Chapter 3: Ambition vs. Contentment

But there are always people who just can’t let things go.

Every family’s got that one friend who’s all business and hustle. Mine is Noah Thompson, the guy who’s been trying to light a fire under my butt since grade school.

Take my childhood friend, Mr. Thompson’s grandson, Noah Thompson, for example—he thinks very differently from me.

Noah’s the kind of guy who never met a challenge he couldn’t win. He wears ambition like a varsity letter jacket. Even in kindergarten, he was probably planning his first campaign run.

He says a real man born in America shouldn’t live in someone else’s shadow forever; he has to do something big to make his mark.

Whenever I get comfortable, Noah’s there to call me out. “Don’t you want to be remembered, Jason? Leave your own mark on history?”

His talent matches his ambition—he’s top of his class, captain of the debate team, and can throw a football like nobody’s business.

Picture the guy who leads morning announcements, runs the student council, and still has time to hit the gym. I’m convinced he doesn’t sleep, just recharges like a phone overnight.

Every time there’s a test, I always come last among the three brothers, while Noah is always first among the three friends.

Even our group chat reflects it: Derek, Caleb, and me—guess who’s at the bottom of the grade screenshots Noah sends? He’s always at the top, humblebragging with a wink.

He’s embarrassed by this and tries every trick to force me to study as hard as he does.

Flashcards, study schedules, motivational speeches—he’s tried them all. Sometimes I think he wants it for me more than I ever could.

Every day before sunrise, he’s at my door, pounding on the windows:

“Jason, get up! The tutor’s covering U.S. history today—if you’re late, you’ll miss it!”

I swear, my neighbors probably think he’s my parole officer, not my best friend. Mom just sips her coffee and laughs when she sees his shadow on the porch.

Just after lunch, he drags me to the gym.

Doesn’t matter if I just inhaled a burger—he’s got me jogging laps or doing push-ups, barking out sets like a drill sergeant.

Derek sees me nodding off on the treadmill and kindly tells me to take a break.

Derek’s always been the cool big brother—he’ll pat me on the back, tell me not to overdo it, sneak me a Gatorade when Noah isn’t looking.

But Noah somehow finds a whistle and blasts it right in my ear, making me jump up and run like crazy.

I nearly launched myself into the water fountain once. That whistle’s his weapon of choice; I think he keeps a spare in his sock.

I’m nearly thrown off the machine, so I have no choice but to grab the rails and focus all my energy on keeping up with him.

When I say ‘keeping up,’ I mean ‘not faceplanting in front of half the football team.’

Even at night, Noah won’t let me rest.

I’ll be half-asleep with a game on, and he’s at my desk, ruler in hand, running pop quizzes on state capitals.

He grabs a ruler, like a strict teacher, and makes me recite all the day’s lessons before letting me go.

My brain’s mush, but he won’t let up. I swear he’s got a hidden stash of rulers, snapping one every time I blank on an answer.

But no matter how hard he tries, I always forget what I’ve memorized, leaving him so frustrated he snaps ruler after ruler over the desk.

I’ve got a whole drawer of broken rulers and eraser shavings—he says it’s my ‘legacy.’

Still, Noah refuses to give up on me.

That stubborn streak—he gets it from his granddad. He just digs in harder every time I disappoint him.

He only wonders if he’s not being tough enough, and then comes up with new ways to push me harder.

Last month, he signed us up for a public speaking contest. I think he believes pressure will turn me into a diamond. Mostly, I just sweat a lot.

Honestly, I’m helpless.

Sometimes I just want to toss him my PlayStation controller and call a truce.

I have to tell him, “When I was little, I fell in the pool, got a high fever that wouldn’t go away, and it messed up my brain. Don’t waste your energy on me.”

He rolls his eyes, says I’m full of excuses. But I try to sell it anyway. “Seriously, man, I’m not cut out for greatness.”

But he just says, “Come on, Jason, rise and grind! You snooze, you lose.”

He’s got a saying for everything—one of those guys who reads self-help books for fun.

Completely impossible to reason with.

Sometimes I suspect Dad saw me living too comfortably, resented my lack of ambition, and deliberately asked Noah to whip me into shape.

I mean, what else explains it? Noah’s more persistent than a campaign ad in October. Even Mom thinks he’s on the payroll.