"Hey, Four-Eyes!"
Graem recognized the voice instantly. Instinctively, he dropped the basketball he'd been awkwardly dribbling (he was no good at the game, but it was all the popular kids would play at recess these days). He stiffened, though he forced his face to relax into a smile. "Bobby! My man, my man! What's crackin'?"
Bobby "Knuckles" Nichols ("knucklehead" when one could be absolutely sure he was far out of earshot) was the tallest kid in Graem's grade, by such a large margin that there was a rumor he'd repeated the first grade at his old school. Even the fifth graders seemed afraid of him. When he walked through the schoolyard, flanked as always by two or three of his inseparable cronies, crowds parted to let him pass, as though he were some kind of king.
Graem would have given anything he owned, even the model rocket his dad had brought him back from a business trip to Texas, to become one of those cronies. He had lots of things stacked against him — his glasses, his asthma, the fact that Bobby's solar plexus was at roughly the same height as Graem's eyes — but Graem was a smooth talker, and even when he was the one getting picked on, he knew how to handle Bobby, how to tell him what he wanted to hear.
This year, Scottie Roberts had moved to San Francisco, leaving an open space in Bobby's gang. If a few cards fell his way, Graem thought, this would be his year. And then, when Graem grew up and became rich and powerful, the knuckleheads of the world would end up employed by him. Then he would get his revenge for every second he'd lived under Bobby Nichols' thumb. That was what he told himself, anyway.
"I forgot you were so little!" Bobby needled, punching Graem in the shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Yeah, it's my mom's fault," Graem joked, stifling a wince. "She's so tiny, I found her taking a nap in a desk drawer last week."
Bobby snorted. "Well, let's see if you can jump any higher than last year, sport." He snatched the glasses off Graem's face and held them up, just out of Graem's reach.
Graem squinted; under the bright glare of the September sun, he had trouble making out his target. He let Bobby's goons snicker for a few seconds before launching himself into the air, both arms stretching as high as they would go. As always, Bobby jerked Graem's glasses out of the way at the last possible second, leaving him empty-handed.
Bobby snorted. "Oh, come on. You can do better than that."
Graem knew better than to be discouraged. Bobby picked on everyone, even his right hand man, Mitch Donnell. As long as he was a good sport about it, Graem could still stay on Bobby's good side.
The next unsuccessful attempt earned Graem another punch in the same shoulder and a couple of hard shoves. "I'll give you one last try before I throw them on the ground and stomp on them," Bobby teased in a singsong voice. Getting ready for his next jump, Graem took a deep breath, bounced up and down a couple of times as if to wind up, and…
"Why don't you leave him alone?"
For a moment, Graem was confused, his mind doing a double take as he processed what he'd just heard — and then his heart dropped into his shoes, and his stomach dropped even further, into the hot blacktop under his feet.
Jack.
Graem's little brother, it seemed, thought the world revolved around him. He had to do everything his way. And if he saw something that, in his eyes, was wrong — no matter how few or how many people agreed with him, no matter how big or how small the problem was — he felt it was up to him to fix it. It was as though he always needed to prove that he was better than everyone else, especially Graem, despite being younger. And their parents ate it up; Jack was clearly their favorite child. Jack was the one who got sent to a fancy school to learn a secret language, while Graem sat at home with their ailing mother. Jack was the one their parents discussed in hushed voices whenever they thought Graem wasn't listening. Jack was the one their father talked to at the dinner table, teaching him about money and science and politics, and while Graem listened and absorbed every word, Jack seemed more interested in arguing with his dad and trying to convince him he was wrong.
For the past couple of years, school had been the one place Graem didn't have to compete against his brother, didn't have to suffer the humiliation of a mere five-year-old being stronger, faster, and smarter than he was. But those years were over. Now Jack had started kindergarten, which gave him the chance to inject himself into every remaining part of Graem's life. And knowing Jack, he'd take that chance — every time, every day.
Though his vision was blurry without his glasses, Graem knew exactly what expression was etched on Jack's face — that steely glare that he gave whenever he saw something he felt was unfair. He could see the outline of his brother's posture: confident, unyielding.
