Los Angeles | 2009
Alex's POV
I stood at the front door of the Naird house, my backpack heavy with textbooks and the weight of my own stubborn pride. The bet. I had made that stupid, competitive bet with Brad about the end-terms, and now I owed him project work for the next year even with project work assigned for the summer break. The rational part of my mind insisted this was a learning opportunity, a chance to observe his methods and understand how he achieved those effortless results. The emotional part of me wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. It's been 5 days since summer break began.
I pressed the doorbell, hearing the elegant chime echo through what sounded like a much larger space than our house. Within moments, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Naird, looking as polished and put-together as always in a cream-colored blouse and dark slacks.
"Alex! How wonderful to see you," she said, her smile genuine and warm. "Brad mentioned you'd be coming over to work on some projects together."
"Hi, Mrs. Naird," I managed, adjusting the strap of my backpack. "Thank you for having me."
"Of course, honey. Come in, come in." She gestured me into the entryway, which was all polished hardwood and tasteful artwork. "Brad's setting up in the study. Can I get you anything? Water, juice, a snack?"
"Water would be great, thank you."
As I followed her deeper into the house, I caught glimpses of the living spaces—everything coordinated but not cold, the kind of home that appeared in magazines but still felt lived-in. We passed through a hallway lined with family photos, including one of Brad in his basketball uniform, holding a trophy and looking characteristically composed yet a grin on his face was also present.
"Here we are," Mrs. Naird said, opening the door to what was clearly a dedicated study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, a large oak desk dominated the center of the room, and natural light streamed in from tall windows. Brad was seated at the desk, several notebooks open in front of him, a laptop humming quietly beside him.
He looked up as we entered, and I felt that familiar flutter of nervousness mixed with something else I refused to analyze.
"Hey," he said, his voice carrying that same calm confidence it always had. "Ready to tackle some projects?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, trying to match his casual tone.
"This is Dad's study but he doesn't use it that often these days so I thought why not make the most of it"
Mrs. Naird set a glass of water on a coaster near me. "I'll leave you two to your work. If you need anything get it from the kitchen or tell Brad to do it."
Once she'd gone, closing the door behind her with a soft click, I found myself alone with Brad in the quiet, book-filled room. He gestured to the chair across from him.
"So," he said as I settled into the seat, pulling out my own materials, "I was thinking we could start with the history project on colonial trade routes. Apart from the Math worksheet it's the only homework we have for the summer break, and honestly, I find that topic pretty interesting."
I stared at him. "You find colonial trade routes interesting?"
"Don't you?" He leaned back slightly, that analytical look I knew so well crossing his features. "Think about it—these weren't just economic pathways. They were the arteries of empire, the lines along which information, culture, and power flowed. The Dutch West India Company didn't just trade goods; they traded influence. The routes themselves became weapons of economic warfare."
Despite myself, I felt my intellectual curiosity stirring. "The triangular trade," I said slowly. "Europe to Africa to the Americas and back."
"Exactly. But that's just the basic structure and all the negativity associated with the slave trade too. What's really fascinating is how disruptions to those routes changed the balance of power. When the British started interfering with French colonial trade during the Seven Years' War—"
"It wasn't just about territory," I finished, the pieces clicking together. "It was about strangling their economic lifelines."
Brad smiled, and I realized this was the first time in weeks that I'd felt genuinely excited about schoolwork instead of just anxious about competing.
"Alright," I said, opening my notebook. "So how do you want to approach this?"
"Well, that's the thing," he said, pulling out what looked like a detailed outline. "I've been thinking about your study methods."
I tensed. "What about them?"
"You're incredibly thorough," he said, and there was no mockery in his tone. "Your research is exhaustive, your citations are perfect, your arguments are bulletproof. But you're also doing way more work than you need to."
"I don't understand."
Brad turned his laptop screen toward me. It displayed what looked like a mind map—colonial trade routes branching out in different colors, with key dates, major players, and economic impacts all connected by clear lines.
