I can tell that he wants to help, but really, what could he possibly do or say? I clench my jaw and aim at the target again, unleashing a series of shots in rapid succession. I can tell without even checking that my formations are way off, but honestly I don’t care. That isn’t the purpose of today’s visit to the range. Today we’re here to blow off some steam. How this is supposed to make me feel better, I have no idea. Quite honestly, it just makes me want to turn this gun on them and repeat this exercise. I can’t believe I let them get to me over something so…stupid. I reload and fire off another series.

Seeing that I’m not cooling down, he waves at me to stop, then motions for me to come over.  I holster my SIG Sauer and remove my noise-reducing earphones and safety glasses.

“Sit down,” he suggests. When I don’t immediately do so, he puts and hand on my shoulder, his eyes meeting mine imploringly. “Sit,” he tries again, and this time I do so, sighing as I sit on the bench. The least he could have done is waited to have this heart-to-heart until we were some place a little more comfortable than the firing range.

I tense as he sits beside me. I don’t know why. It’s not him I’m mad at.

For a few moments we sit next to each other in silence, my anger intensifying with every second that ticks by. It’s clear he has something he wants to get off his chest, but instead he just sits there wasting my time.

“You know, they used to call me ‘Geek’,” he finally voices awkwardly.

I waited that long and that’s what he wants to tell me? “Well, of course they did!” I start to laugh at the absurdity of it, but stop abruptly when I see the serious expression on his face, the almost hurt look in his eyes.

All right fine, I’ll bite. I look at him expectantly, waiting for the punch line, but one doesn’t seem to be forthcoming.

I suck in my breath and let it out slowly, trying to cool my anger. It works only marginally well. “Okay,” I grant permission for him to continue, my tone too calm as I overcompensate for the fury I’m still feeling.

For a few moments he remains silent, his eyes searching mine as though he’s searching to see if he can trust me with what he’s about to say. “They called you geek,” I prompt him to give what I’m guessing is a pep-talk. As if I need one from him. Ever.

“I was the youngest in my class,” he starts out again. “And small for my age,” he adds, his cheeks pinking slightly at the admission. “Everything came really easy for me,” his eyes meet mine again, seeking understanding. I’m reluctant to give it, but nod slowly anyway. “The other kids would get really mad because I was always the first one with the answer, the first one done with the test, the one who always set the high score.” Instead of being proud about that, he sounds rather bitter.

“So you were smart,” I summarize dismissively, wondering if I’m missing something.

He doesn’t acknowledge my assessment. “I was always bored in class,” he moves on. “So eventually they decided to skip me up a grade.” I raise my eyebrows. How did I not know that about him? “And then another couple.”

Ouch.

He sees the change in my expression and smiles wanly. “Yeah. Pretty much. So, no matter what I did, no matter how I tried, I could never fit in. To everyone I was just the little geek kid.”

I shift uncomfortably, wondering just where it is he’s going with this story. For a while he stays silent, and I begin to wonder if he really does have a point.

“It always got to me,” he finally continues. “Being called a geek.” I look at him curiously, my own anger building up again as I consider what he’s saying. If it bothered him so much why does he…before I can ask, he continues. “It wasn’t until college that I figured it out.”

I frown as I try to discern what it is he realized. “What? How to make them stop calling you names?”

His eyes light with amusement and suddenly he looks as though he’s recalling a fond memory instead of the painful one he’s been relaying. “Oh, hell no. They called me much worse!” he crows as he casually puts his arm around my shoulder.

Okay, now I really don’t understand. “And that somehow suddenly made you happy?” I ask, my hackles rising again.

“Yeah,” he replies, grinning as he glances sidelong at me.

“Why would that make you happy?!” I cry out, completely exasperated.

“It was completely different. I figured out that it bothered me before because they hated me.”

“But in college they didn’t?”

“Nah. I hit my growth spurt early,” he reveals. “Bulked up a bit. Got pretty good at playing ball.” I raise an eyebrow. He gives me a small shrug in return. “I found my family. A house full of ‘brothers’. And god, yes, they called me names,” he grinned. “But it wasn’t because they hated me. It was just what brothers do.” He looks at me pointedly. “You understand the difference, right?” His eyes are suddenly pleading with me.

And now I get it. What he needed to get off his chest. I can see him calculating all the times he’s called me names. I can practically feel the guilt radiating off him in waves.  This isn't a pep-talk after all. He needs absolution. Needs to know that I don’t think he’s like them.

 And I don’t, I realize as the last of my anger dissipates and is replaced by a new inner calm. Sure, there’ve been times that he’s managed to get completely under my skin. And though I haven’t always been conscious of it, I realize now, that deep down, I did know the difference. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a brother.  I realize now that I’ve had one for the past several years and just never recognized it. “Yeah, I do.” I answer, giving him a little smile to let him know I get it.

 “Those guys today were asses,” he says, as though I didn’t already know that.

“Yeah, thanks for having my back…”

“Of course! I’m the only one who gets to call you that,” he adds, his voice light, but his eyes piercing me. Testing me to make sure I’m truly okay with it. I smile and give him a little nod. He grins and his body relaxes as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

“Hey, Tony. If you hated being called a geek so much how come you always call me one?”

He snorts a little bit. “Come on, Probie. You’re smart. It always made me feel like a fraud when they called me that.” When I look pointedly at him, he rolls his eyes. “Can you seriously tell me that when you think of me the word ‘smart’ even turns up in the top 10 adjectives you’d use to describe me.”

“Well, no,” I admit reluctantly, “but…you’re…I mean, you skipped 3 grades? Really?”

He shrugs noncommittally.

My brow furrows as I try to decide whether he made it all up or not.