Bobby glanced lazily over his shoulder to see who had dared to question him — and burst into a fit of laughter when he saw the skinny little blond-haired boy who was even shorter than Graem was. The gang followed suit with cackles so forced they sounded almost pained. Even Graem joined in, guffawing louder than anyone, praying Bobby would see that Graem was on his side. Jack was unfazed; he didn't move a muscle, his features locked in perfect concentration.
"What did you say?" Bobby drew himself up to his full height and stood chest-to-chest — which was really more like chest-to-head — with Jack. But Graem's little brother refused to back down.
"I said, leave him alone." Jack's voice was level, matter-of-fact, as though he were talking about something completely mundane, like the weather.
Graem couldn't see who threw the first punch, but the chaos erupted instantly. Outnumbered three-to-one and much smaller to boot, Jack stood no chance, but that didn't stop him from fighting back. He flailed fiercely, punching, kicking, trying to get to his feet, only to get spun around and struck by one or more of his opponents. The whole time, he was yelling at Graem to run, but Graem stood rooted to the spot, watching everything he'd worked so hard to build with Bobby get pounded into dust.
When he and his buddies were finished, Bobby knelt down to look Jack in the eyes as he gasped for air, winded. He dangled Graem's glasses under Jack's nose. "I'm only doing this because you showed up," he crooned, then threw the glasses onto the asphalt near Jack's head and jumped on them with both feet until the crunch of broken glass was unmistakable. He looked Jack in the eye one last time. Then, without giving Graem so much as a glance, he strolled away like a lion on the prowl, and his entourage followed.
It was that last look at Jack that was the last straw for Graem. Even watching Bobby from behind, he could read begrudging respect in his posture — something that Graem, in all his years of molding himself into Bobby's perfect yes-man, still hadn't even come close to getting. Or maybe it was just Graem's imagination filling in details that weren't there, seeing one tall, imposing figure and thinking of another.
Jack clambered gingerly to his feet. "You okay?" he asked Graem, the words coming out sounding a little nasal thanks to his bloody nose.
It was then that Graem sucker-punched him in the stomach.
Jack's eyes widened in surprise and pain, and he stumbled, falling backward onto the ground. Graem, with a strength he hadn't known he had, tackled him and sat on top of his chest, grabbing him by the front of his shirt.
"You just couldn't leave me alone, could you?" Graem's voice was rising with hysteria as the weight of what Jack had done settled over him.
"I'll tell Mom and Dad it was my fault," Jack whispered. "I mean, the glasses."
But Graem was already shaking his head. He remembered the cookie jar incident from a few months ago — Graem, fed up with being the forgotten child, had eaten through half a jar of chocolate chip cookies that he and Jack weren't supposed to touch without permission. But his attempt had backfired. His father had immediately placed the blame on Jack, not even considering a different perpetrator. Jack had taken the spanking in silence, never contradicting his father's assumption.
Now here Jack was again, offering to take the blame — because everything had to be about him. He had to be the martyr, the hero, the center of attention. Truth be told, Graem would prefer for Jack take the punishment over himself; there was a reason he hadn't dared to misbehave again since the cookie jar incident. But he still resented the idea of going home to another day of Jack this and Jack that, while Graem sat in his room, too blind to play with half his toys.
"You don't get it," Graem snapped at Jack now. "It's not just about the glasses. I just want you to mind your own business! Why do you never do that?"
Jack stared up at him, looking bewildered. Graem continued. "I had it all under control. I was fine! But then you had to get in the way. Now every kid in school will think I need my little brother to protect me! Everyone's going to pick on me. Everyone!"
"I can't just let them bully you," Jack said, the words quiet but adamant.
"Why is it always all about you?" Graem's voice shook, his grip on Jack's shirt tightening. "I'm telling you, just… just stay out of it! Leave me alone!" With that, Graem got to his feet and stormed off, putting as much distance between himself and his little brother as possible. He could already see the heads turning, hear the whispers and laughs as he passed various kids in his class.
This was going to be a long year.