"You approach projects like you're trying to learn everything about a topic," he said. "Which is admirable, but not necessarily efficient for the assignment requirements. I approach them like I'm trying to answer a specific question."
I studied his organizational system. It was elegant, focused, and I could immediately see how it would lead to a more streamlined final product.
"The assignment asks us to analyze the impact of colonial trade on one specific region," I said, understanding dawning. "You're not trying to become an expert on all colonial trade. You're just trying to answer that one question thoroughly."
"Right. And once you have that focus, you can reverse-engineer the research. What do I need to know to answer this question? What sources will give me that information most efficiently?"
I felt a mixture of admiration and frustration. "That's... actually brilliant. And here I've been reading everything I can find about colonial economics, trying to absorb it all."
"Which isn't wrong," he said quickly. "It's just a different approach. Your method makes you incredibly knowledgeable. Mine just makes me efficient at producing the specific output the teacher wants."
We fell into a working rhythm, and I found myself relaxing despite the circumstances. Brad's approach was revelatory—instead of my usual method of comprehensive research followed by the overwhelming task of organizing it all into a coherent argument, we started with the argument structure and then researched to fill in specific gaps.
"So we establish that Philadelphia's port development was directly tied to Pennsylvania's agricultural output," I said, making notes, "and then we can show how disruptions during the French and Indian War led to..."
"Economic partnerships with other colonies that wouldn't have existed otherwise," Brad finished. "Which actually strengthened inter-colonial relationships in ways that would matter later during the Revolution."
"That's a great angle. Original but supportable." I looked up at him. "How did you know to look for those connections?"
He was quiet for a moment, his pen tapping against his notebook. "I guess I just... I see patterns. On the basketball court, in chess games, in historical events. There's usually an underlying logic, a sequence of cause and effect. Once you can see the pattern, you can predict where it's going."
"Is that your Master Strategist talent at work?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, referencing our chess games and his tactical approach to everything.
Brad's hand stilled. He looked at me with something like surprise, then gave a small laugh. "Yeah, I guess it is."
We continued our work as time passed by.
A knock on the door interrupted us. "Come in," Brad called.
The door opened to reveal Erin, in her garden outfit but with her hair slightly mussed, as if she'd been playing outside.
"Mom says you have a friend over," she announced, looking at me with open curiosity. "Hi Alex I wanted to ask you for a favour"
"Hi Erin what would you like me to do ," I said, unable to suppress a smile at her directness.
Her eyes lit up. "I want to learn an instrument, but Mom says I have to pick one and stick with it."
"The cello is wonderful," I told her. "It's challenging, but when you get a piece right, it's... it's like perfection turned into music."
Erin's face scrunched in concentration. "That sounds hard."
"Everything worthwhile is hard at first," I said. "But that's what makes it worth doing."
Brad was watching this exchange with an expression I couldn't quite read. Erin seemed to accept my explanation and bounced over to give her brother a quick hug.
"Oh no you don't Bug, you have dirt all over you", Brad said hurriedly as he stood up from his chair to evade Erin.
"Its fun this way come on", Erin giggled as she chased him around the room. Eventually unable to catch him she gave up.
"I'm going to help Mom with dinner," she announced. "Are you staying, Alex?"
I glanced at Brad, suddenly aware that we'd been working for over two hours. "I should probably—"
"You should stay," he said. "Mom always makes too much food anyway, and I think she likes having someone around who can keep up with her questions about current events."
The casual invitation, delivered without the weight of our academic competition or the awkwardness of the bet, felt like a peace offering.
"If you're sure it's not an imposition..."
"It's not," he said firmly. "Besides, we still need to figure out our presentation structure."
Erin clapped her hands together. "Yay! I'll tell Mom." She bounded out of the room, leaving us alone again.
"Your sister is sweet," I said.
