“It can’t be a miss!”

“Well, it was. D-7…”

“No, wait, shut up.” The younger brother stares at his smaller grid where he’s keeping track of his hits. “I said G-1.”

“And I said miss.”

“It can’t be! That was the fifth hit on your aircraft carrier! Game over!”

“It wasn’t and it isn’t. D-7…”

“You’re cheating.”

The back of the older brother’s neck starts to get red. “I am not. You just can’t stand that I’m going to win a game—”

“No,” says the younger brother, getting into the elder’s face in that way that he has. “You just can’t stand that I’m going to win AGAIN. You can’t stand that I always win and that you always lose. Loser. Looooooser. Looooser loooooser looooser!” He forms an L-shape from his thumb and forefinger and puts it against his head.

“Shut up!” The older brother’s fury is rising. “G-1 wasn’t a hit. Live with it.”

“I don’t believe you. Lemme see.” He is up on his knees and he grabs for the older brother’s pad of paper.

The older brother yanks it away. “Forget it! If you look at it, the game’s over!”

“The game’s already over, loser.”

The worst thing of all is that the older brother knows that this is true. He looks at G-1, where the prow of his theoretical aircraft carrier is sitting. He looks at the smug expression on his stupid little brother.

And suddenly long-simmering resentment boils up and over, and before his younger brother can get to him, the older brother tears apart the lined notepad in a paroxysm of fury. “This game is stupid and you’re stupid!”

“You’re stupid, loser!”

The older brother doesn’t want to run back to the house because he feels hot tears of mortification streaming down his face. And the last thing he needs is his father standing over him and demanding to know what’s wrong. So instead he swings his legs over the log, gets to his feet, and starts running, shouting, “Leave me alone!”