The Humdrum Life of a Hero

Chapter 1.

I should be drying and styling my hair like every other teenage girl does on a normal Tuesday morning at 6:30, but instead I'm making breakfast for everyone but myself.

My morning started almost an hour ago when I got up and started a load of laundry. Then, I took a ridiculously quick shower, applied minimal make-up, and threw my half-dry curly hair into something that was supposed to resemble a ponytail. Next, I had to search for a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie for the long Tuesday ahead of me.

I mean, my days are too long anyway, but Tuesdays are the worst.

Today's Terrible Tuesday includes a trip to the grocery, a soccer practice for the twins, and homemade lasagna night. Tuesday is also the only day of the week my eldest brother Tony does not have football weights, so I have to feed him in addition to two rambunctious nine year-olds.

"Sarah!" Tony calls from his bedroom in the basement. "Did you wash my football stuff?"

I step away from the French toast sizzling on the griddle to yell down the staircase, "Of course I did, and I told you last night they're on the coffee table in the living room!" I stand there with my arms over my chest, waiting for a reply that doesn't come. I just roll my eyes and check on the toast. I flip a few pieces that are starting to become golden brown.

A minute later Tony comes rushing up the stairs, looking like he just rolled out of bed, which he did just five minutes ago. He loops his belt through his khaki shorts and finishes tying his shoes.

I take three pieces off the griddle, slap on a plate, and hand them to him when he stands upright from tying his shoes. He grabs the plate, but not before pleading for more. I glare at him, "I can only make so many at a time."

He remains quiet and takes his plate to the table just off to the left of the kitchen. He drowns his breakfast in syrup and practically swallows his meal whole. I gag a little, realizing for the eightieth time this week how disgusting those of the male variety can be.

I should be used to it now. I have three brothers after all.

He finishes his breakfast in record time, but for some odd reason he declines my offers of more. "I probably shouldn't have eaten the three pieces I did."

Tony's football coach is always hounding them about maintaining a lean and healthy diet, especially for Tony since he's their star quarterback, and since he's been offered a full-ride college football scholarship next year. His coach has a point, but he's an eighteen-year-old, growing boy.

Tony dumps his plate in the sink and goes off to retrieve his football gear, but I stop him before he exits the kitchen. "Will you go wake the boys up?"

He turns back toward me and groans, "Why do I have to do it? They're so hateful in the morning."

"And you're not?" I shoot back. He slouches out of the room, knowing I'm right. Ten minutes and ten pieces of toast later, Tony finally comes back downstairs with two very grumpy nine-year-olds. I doll out two more plates of breakfast. Neither of them speak, obviously still groggy.

"Well, I gotta go," Tony kisses my cheek, even though when I do it to him in front of his friends he squirms away. It's something my mother used to do with both of us, so we've continued the practice. He hauls his backpack and mesh bag full of football equipment out the door next to the fridge to the garage. Before he closes the door, he pops his head back in and asks, "Still on for lasagna?"

"It's Tuesday isn't it?"

He nods and I hear his engine rev as he backs out of the garage. I turn my attention to the twins, robotically eating their breakfast.