How afterwards, if you were eating your favorite food at the time when someone made you cry, it would never really taste good ever again, and that was not fair. But he kept chewing, and crying, and gulping, and I stood there, trying not to look, trying not to remember what food tastes like when you cry, how long it takes for a piece of ham to go down when everything inside you is coming up. He kicked my leg, and I struck his cheek, the ham-side. We started using knuckles, fingernails, pillows, and magazines. “Hey,” he said, butting his head against my stomach.
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“Yes, you do,” I said, bumping the other slice of ham out of his hands. I got this great idea to nudge the back of his shoulder.
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“No,” he said, folding a slice of ham into his mouth. When he wouldn’t leave, I told him, “You have to.” I was reading a magazine when he walked in, pretending not to notice, pretending I liked so much to read about the new sweater-skirt combos for fall. I felt bad whenever I saw my brother wearing turtlenecks underneath sweatshirts and chewing on so much food that his mouth couldn’t close all the way. She had a habit of shaping food into hard spheres the size of small tangerines before feeding him. He came in wearing a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and holding two pieces of ham stuck together in his hands-clearly dressed and supplied by our mother. “Can you make me cereal with milk downstairs?” he asked, handing me the headphones. So you just listen to this on the bus and school the shit out of the other kids about rocking out.” “You’re listening to punk rock music, the most rockin’ music ever made in this extremely unrocked-out world. “Look at me.” I looked straight into his face. I pushed one of the headphones away from his ear and held him by the shoulders.
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“When kids on the bus ask you what you’re listening to you, you just say: PUNK ROCK MOTHERFUCKER!” I showed him how to hold up his hand: I pressed all my fingers down into my palm except for my forefinger and pinky.
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When he started to get that distracted look on his face, I turned up the volume and told him to pay attention. “So the casbah is like a huge palace,” I instructed. I made him listen to the Clash, the volume knob turned up halfway. He was starting kindergarten in three weeks. I was supposed to be teaching him addition, but I tossed the workbook on the floor and stuck a pair of headphones on his head. The next summer, I pulled him inside my room and locked the door. I picked out the burnt strands, and the two of us ate them from my cupped hand, on the couch, with my arm around him and his feet wiggling like noodles in boiling water, our eyes staring straight ahead, as if the opening credits were coming on. The little crisps disappeared between my fingers when I rubbed them together. If he were old enough, I would have laughed and said, “It looks like you’re growing blond pubic hair on your head.” But instead, I covered his face with my hands and pulled out the burnt ends. At the time, neither of us had expected his hair to touch the flame, to curl up immediately, to change color, as if he had gotten a badly bleached body-wave. He crouched down on the ground, closed his eyes, and leaned in close. I told him to stand back while I lit the match and touched it to the wick. We set the candle on our living room coffee table. “Stop it Jehhhh-nee,” he said, stepping back, “or I’ll enable my force shield to turn your bones into dirt.” “Eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it,” I said, backing him into a corner with the coffee end of the candle pointed at his mouth. “No,” my brother said, furrowing his eyebrows, turning away. We found one that I liked: white with Columbian coffee beans clustered around the bottom.
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On one of them, we searched my room for candles-the kind that smell like cinnamon, or mint, or are dressed up pretty with seashells, and are exchanged as Christmas presents between two friends who, in fact, aren’t very good friends at all.