Born To Be Your's

The alarm clock on Blake Copper’s phone was screaming “Tequila” at him, signaling the arrival of 6:15 AM. He slapped the cracked screen of the hand-me-down phone off the nightstand beside his bed. Above him, his brother Travis, 15, was already deep into his morning snore cycle, a sound like a cheap engine choking on dust. Blake lay there for a minute, staring up at the flimsy plywood separating their bunks. He stretched, a lithe, powerful movement that spoke of his physical fitness, even if it was fueled by stale toast and adrenaline. His deep voice, usually thick with sarcasm, was silent for now. He began kicking the underside of the top mattress with short, insistent thuds. “Travis. Travis. Rise and shine, you beautiful, mellow bastard.” A groan came from the bunk, followed by a grunt. Travis, who was known for being the most relaxed and kind-hearted of the Coppers, only shifted his weight. Blake kicked again, harder. “Get up, Trav. You’ll be late.” Blake, 17, finally peeled himself out of the bed. He was a striking figure: broad-shouldered and lean, with thick, messy, dark brown hair that fell perpetually over his handsome face. Even in the gloom of the small bedroom, his guarded, intense gaze was evident. He grabbed his toothbrush and darted out, navigating the gauntlet of forgotten toys to reach the shared bathroom before his sister Laura claimed it. He finished his routine and returned to the room. Travis, skinny and still sleepy, was finally up, searching through the drawers for a clean shirt, a common morning struggle. Blake threw on his own uniform—a black thermal shirt and dark jeans—the functional armor he wore against the world. A thin, high-pitched whine started down the hall. Mark. Blake sighed, scooped up a dirty blanket, and walked down the hall to Laura’s room. He found Mark, 4, sitting alone on the bed, already welling up. Mark was small for his age, with wide, innocent eyes that hadn't yet seen the worst of their neighborhood. Blake grabbed him easily; the boy immediately burrowed into Blake’s thermal shirt, finding instant, silent comfort. Blake often worried about Mark's lack of speech, but he kept that concern locked away. Cradling Mark, Blake swung by the twins’ room. Maddie, 9, with her bright eyes and deceptively sweet face, was already up, sitting on her bed in her pajamas, meticulously brushing the lopsided wig of her favorite doll. “Maddie, get dressed. Get ready for school,” Blake instructed. He then looked at the opposite bunk, which was neatly made and empty. “Ryan?” Maddie didn't look up, concentrating on the doll. “He went out to check the trash cans. Said he’s ‘testing the structural integrity of the neighbor’s bin.’" Ryan, the other twin, was perpetually out looking for trouble, often obsessed with fire and destruction. Blake carried Mark downstairs and into the kitchen, the chaotic heart of the home. Laura, 21, was already in the middle of her frantic ‘Copper Kitchen Dance.’ Laura was naturally beautiful, but her constant exhaustion was etched around her eyes, and her dark hair was hastily pulled into a messy knot. She was stirring burnt-smelling oatmeal, packing the twins lunches, and balancing a screaming kettle all at once. Blake deposited Mark into his booster seat with a bowl of cornflakes, ignoring the sticky floor. “Got the alarmist,” Blake announced, avoiding Laura’s manic rotation. Laura, without turning, confirmed, “Thanks. Ryan is doing something felonious outside, isn't he?” “Probably a misdemeanor against recycling. He’ll be back.” Blake sidestepped a laundry basket and began the complicated process of making his coffee—a habit fueled by his high intelligence and the sheer amount of energy required to mask his true feelings. Laura, trying to stir, pack, and dance simultaneously, stopped. “Blake, it’s Tuesday. Food pantry. I need you to go at lunch. We’re out of formula, and I know you have Art, but…” Blake easily executed a backward lean to avoid bumping her, grabbing his coffee. His laid-back, doesn't-give-a-f**k attitude was firmly in place. “Relax, I’ll go during lunch. I can miss looking at ugly ceramics.” He hated missing Art, but Laura’s relief was payment enough. Maddie bounced in, her two blonde pigtails completely lopsided, her clothes surprisingly clean. "Laura! I need twenty dollars! Field trip next Friday! Planetarium! Money’s due today!" Laura groaned, running a hand over her face. "Twenty dollars? Maddie, that’s coming out of the electric bill. We’ll be eating by candlelight.” Blake took a bite of stale toast. “It’s fine. Shawn owes me thirty-five for that Chem test last week. I’ll get it from him, one way or another.” Blake’s intelligence made academic cheating a simple hustle for cash. Laura sighed, the relief palpable. “God, Blake, thank you.” She quickly gave Maddie the cash in an envelope, fixed the lopsided pigtails, and shooed her out. Chaos contained, for now. A few minutes later, Blake, Travis, Maddie, and Ryan were out the door. Laura stood on the porch, Mark strapped to her hip, waving until they turned the corner. She would clean up the daily wreckage, drop Mark at Headstart, and then head to Paul’s pub for a few hours of waitressing before she had to repeat the entire routine. They dropped Ryan and Maddie off at the brightly colored elementary school. Blake gave Ryan a sharp look. “Don't get suspended, Ryan.” Ryan returned a sociopathic grin. “No promises, Blake.” Blake and Travis continued toward Northwood High. “You really think Shawn’s going to pay you that thirty-five?” Travis asked, pulling his jacket tighter. Travis was deeply attached to Blake, and often sought his advice. He was struggling with his own internal conflicts, something Blake was oblivious to. “He