I didn’t really believe my baby sister, Jessie, was adopted. Or that she was the love child of an illicit affair between my mother and our neighbor Lance Jones, rumored to have murdered his last wife. When I asked my mom about Lance Jones, she said it was all rubbish. She said that Mr. Jones’ wife left him when their little girl died. And no, he didn’t kill his daughter; she died in a swimming pool.

I had always wanted Jessie to be adopted up until a few weeks after my tenth birthday. I finally got up the nerve to ask about it, my mom was in a good enough mood, washing the dishes and humming a little to herself. So, I asked if Jessie was adopted. After all, it would explain why she was blond and so good natured, just like one of those little girls in a fairy tale. Us Bantaros tend to have a nasty streak. The girls sly, the boys unnaturally cunning. I’m the most cunning of all the boys. That’s what my mother says. She also says it’s a curse. To hear her tell it, every single one of the Bantaros are cursed. But her most of all. I don’t know what makes her so special.

When I asked her if Jessie was adopted, I left out the affair theory; I’m not that stupid. I honestly thought she would laugh. That’s what Ben’s mom did when he asked if his baby brother was really a monkey they found on their African safari and were just pretending was a baby. She also pinched his cheek and gave him an extra piece of gum. My mother doesn’t let us chew gum and is not a cheek pincher, but I still expect her to laugh. I want her to laugh. She doesn’t. Instead, she whips around from the sink and slaps me hard right across the face, leaving a little trail of soap suds across my cheek.

“Don’t you ever . . . ever say that to me again. You know better than that, Chris.” She is so mad she's shaking with rage. I put the tips of my fingers tentatively up to my face. I know the anger will come, but it is slow. Mostly I am confused. I had expected her to laugh.

“Ow,” I said, watching my mom warily out of the corners of my eyes to see how she would react.

“Damn right, ‘Ow.’ And I’ll do it again too, if you open your big mouth.”

There are a lot of things in life I hate. I hate the way her voice gets gravely and harsh when she’s angry, unrecognizable. I hate that I become weak, like the ten year old that I am. That my face tightens like I have a sunburn and scrunches up. That I can feel myself start to cry, even though I tell myself not to. I’m no longer cunning, just a kid who’s been whacked by his mom.

But I hate what comes next even more. “You stupid bitch,” I say, holding my face. “Do that again and I’ll kill you.” I sound like my dad; we both hear it. She doesn’t react, not outwardly, the hand holding the sponge pauses for a moment before continuing its repetitive circular scrubbing.

I want to take that plate and smash it. My fingers twitch, wanting the cool, slippery ceramic in their grasp before they let it slip quietly to the floor. Instead, I go outside; I know that’s what she wants and all I want is to be away.

It’s cool outside and dark, cloudy. I’m cold in my t-shirt but I won’t go back inside. Tim is across the street, leaning against his dad’s car, waiting for his friends to pick him up. I don’t want to be like Tim, like my mom thinks I do. When I try to dress like him, talk like him, it’s just a pathetic imitation. I want to be Tim. I want to live in his house, have his parents, own his dog. And I don’t care if the real Tim no longer exists. I don’t care if that’s selfish; it’s just what I want. I've never told anyone else about my wish; they wouldn’t understand.

He comes over, walking slowly. “Hey, are you excited about tonight?”

“Tonight?” I have no idea what he is talking about. I squat on the lawn, dragging a long stick through the dirt.

“What, you forgot that it’s Halloween? I’m taking you guys out trick or treating.” His voice is full of fake excitement.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Do we have to?”

“Yeah, we have to. Your sister’s looking forward to it.” He punches me lightly on the arm. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Fun like a hatchet in the head.”

“That’s the Halloween spirit. Anyways, don’t you want the candy?”

“I can buy that much candy for a buck. And there’s a much better chance it won’t have pins stuck through it by some crack head who hates kids.”

“Whatever, you’re going.” I make a face. “If you don’t want your candy, you can give it to me. But you’re going.”

I sniff because it is cold out and wipe my nose on my sleeve. It leaves a long glistening trail.

“You win the last game?” I ask.

He shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, not by much though.”

“How much?”

“Ten points, about.”

An old, beat up white car plows down are quiet street. “Get in, asshole,” they scream out the window at him. He gestures at me without looking in my direction. “Can you shut up?” He waves and gets in his friend’s car. I raise my hand halfway, not even bothering to look up, concentrating on the dirt underneath my stick. When I do look up, Tim's head is out of the back window of the car. It was already moving slowly, the October wind blowing his curly brown hair back so that he looks like a girl.

“See you tonight,” he calls and makes what he thinks is a scary goblin laugh. I don’t reply, just dig my stick deeper into the earth. He puts his arm out the window and points at me. “You’re going.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, “I’m going.” They are all watching me from the white car, staring.

“Diggin’ in the dirt…” I hear one of them say.

“Trash…” They drive off with the sound of a backfiring lawnmower.

“Assholes,” I think at them. I call them every bad word I have ever heard and a few I just make up. Just in my head, sometimes muttering them out loud, like a curse.

“Assholes, bastards, dicks, freaks, cunts, fuckheads.” I say it over and over until it becomes a chant.

“Assholesbastardsdicksfreakscuntsfuckheads.”

If I was Tim, they would respect me. Or at least not say things to my face. If I was Tim.

When Tim comes over that night, I am sprawled on the rug coloring and watching The Wish Master 4: Beyond the Gates of Hell. Jessie is sitting next to me, watching the main character’s friend literally puke her guts out. Jessie’s eyes are popping out of her head. I grin. She is already in her costume, the hood of her purple Tele-Tubby costume covering the top half of her face.

I slap my hand across her eyes. “Don’t watch this part.” I feel her eyelashes fluttering against the palm of my hand like little fuzzy spiders.

Tim stands behind us, one hand in his pocket. “What the hell are you watching?”

“Don’t fucking swear in front of my little sister.” I am in a bad mood. The pirate eye patch I am wearing itches and digs into the soft flesh beneath my eye. He makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t swear in front of her, but you let her watch this shit?”

“Yep.” I concentrate on my coloring, don’t look at him. Casper the Friendly Ghost is becoming a nice shade of purple.

“Pumpkin Head 2: Blood Wings is on next.” I put on the happy, excited voice I use with little kids. “You want to watch Pumpkin Head, don’t you, Jessie?” I ask.

Her voice is high, but quiet, timid. “Yes.”

I grin at her. She grins back. Her teeth are crooked. I drop my grin when I look over my shoulder at Tim. “See?”

“C’mon, we’re going.” He holds his hand out to Jessie. She loves Tim. “C’mon Jessie.”

She gets up off the floor without taking her eyes from the TV, grabs her decorated pillow case and walks over to him, grinning more than she had at me. He looks over his shoulder at me. “Hurry up, Black Beard.”

“I’m not a pirate.”

He smiles a little, confused. “Okay, so who are you?”

“A person who lost an eye,” I said. “Duh.”

“So, how’d you lose it?”

“Steak knife, right in the face. Bam.”

“You’re a sick man, Chris. A sick, sick man.” He ruffles my already messy hair, making my eye patch slide down my face. It itches more. “But it’s just a phase, right Jessie?”

She looks up at him. “Yep.”

“Okay, we’re going. No, wait. First, I have to piss. Anyone else have to go to the bathroom?”

I shake my head and put my eye patch back in place. Jessie sticks her finger up her nose.

“I’ll be right back.” He takes the stairs two at a time.