10.1b

I wore camouflage. I was running through the big back yard, through and into the woods beyond the creek. I slinked low, trying to stay near to the cover that broke up my silhouette against the grass. Binoculars hung around my neck. My shoes filled with grass seed. I started to sweat through my camo hat. But I could hear him just over the ridge, so all my precautions were necessary.

I finally got to the treehouse: the last refuge point, the primary fortification. Its ladder was on the same side of the tree as he was, so I, white-knuckled, gripped the ladder's side and slid up it, my body obscured by the wood. I was lucky that dad had nailed the ladder at the top, or I would have pulled it over on top of me since I was hanging off the side like a ripe bunch of bananas wearing a stupid-looking hat. I slithered up to the second level of the treehouse, nerves tense, sweat dripping, patience shot. I could hear him still, but the slight ridge wasn't going to protect me now. I was above it, perched at a vantage good enough to see him, now.

And there he was: my brother.

He's only twenty months younger than me, and we're intense rivals. I'm a little taller. I'm a little faster. I'm a little further ahead in school. I own all the cool toys. And now I've got one up on him again: I'm spying on him and he has no way of knowing. I'm clever enough to wear camouflage, to bring binoculars, to slither my way through the bramble without drawing his attention. I win again.

I bring the binoculars to my eyes, and through them, he becomes clear. There he is with the dog. What are they doing? I try to imagine his dumb, dumb activities. He's got a big stick, and he's walking around swinging it like a weapon. Ha! What a dumbo. Obviously I'm much cooler in my camo, spying on my nine-year-old brother. He's just cutting the tops off of weeds out in the field. What a waste of time. And what's the dog even doing? Just sort of . . .  running around? Ugh. If the dog were with me, we'd be having a much better time. I'm obviously much better than my brother in all ways. I'm smarter, faster, stronger, and much more creative. Ugh.

He's so boring. I watch him for twenty minutes. And when things get rapidly unboring, I start wishing for the old boring again.

I'm just watching Philip through the binoculars when I see him walk slowly toward the dog, curiously. The dog is digging in the long grass. Just when Philip gets close to the dog, I see him tense, jump, swat at my very good boy. The wind brings me a strange noise: Philip's yelling. But it's not his voice, quite. He's masked it to make it sound as low as he can. It's not very low; he's nine. But he's tried to add all the gravitas he can, all the basso, all the pomp. He's scraping the bottom of a shallow barrel, but I recognize that voice. It's his "Hey, I'm important too, don't mess with me" voice. Sometimes he uses it on me when he's mad and trying to get his way. It never works, because I am better than him in all ways. And now, he's using this "power voice" on my dog, yelling at my dog and swinging a stick at my dog. How dare he!?

Philip runs the dog off three times, yelling and swinging. A cold feeling falls into the pit of my stomach. Has he gotten tired of whipping the tops off weeds, and now he wants something more exciting to bludgeon? I'm mentally gauging the size of the stick. Is he likely to catch the dog? Is he likely to maim it? And is he likely to do this again? Because: camouflage. He has no idea he's not alone. I'm seeing the inner soul of a vicious nine-year-old killer-on-the-loose. I'm seeing his darkest secrets. Maybe he'll grow up into a criminal. Maybe he'll be a serial killer. I don't know. My mind is reeling. I'm calculating the worth of my life. If I interrupt him now, will he turn from the dog to me? How will he handle my presence? Is he dangerous? Should I tell mom and dad? Maybe they can move him to a home somewhere. I have heard about military academies and juvenile detention and other places they send bad kids. That's where Philip should go. I'm sweating puddles in my jacket. I take my hat off and wring it between my tensed-up fingers.

The dog finally runs away. I'm breathing silent prayers. Philip follows, cool as you like, a salad cucumber on a hot August day. I'm feeling a chill, but mine is worry. What exactly was he doing over there? Why would he attack the dog? And for digging a hole? It's a dog!

I wait. I wait maybe two minutes, though it feels like an eternity. Philip breaks back into the tree line, headed back for the house, and I slip and slide down the ladders, hardly hitting the rungs. I scramble up the slight rise and run pell-mell to the spot in the grass where I saw my dingus brother try to hit my precious dog. I'm looking for evidence, forming an argument in my mind. ("Mom, I saw Philip trying to hit the dog with a stick, and the dog was just digging in the ground! He wasn't even digging up a tree or anything, just grass!") And it is just grass, you see, all grass around here. Oh, my gosh. My brother is unhinged. I live in the same room as a serial killer.

That's when I hear it, and the sound turned my mind around 180 degrees. "Peep peep peep peep." Down in the grass. "Peep peep." What is that? "Peep peep peep." I part the grass a little with my hands, inches away from where the dog has been digging, and I see a small nest—a tiny cup in the grass filled with birds. How did Philip know they were here? Wait. Philip knew they were here, and he saved them. He risked scaring his own dog, and maybe the very good boy wouldn't love Philip any more if he got hit by a stick. Maybe he would only love me and mom and dad and Katy anymore, and he wouldn't love Philip just because Philip hit him with a stick. And for what? For six tiny birds?

For six tiny birds.

My camouflage feels heavy and stupid. The binoculars are just dumb tubes of plastic, anyway. They don't really magnify anything. My sneaking around has brought me a sum total of nothing: no glory, no intelligence, no quality, no cleverness. I am no better for my afternoon of glorious plans. I'm left with a heavy feeling in the cavernous pit where my heart should be. I'm not the better brother. Would I have saved those birds? Would I have risked my dog? Would I have been so kind? No. Philip saves birds. I sneak around. Philip risks and loves. I judge and spit. Well, crap.

He's only twenty months younger than me, and we're intense rivals. I'm a little taller. I'm a little faster. I'm a little further ahead in school. I own all the cool toys. And now he's got one up on me: he's not just the better brother, but the better man. He wins again.