will,” Blake replied, lighting a cigarette. “He tries to stiff me, I'll beat his ass.” Travis nodded, looking down at the ground. “You're smart, Blake. Really smart. You should…” He stopped, unable to voice the thought that Blake deserved a life away from the Copper compound. “I should what? Win a scholarship and escape?” Blake snorted, exhaling smoke. “Don't be an i***t, Trav. We’re Coppers. We don't escape. We just find more elaborate ways to survive the place we're trapped in.” Northwood High School was a sterile cube of boredom, a place where Blake’s intelligence felt like a poorly fitted suit. He navigated his morning classes—Biology, English, and a particularly droning History lecture—with the glazed-over focus of a highly capable actor who knew his lines were pointless. He finally reached lunch, the most profitable and the most dangerous time of his day. Blake spotted Shawn by the vending machines, looking pale and twitchy. Shawn, whose wealthy lived in a manicured suburban bubble, clearly understood the transactional nature of Blake’s genius. “The money, Shawn,” Blake said, his deep voice carrying an edge that immediately made Shawn jump. “Dude, I only brought twenty. My mom checks my wallet,” Shawn whispered, shoving a crumpled bill into Blake’s hand. Blake’s eyes narrowed. “The agreed-upon price was thirty-five, and I took photos of your Chemistry midterm answers, not your grocery list. Don’t play dumb. You want a 98, you pay the price. You have fifteen minutes to find the rest, or your mother gets a text detailing your academic dishonesty. And maybe a few other things.” Shawn’s face went white. He scrambled away, promising to find a friend to hit up. Blake wasn't worried; the rich kids always paid. They were terrified of consequence. He bypassed the cafeteria, texting Travis—who was eating alone, as usual—that he had to run an errand. Blake slipped out the side door and headed for the food pantry. He was supposed to be in Art class, but the only art he cared about today was the art of survival. The pantry was an old church basement around the corner from the Coppers' street, run by a rotating cast of sweet, elderly women who adored him. As he walked in, Mrs. Henderson, a woman who smelled like lavender and regret, immediately beamed. "Oh, Blake! Just look at you! My, you get handsomer every time I see you. You’ve grown another inch, haven’t you?” He gave them his practiced, charming, yet distant smile. “Morning, ladies. Trying to keep the little ones from starving. The usual, please.” He was quickly surrounded. Mrs. Albright, who always wore too much blush, clutched his arm. “Are you still running around with all those pretty young things, Blake? When are you going to get yourself a nice girl, a good girl, and settle down?” Blake chuckled, his voice dropping slightly. “I got plenty of ladies, Mrs. Albright. But settle down? When my dad sobers up and stops trying to steal the wiring out of the walls, and my mom comes back to act like a parent, maybe then I’ll worry about a white picket fence.” The statement was dark, factual, and delivered with such offhand sarcasm that it made them sigh sympathetically, rather than judge. It was Blake’s charm—the brutal, handsome truth wrapped in a package they wanted to fix. “Well, you just take care of that sweet sister of yours,” Mrs. Henderson said, loading his arms with the heavy stuff. He left ten minutes later, his arms aching under the weight of the haul: two bags full of rice, dry beans, and canned tuna slung over his forearms, milk clutched in one hand, and two half-gallon jugs of juice in the other. It was a workout, but the Coppers weren't picky. He rounded the final corner and let himself into the house. The sight of Laura in the kitchen, shuffling around in a pair of stained sweatpants, stopped him. She was clearly using her lunch break to cram in some necessary chores, swapping out a load of laundry. Laura looked up, saw him laden with goods, and the stress that perpetually furrowed her brow lessened. She rushed over, sighing deeply. “Oh, thank God. You’re a lifesaver. You know, we just get so much more food when you go. I think those old ladies have a crush on you.” Blake dropped the bags heavily on the counter. He grabbed an apple and bit into it. “They’re not my type. I like t**s and ass where they belong, Laura, not sagging to their knees.” Laura stopped short, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh. “God, Blake! You’re awful.” They worked together, shoving the bounty into the sparse cabinets. Laura pulled out a newly donated can of toddler formula with relief. “Thank God. WIC finally increased Mark’s formula. The doctor recommended it, but I swear not enough, all he wants is milk, chicken nuggets, or Mac n’ cheese. I’m worried something’s wrong.” Laura, the matriarch, carried the crushing guilt of any deviation from normal. Blake leaned against the counter, chewing the apple core. “It’s a phase. He’ll start eating more food. Remember when Ryan went through a similar thing? If it wasn't mashed potatoes, it was on the floor.” Laura stood up, putting her hands on her hips, her exhaustion returning. “I hope you’re right.” She checked the cheap plastic watch on her wrist. “I gotta run. I’ll see you and Travis when you get home. Don’t burn the house down.” She grabbed her keys and ran out the door to return to her job at Paul’s pub. Blake stood alone in the quiet kitchen, the lingering scent of stale coffee and fresh detergent hanging in the air. For a fleeting moment, the house was silent, empty of children and responsibility, and he savored the rare, precious stillness. He had to be back at school soon, but right now, he was just Blake, a seventeen-year-old with thirty minutes of peace.