Free Brother/Sister by Sean Olin

of the freezer. “Here. Have a margarita and stop distracting the chef.”
    He poured a drink for me, and placing a hand on each of my shoulders, marched me into the living room and plopped me onto the couch.
    “Your job is to sit here and watch TV. Drink your margarita. Do nothing for a while. You’ve been working all day. I’ve been hanging out playing Halo . I’ll set up a TV tray and serve you when it’s ready.”
    “Well, okay. If you’re demanding it.”
    While I watched Colbert on the DVR, I rotated my arm trying to keep it loose. That ice cream in the freezer box is hard as a rock and eight hours of sculpting it into balls tears you up. My shoulder was killing me, which was weird because I would have thought playing softball would build up those muscles. I guess not. Different muscles.
    It was nice, having a drink and letting Will wait on me. I was thinking I could get used to this.
    Will put the plate in front of me—which was great, by the way: a gargantuan, overstuffed burrito, with sour cream and guacamole on top and everything.
    Oh, and Keith showed up too, that night. Will and I shot each other a look.
    He walked right in, left the front door open and everything and headed straight for the fridge, almost like it was his house, which it isn’t. He might hang around all the time when Mom’s here, but he actually lives in a beat-up old houseboat down at the docks.
    “Keith, come on in. Make yourself at home,” Will said. I don’t think Keith got the sarcasm because he just stroked his braid and gazed at Will through his giant glasses. Sort of lurking.
    “Your mom sent me to get some CDs for her,” he said, eventually. “And her cowboy boots, she wants those too.” But he didn’t make a move, just kept standing there. I think maybe he was stoned. That was the trade off. He didn’t drink anymore, but he still let himself smoke pot because, he said, pot was “healthful.”
    “You guys doing okay?” he said, finally.
    “Yeah, uh-huh, fine,” I said. Enough nodding and smiling and you could usually get him to wander off after a while. Really, Keith was kind of like a dimwitted old dog sometimes. He’d sniff at you, get confused, and go on his way.
    “You’re cooking,” he said. “Partaking of the bounty of the earth.”
    “Something like that, yeah,” said Will. He was getting annoyed. I could tell. His leg was bouncing like it does when he gets anxious.
    Keith nosed around the kitchen, poking and sniffing at the things Will had left out. “A lot of cans,” he said. “Maybe you’re not so much partaking of the bounty of the earth. Looks more like the bounty of the corporation.”
    “It’s food,” Will said. “Food is food.”
    “But all food’s not created equal. You’re cooking though, that’s step one. You’re breaking the frozen food, TV dinner cycle. But you’ve got that whole garden I planted out back there. Fresh basil and cilantro and heirloom tomatoes. Next time I pop by I’ll give you some tips.”
    Will, over-sensitive as always, was stung by this. He started pounding out a rhythm on his knee. His focus turned inward. He’d spent hours making this special meal for me, and even if it was just Keith making fun of it, the criticism was enough to flick a speck of self-doubt into his feeling of accomplishment.
    I took a huge bite and smacked my lips and said, “I don’t care if it’s not organic from our personal garden. It’s still really good. What matters is the love you put into it.”
    I stuck my tongue out at Will and he cracked a smile.
    “Well, then I better try it,” said Keith. He started opening cabinets in search of a plate.
    “No way, man. No fucking way.” Will leapt up and raced to the kitchen to protect his creation. “You’re going to have to go get takeout from the macrobiotic shop downtown.”
    “Yeah,” I called, through a mouthful of burrito. “Go get some tofu. This processed crap will kill you.”
    “What are you doing here anyway,