The last day of school is the perfect opportunity to make peace with Mac. Or at least prompt him to rethink his plan to ride his bike past my house all summer yelling "What you got, Loser?" the way he did last summer after I won the school debate trophy for the third straight year. Which, as you can see, doesn't really make sense. I could have answered "Well, I've got the trophies you wanted, and probably would have this one too if I'd competed" but though I'm considered smart smart but not people smart, even I know that's probably not the way to go. Mac is pretty smart himself; we're usually neck and neck in the race to the top of the honor roll. He's also a full-fledged, first-class, Grade A GOON, even though he tries to disguise himself as an ordinary kid who's second-best on the school debate team.

"Congratulations, Mac," I say, holding my hand out (and up too, since my body hasn't gotten wise to the fact that I turned thirteen last month.) I try not to make a face, but the locker next to Mac's is giving off a smell that could destroy a nation.

"Shut it, tardigrade," mumbles Mac, showing my hand away. He goes back to dumping what looks like ten years' worth of papers and books (and maybe a fossilized sandwich) from his locker into his backpack.

"I'm serious, nice job out there! I thought your argument in favor of corporal punishment at school was convincing, mostly because of your enthusiasm." I'm working hard not to inhale; Mac doesn't seem to notice that there might be a decomposing body tucked away right next to him. "Interesting name-calling, by the way. The water bear is definitely a resilient and miniscule animal, so...nicely done. That might be a way to describe me, even though technically, I didn't actually lose, so there's nothing for me to be resilient about, and..." Oops. Probably should have stopped at 'nice job out there' because from the expression on his face and the way his fists clench, he doesn't need me to remind him that he didn't exactly beat me this year. That he's never beaten me at debate -- and he's tried to, a lot. My big brother Luke is always reminding me that sometimes the facts matter less than I think they do.

"You really are the dumbest smart guy around, aren't you?" asks Mac, slamming his locker door. "I don't want your compliments. I don't want your attempts to be the bigger man, which," he looks me up and down, "is technically impossible. I don't want your anything."

Again: maybe my three debate trophies, also my science fair award, and Spelling Bee record. Not that anyone's keeping track. Except me. And Mac. Which is where we started. I clear my throat. "Let's put our friendly rivalry behind us! You won! You're debate champion! Debate KING! It's all yours," I say. I'd called myself taking a break, but only I know the real reason why I'd dropped out of the competition at the last minute. Luke had given me a funny look when I'd announced that I was opting out of competing, but luckily he was too excited about his big news to pursue it."Uh, excuse me, can you move?" says a voice. "You're in front of my locker."

I open my eyes to see Terry Campbell frowning at me. Mac is way down the hall. I almost want to give up and see what happens when Terry opens his locker, because that smell is bad enough to make me want to risk it all to find out what it could possibly be. But...

I run after Mac.

"What do you want now, mosquito?" I pull up next to Mac, and do a decent job of not taking two steps for his every one. The halls are pretty empty already; when that last bell rings, people clear out fast.

"I don't get it," I say. "Why are you still mad at me? You WON. You're the king. I didn't even compete!" I try not to breathe like I'm in the middle of the annual fitness test, but Mac's pace and my end-of-the year backpack make me feel like I've been thrown into a Very Junior Iron Man competition. I'd placed squarely in the 42nd percentile for height and weight at my last check up. For once, not a score I wanted to brag about. Luke keeps telling me that he had a big growth spurt between thirteen and fourteen, so it should start any second now. He didn't even laugh when he caught me watching the Stretch-Grow-Let's-Go workout video online.

Mac stops walking. Thank God. "Shut up, bedbug. I can't even enjoy my win because it's all about you. YOU didn't compete. YOU would've set a new record. You, you, you. So excuse me for just wanting a LITTLE LESS YOU in my life. Too bad you're not the brother who's leaving."

He continues outside, and since I'm going the same way, I follow. But I stay a few steps behind, because, you know, it doesn't take a genius to see that Mac is pretty mad.

I look around for my brother. He'd planned to leave during his free period so that he could get the car from Mom and drive us and our locker contents home from school. I also want to catch him before he catches Mac. It's never a good idea for them to run into each other. Luke and Mac have a history. Because me and Mac have a history. And right now, it's in the present.

"Looking for big brother to save you?" Mac moves closer to me. "Better get used to him not being around. Maine isn't exactly around the corner, so next year, you won't have him to fight your battles."

"You're just jealous," I say. Luke's artwork had caught the attention of a fancy boarding school, and they offered him a scholarship for his last year of high school. I guess I shouldn't have been shocked, Luke is Luke. But I hadn't even realized how good he was.

"Nope. Sorry, bro. But maybe you are, just a little. You got your little trophies and certificates, but Luke's the one getting invited to the big leagues. I guess he's the real genius -- "

"You got a problem, Mac? Other than your usual ones?" Luke has come up out of nowhere. Like a superhero. Like my big brother. Now he'll tell Mac off and we'll speed away in the car, leaving him in literal smoke. (Mom's car is in desperate need of a tune-up.)

"No, except for your termite little brother. You going to sucker punch me again, or let him fight his own battles?"

"You're kind of pathetic, you know that, right?" Luke rolls his eyes. "Getting this rattled by a 12-year-old kid."

"Thirteen!" I say.

"Not the time, Emmett," he mutters. Which I guess means it's also not the time to remind him that he agreed to start calling me "E."

Suddenly Mac laughs. "You're right," he says. "Whatever. I'm out." He starts walking away, then turns back and calls out, "And congratulations to you, Luke! I'd say that I'll miss you but I won't. Especially since I'll have your beetle brother all to myself in September." He smiles a smile that makes me feel sicker than Terry's locker smell. "I can't wait."

"Yeah, well, many beetle species are actually useful to humans, which is more than I can say about you," I yell back.

"Let's debate THAT in September. Because I'll be back in competition mode! So get ready to be Number Two once again!" I turn to Luke and hold up my fist for a bump.

He hugs my shoulders instead and sighs. "You did not just say 'number two.' Come on, beetle boy. The car finally died and Mom had to get it towed to the shop. We're walking home."

We start down the street, and pretend we don't hear Mac's honk when he drives by.

"What was that about anyway?" Luke asks. "This time, I mean."

"I have no idea," I say. "I was truly trying to congratulate the guy on winning the debate tournament, which, as you know, I didn't do this year, so..."

"So....?"

"So who's to know who would have won? I mean, I think that's why he's mad. Because he wanted to beat me."

"And you didn't give him the opportunity," Luke says. I glance over at him, but he's staring straight ahead.

"Worked out that way," is all I say. Because if I had, he probably would have won. And then where would I be?

---

Excerpted from It Doesn't Take a Genius by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.