"She is. She also thinks you're cool, which is high praise. Erin doesn't impress easily."
We returned to our work, but something had shifted. The competitive tension that had been underlying our interactions for weeks was finally dissipating, replaced by something that felt more like actual collaboration.
As we refined our project outline, I found myself watching Brad work. His process was methodical but not rigid, creative but not chaotic. He would pause sometimes, staring out the window, and I realized these weren't moments of distraction but of active thinking—his mind working through problems in ways I was only beginning to understand.
"Can I ask you something?" I said during one of these contemplative pauses.
"Sure."
"The end-terms. You really didn't study for them at all?"
He met my eyes directly. "Not in the way you study, no. I reviewed the material, made sure I understood the key concepts. But I didn't drill myself on practice problems or make flashcards or anything like that."
"But you beat me." The words came out smaller than I'd intended.
"Alex," he said, and his voice was gentler than I'd heard it. "I didn't beat you. We were never actually competing."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You were trying to prove you were the smartest person in our class. I was just trying to get good grades so my parents wouldn't worry about me adjusting to the new school and placing too much focus on sports." He leaned forward slightly. "Different objectives entirely."
"But the bet—"
"Was your idea," he pointed out. "I went along with it because I thought it would be fun. I had no idea it was causing you so much stress."
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "It wasn't stress, it was... competitive drive."
"Is there a difference?"
The question hung in the air between us. I found myself thinking about the past few weeks, about the way I'd been second-guessing every interaction, questioning his motives, feeling inadequate despite maintaining grades that any normal person would be proud of.
"Maybe not," I admitted quietly.
Brad reached into his backpack and pulled out something I recognized—his Empire: Total War game.
"Remember when I asked if you wanted to come over to play this?" he said.
"Yes." The memory still stung with embarrassment.
"The only reason I asked you was because I knew you'd be good at it. It's basically interactive chess on a historical scale. I thought you'd love it."
I stared at the game box. "I thought... I thought you only asked because Leo and David were busy."
"Alex." He sounded almost frustrated. "Leo and David are great guys, but they think strategy games are boring. They'd rather play Call of Duty or something. You're the only person I know who might actually enjoy analyzing 18th-century military tactics for fun."
"Oh." The word came out very small.
"Look, I know the end-term results were hard on you. And I know this bet thing makes it weird. But I didn't win because I'm smarter than you or because you're not good enough. I won because I've learned to be efficient with academic work so I can spend more energy on basketball. That's all."
I absorbed this, feeling some internal knot of tension I'd been carrying finally start to loosen.
"So what happens now?" I asked. "With the bet, I mean."
Brad was quiet for a moment. "I always meant for it to be collaborative instead of one-sided. We work on projects together, pool our different approaches. You can learn efficiency; I can learn thoroughness. Better end result for both of us."
"That's... not what we agreed to."
"Then I'm changing the terms." He shrugged. "Winner's prerogative. Besides you're still doing all the grunt work like writing, submission and reviews"
Despite myself, I laughed. It was the first genuine laugh I'd had in weeks.
"You know," I said, "for someone who claims he doesn't care about academic competition, you sure know how to negotiate."
"Master Strategist, remember?"
Mrs. Naird's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Kids! Dinner!"
We packed up our materials, and as we headed for the door, I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the study wall. I looked... lighter somehow. Less wound up.
"Brad?" I said as he held the door open for me.
"Yeah?"
"Next time you ask me to do something, I'm going to say yes. Just so you know."
His smile was warm and genuine. "Good to know, Dunphy. Good to know."
As we headed downstairs for dinner, I realized that the bet hadn't been about winning or losing after all. It had been about figuring out how to be friends—real friends—without the weight of competition between us.
And maybe, just maybe, I was finally learning how to do that. Oh, I liked him but a part of me was till afraid of losing this budding friendship. My need for Brad as my friend far outweighed my confidence in confessing to him. I was happy with this for now and I didn't want to risk it.