilty for that. And I definitely don’t want him to feel like he’s a bad father. He’s not.
    Besides, the truth is, what Connor does is pretty cool. I’ve watched pole-vaulting on YouTube. It’s pretty amazing. These guys, they actually fly—not for long, but they do fly. And that part where the pole is bending, and it looks like it might snap in half and stab them, that’s scary as hell. And Connor’s not just good at it. He’s the best.
    I go up the four steps leading to the bleachers and notice a guy standing next to the chain-link fence. He’s young, probably in his midtwenties. He’s got broad shoulders, definitely the athletic type, and he’s taking pictures of . . . Connor. Of course he’s taking pictures of Connor. Connor isn’t even jumping yet. He’s just bending over touching his toes, but even that’s impressive if you’re a scout for some big university and you want Connor on your team. The photographer pauses to look at the shots he’s just taken. He glances up for a second, and when he sees me, he looks . . . uneasy. Then it’s like he remembers that somebody told him Connor had a twin, and he nods at me and looks away.
    Don’t worry, buddy, I want to tell him. You won’t have to come back to take pictures of me in a couple of years. Not unless you’re recruiting for your college’s video game club.
    I don’t walk to the stairs. I step from metal seat to metal seat. It’s not hard maneuvering around people, because most are congregated in the middle of the stands.
    â€œHey, Connor!”
    I recognize the voice immediately, and she’s not talking to Connor. She’s talking to me. I turn. Cami, Emma’s best friend, is sitting about three feet to my left. She’s wearing an old orange Lion King T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. Her pale legs are propped up on the seat in front of her like she’s attempting to get some sun.
    â€œHow are you, Connor ?”
    She’s doing it on purpose. She always does it on purpose. Cami, short for Camille, calls me Connor because she knows that there is an unwritten law in the universe that anyone who calls me by my brother’s name will get flipped off. I’ve served two detentions because of her, once because she did it during my food presentation in Spanish class and once when she said it as the principal was walking down the hallway.
    â€œReally?” I lift my full hands.
    â€œSorry,” she says, as if she hadn’t noticed. She puts down the sketchbook she’s been doodling in and takes the can of Diet Coke from my hand.
    I flip her the bird, and with a smile on her face, she hands the can back.
    â€œI’m kind of surprised to see you here,” she says.
    â€œYou didn’t think I’d want to see my brother break his own record? Watching Connor achieve his goals is pretty much my purpose in life.”
    She shakes her head and tucks short curls of brown hair behind her ears. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to be here—wouldn’t want to spend another day in the Great Connor’s shadow.”
    Wow. I scoff because I can’t believe she said that. She gets it. The girl who constantly calls me by my brother’s name just to piss me off and get me into trouble gets it. Connor is the quarterback of the football team. He’s the captain of the basketball team. And when he’s not breaking