but he did start to get a similar red mark on his hand, and finally he said "Stop stabbing me."
I did.
"That was thirty-three seconds," he said, probably inaccurately, but since I hadn't been timing it myself I was in no position to argue. "I win round one." He took the butter knife from me and put both knives back in the silverware drawer.
"Mom will get mad if we don't wash those first," I said.
"How would Mom know? Is she going to do DNA testing on the knives before she uses them? Are you going to tell her?"
I hung my head, suitably ashamed. I hadn't meant to hint that I might rat us out. I would never do such a thing; there are many ways in which I'm a lame excuse for a little brother, but I'm certainly not a tattletale. "No, I'm not gonna tell."
"Good." He took out two steak knives. "Hold out your hand."
"I don't want to."
"Are you really going to give up after one round? One measly little round? I've never seen such a quitter."
Being known as a quitter was slightly better than being known as a tattletale, but both were laden with disgrace. I held out my hand.
"You ready?" Mike asked.
I nodded.
Mike jabbed the tip of the steak knife against my palm, deep enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin.
"Ow! Stop stabbing me!"
"That's it?" Mike asked. "You're quitting that easily?"
"It hurt!"
"It's supposed to hurt when somebody pokes at you with a knife! That doesn't mean you give up after the first poke!"
"This game isn't any good. Let's play Fifty-Two Pickup."
"No, we need to play this through or we'll never know who won." He held out his palm. "Go on."
I didn't want to hit his hand with the knife, but what was I supposed to do, not hit his hand with the knife? I gently poked at his palm with the blade. Mike didn't flinch, so I poked slightly harder, until a tiny drop of blood appeared.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Stop stabbing me."
I stopped. Mike took the knives from me and put them back in the drawer.
"That one had blood on it!" I said.
"So? Steak has blood in it. Are you scared that you're going to cut a bloody steak with a knife that has a tiny bit of my blood on it? If you think I have a disease, just say so. Most brothers aren't so selfish that they worry about getting diseases from their own family, but if that's the way you want to be . . ."
"No, no, it's okay," I said, though before Mom got home I fully intended to wash that knife.
Mike opened the drawer next to the silverware one, and took out two butcher knives. He handed one to me.
"Now the rules change," he said. "You can stab as hard as you want, and you can stab anywhere. I go first."
"No way!"
"You have to do this! If you don't, I'll tell everybody that you're a quitter! Quitters never accomplish anything in life. Do you want to be homeless, like Uncle Rick?"
"Uncle Rick isn't homeless."
"Yes, he is. He just doesn't tell anyone because he's embarrassed."
"I think you're lying."
"Well, I think you're a quitter. The rules say you can stab anywhere, but it's not like I'm going to stab you in the heart or anything. You'll be okay."
"This is a bad game."
"It's not a bad game! Chicks love this game! They don't love playing it themselves, but when they hear that a guy plays 'Stop Stabbing Me' they know he's a real man. But you aren't. You're just a little kid. Sad. Very sad."
I didn't know what to do. Only a fool would let somebody stab them like that, but he was my brother. Mike wouldn't let me come to any real harm. He wouldn't slash my jugular vein and let me bleed out. Worst-case scenario, he might poke me in the side, thinking that I'd scream "Stop stabbing me!" the instant the stainless steel blade touched my skin.
Well, I wouldn't do that. I'd win this game. Then he'd be sorry.
I held up my arms, giving Mike free access to my torso. "All right," I said. "Go."
Mike held up the butcher knife, slowly moving it around, biting his lip as if trying to decide the best place to stab me.
I could trust him, right . . . ?
Mike
I did.
"That was thirty-three seconds," he said, probably inaccurately, but since I hadn't been timing it myself I was in no position to argue. "I win round one." He took the butter knife from me and put both knives back in the silverware drawer.
"Mom will get mad if we don't wash those first," I said.
"How would Mom know? Is she going to do DNA testing on the knives before she uses them? Are you going to tell her?"
I hung my head, suitably ashamed. I hadn't meant to hint that I might rat us out. I would never do such a thing; there are many ways in which I'm a lame excuse for a little brother, but I'm certainly not a tattletale. "No, I'm not gonna tell."
"Good." He took out two steak knives. "Hold out your hand."
"I don't want to."
"Are you really going to give up after one round? One measly little round? I've never seen such a quitter."
Being known as a quitter was slightly better than being known as a tattletale, but both were laden with disgrace. I held out my hand.
"You ready?" Mike asked.
I nodded.
Mike jabbed the tip of the steak knife against my palm, deep enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin.
"Ow! Stop stabbing me!"
"That's it?" Mike asked. "You're quitting that easily?"
"It hurt!"
"It's supposed to hurt when somebody pokes at you with a knife! That doesn't mean you give up after the first poke!"
"This game isn't any good. Let's play Fifty-Two Pickup."
"No, we need to play this through or we'll never know who won." He held out his palm. "Go on."
I didn't want to hit his hand with the knife, but what was I supposed to do, not hit his hand with the knife? I gently poked at his palm with the blade. Mike didn't flinch, so I poked slightly harder, until a tiny drop of blood appeared.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Stop stabbing me."
I stopped. Mike took the knives from me and put them back in the drawer.
"That one had blood on it!" I said.
"So? Steak has blood in it. Are you scared that you're going to cut a bloody steak with a knife that has a tiny bit of my blood on it? If you think I have a disease, just say so. Most brothers aren't so selfish that they worry about getting diseases from their own family, but if that's the way you want to be . . ."
"No, no, it's okay," I said, though before Mom got home I fully intended to wash that knife.
Mike opened the drawer next to the silverware one, and took out two butcher knives. He handed one to me.
"Now the rules change," he said. "You can stab as hard as you want, and you can stab anywhere. I go first."
"No way!"
"You have to do this! If you don't, I'll tell everybody that you're a quitter! Quitters never accomplish anything in life. Do you want to be homeless, like Uncle Rick?"
"Uncle Rick isn't homeless."
"Yes, he is. He just doesn't tell anyone because he's embarrassed."
"I think you're lying."
"Well, I think you're a quitter. The rules say you can stab anywhere, but it's not like I'm going to stab you in the heart or anything. You'll be okay."
"This is a bad game."
"It's not a bad game! Chicks love this game! They don't love playing it themselves, but when they hear that a guy plays 'Stop Stabbing Me' they know he's a real man. But you aren't. You're just a little kid. Sad. Very sad."
I didn't know what to do. Only a fool would let somebody stab them like that, but he was my brother. Mike wouldn't let me come to any real harm. He wouldn't slash my jugular vein and let me bleed out. Worst-case scenario, he might poke me in the side, thinking that I'd scream "Stop stabbing me!" the instant the stainless steel blade touched my skin.
Well, I wouldn't do that. I'd win this game. Then he'd be sorry.
I held up my arms, giving Mike free access to my torso. "All right," I said. "Go."
Mike held up the butcher knife, slowly moving it around, biting his lip as if trying to decide the best place to stab me.
I could trust him, right . . . ?
Mike
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