"What's that?" I ask my father, pointing to a mark on my math book lying before me.
"A decimal" He sighs. I think he's gotten tired after me asking the same question over five times.
"Ooh!" I exclaim. "It makes sense now!"
"Good" he says, then mutters under his breath, "Now hurry up before I fall asleep sitting up."
"Huh?" I ask innocently.
"Nothing," he's quick to assure me.
"Would you hurry up?" My little brother sits down at the end of the table.
"No," I snap at him.
"Well then!" he gasps dramatically.
I finished the problem I'm working on then subtract it from the number of remaining questions.
"Whatcha doing?" my brother asks me.
I know that he knows what I'm doing and I know that he's trying to annoy the crap out of me, so I answer in an even tone.
"Is it easy?" he asks.
I want to yell "Does it look easy?" but I settle with a simple, "No, it is not easy."
"Then why are you doing it?"
Okay, he's getting on my last nerve.
"Just because," I tell him.
"That isn't an answer." he tells me.
Ah, using my own remark against me, I think. I wish I hadn't taught him so well.
"I want to go to Haravard."
"A very cool building where people do schoolwork." My Dad answers, yawning slightly.
"Oh, okay!" he says, being chipper, then hops down from the chair and scampers past me on his way to the TV.
Ugh! I think, once again subtracting my remaining problems and coming up with ten. I hate math -and brothers!