D. Gonzalez, “That Enlightened Thrill”
It had been years since the last time Oliver sat outside in his backyard.
He didn’t need to spend hours on the terrace, he’d done his time in these great outdoors when he was younger.
Lying in a lawn chair, his eyes caught on the cardstock letter he placed on the side table. He could barely read the address in the moonlight, but he didn’t need to; that morning, he had studied every sentence, every word that confirmed his dreams. He already told his parents – as expected, they were overjoyed – but he also texted others, messages that gave no responses. Packed bags waited beside the front door.
Just atop the letter, his phone faced up: no new messages. His wallpaper glared at him, an old picture of himself; he must’ve been eight or nine. He laughed at the thought of what his hopes could’ve been at that age – if only he could remember.
He straightened at his phone’s familiar buzz, but it was just his boss. He had been working at the same coffee shop since freshman year. He gave his two weeks notice days ago.
That wasn’t the message he was waiting for.
The person he wanted a response from happened to be someone he hadn’t seen for two years. Skylar Allwood, his family’s pride and joy.
Sky, with his almost-perfect grades, received every opportunity, every scholarship, and every endorsement he wanted. He set a high standard when they were kids – always the over-achiever out of the two. Oliver only admired those accolades in hindsight, since he himself became a senior a few months ago. As a child, he actually resented his brother’s accomplishments. But that was in the past, wasn’t it?
He forced himself to focus on something other than the phone, letting his neck relax, his head using its rest. He stared at the sky, the stars all glowing, but there’s always one that stands out to everyone. There’s stars people would point out, versus stars people would take photos of. Skylar’s talent happened to be brighter than his brother’s.
A breeze whipped across his face, but it held more than that.
He followed the wind as it settled, taking the form of an eight-year-old boy, too small for his hand-me-down clothes. The boy’s name? Oliver Allwood.
The illusion skipped through the tilled grass with the liveliness a kid loses after sixth grade. It had to be him, he was sure of it. A lock of brown hair had always draped below his right eye, since before he could remember. The ghost-like child before him held the same signature.
Behind the phantom followed another person. The taller one stood lankier, with the kind of certainty an older sibling had. His movements showed a natural charisma paired with a smile that promised a prosperous future.
It was Sky, ten-year-old Sky.
Oliver watched as his eight-year-old projection turned around in a fit of childish laughter, the kind that made him choke on his own breath. The words of that memory came flooding back to him.
“Tag! You’re it!”
“Nuh uh, you missed me.”
“Did not. Hit you right there.” – Skylar’s phantom poked his brother’s arm. It’s like he could almost feel it.
“Boys, break for dinner!!”
Their dad’s voice interrupted the two’s ‘high stakes’ game of tag, as the figures trotted uphill, towards the deck, passing through the lawn chair like it didn’t exist. He reached out to the intangible outlines of people, but they faded into nothing.
A cough travelled up Oliver’s throat. He hadn’t thought about that game in a while. We were so close, weren’t we? He dismissed the thought. He had more pressing matters to focus on. He should be celebrating, not resenting, or regretting.
Another buzz. His hand shot to his phone, but a rustle stole his attention before he reached it.
He glanced back to the field to see the phantom from earlier, younger Oliver, struggling to take a soccer ball out of a bush. He must’ve aimed wrong, as he so often did at that age. His sixth grade year, the only reason he’d taken an interest in soccer was because Sky wanted to audition for their middle school’s soccer program, and he followed his brother’s pursuits.
Only one of them made the team.
Sky approached behind a frustrated Oliver. He pitied his brother’s attempts, moving towards the commotion delicately, and taking out the ball himself. Oliver thanked him for that, or at least, he thought that he had. His phantom stayed silent, though.
“Congrats on making the team.”
“Thanks, Ollie.”
Pause. Then Sky broke the silence.
“I’m sorry you didn’t make it, but I was thinking that maybe I could ask the coach to think it over, and–”
“Can you go? Please?”
Sky paused abruptly, swallowing the words, but regardless, nodded curtly. Scaling their backyard’s hill, he glanced once behind him before fading into the moonlight. The defeated middle-schooler sat in the grass, holding the soccer ball to his chest. He could still feel the tears that stained his face that night, all these years later.
Suppressing a sniffle, Oliver snapped back to the moment at hand, urgently grabbing his phone to read the text. It was the message he hoped for, but grew to dread. He opened the app, but all he was greeted with was:
“Congrats.”
Oliver’s fingers trembled as he typed out a long-winded response:
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t supportive when we were young. Maybe I should’ve been the bigger person, but you were always the bigger star. You were handed everything, and left me in my self-pity. Now I have a moment, I do well for once, and you couldn’t care less? How could you?”
But he couldn’t press send. He knew Sky held some of the blame, but not all of it. He rubbed his watering eyes, taking one more look at the backyard he’d leave behind in a few weeks. His eyes landed on the recurring phantom that haunted him.
He stood in the center of the field, a clipboard clenched in his hand. He had to have been fourteen, the year he took part in the local science fair. For weeks, he had studied and examined the weeds in the backyard, cross-referencing and researching every finer detail – all for a bronze medal. And guess who won the gold?
After he sat through Sky’s acceptance speech, and the tense car ride home, Oliver had rushed to his bedroom, yanked the clipboard off his bed, and rushed outside.
Ollie’s faint illusion faced the soil he’d spent hours with. He couldn’t believe he lost to his brother, again. He slammed the clipboard to his knee, over and over again. He needed it to snap in half. But when it broke, he didn’t feel relief. All he felt was shame.
Shame because he couldn’t be the bigger person.
Oliver couldn’t help but glance behind him, but Sky stopped caring to check on him by that point. He knew all he’d be consoling was a soul that held quiet resentment. The ghost flickered, falling to his knees, his clipboard falling to the grass.
He could hear the indistinct congratulations his brother probably received. His brother became a star, while Oliver stayed a son.
He hung his head low. His phantom reached the same thought as him:
We used to be so close.
