The bag of groceries smashed on the ground between them.

They both stared at it for a while. Steve, 13, and his older brother, Lawrence. 17. He used to be Larry, then he turned 17, and he decided he was Lawrence. Steve tried to be Steven, but Lawrence put a stop to that.

The bag. Ripped open, cans and some fruit. A loaf of bread, half-squashed. A bad packing job.

Larry, why—

Lawrence. Asshole.

Lawrence. Why did you—

Shithead.

Steve sighed. He could feel Larry staring at him, even though Larry was looking at the bag too. At the stuff. He could feel Larry mentally staring at him..

Are you going to let me talk?

No. Crybaby.

I’m not crying.

But you’re going to start crying. Aren’t you.

No.

Asshole crybaby shithead.

Steve took a deep breath. He wanted to ask why Larry had ripped the bag out of his hands. He wanted to ask Larry if he had done it on purpose. But Steve knew. Steve bent down, trying to retrieve what was salvageable. A can of green beans. An apple.

He was four years younger than Larry, outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, and was at least five inches taller. He played sports. He wrestled with his friends, impromptu basement blood sports when there was nothing on TV and it was too hot to go outside. He got and gave bloody noses, every one of them laughed off, except the one he gave Larry, on purpose. A week ago.

Watching TV, crying, something stupid about a dog pound. Puppies put down. Remembering a puppy they’d had when Steve was seven. In comes Larry. Lawrence. Why are you crying? Pussy. And Steve popped him one. He’d never done it before. The look on Larry’s face, surprise, fear, disgust, it had shaken Steve too his core.

And for a week now, Lawrence wouldn’t look him in the eye. Would not make eye contact. Wouldn’t event talk to him. Until today. Picking on him, all day.

Goading.

Trailer trash. You going to eat that shit off the ground, trailer trash?

Steve looked up at him. We live in a house, Larry.

My name is Lawrence, Answer my question. Puke face.

No.

No you’re not going to eat it off the ground? Or no you won’t answer my question.

Just. Just leave me alone. Steve tried to mold the smashed bread back into shape.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Leave me alone, Lawrence.

Or what. Lawrence stood over him, looming. You going to punch me again, big guy? You going to punch your brother in the face? Is that what you’re going to do? And then cry about it. Come on, I dare you.

Steve looked up, suddenly, and Lawrence took a step back. Fear flashed in his face, making Steve queasy. He felt exactly like this stupid bag of stupid groceries, broken and smeared all over the ground.

The first came out of nowhere, hitting Steve in the cheek, nearly missing. A weak punch, a baby punch.

Lawrence scowled at him. Walk home by yourself.

Steve watched him walk away. I hate you, he thought, then turned red and felt awful for even thinking it.