“Girls can’t…” my little brother begins to say as he stands there in his red and white jersey. He’s holding a baseball bat in one hand and a ball too large for his small hands in the other.
“Stop saying that!” I yell, interrupting him. “Is that all you know how to say? Girls can’t do this, girls can’t do that.””Well you can’t!” he yells back.
“Seriously?” I ask in disgust. “How many times am I going to have to out play you before you stop telling me how bad I am?”
“You don’t out play me!” he cries.
“Who tackled who in football yesterday?” I demand.
He sticks his tongue out at me. “You just got lucky,” he says.
“That’s it!” I cry. I grab him by the jersey and through him onto the couch beside me. I pin him down, making sure he can’t go anywhere, before I speak. “Say I beat you or I won’t let you up,” I growl.
“No,” he says. He spits up at me.
I laugh as the spit lands directly under his right eye.
“Ewe!” he cries.
“If you want to wash that off, you better say it,” I say mockingly.
He starts to cry, “Okay,” he says. “You beat me.”
“Promise to stop saying girls can’t do things?” I ask as I pin him harder.
“Yes!” he cries.
I let him go slowly.
He begins running towards the stairs, up to the second floor bathroom. “But girls still can’t play baseball!” he yells as he gets to the stairs.
I yell out and run after him. I reach him just as he slams the bathroom door shut. “Even if you could beat me in baseball, I can still beat you up,” I yell back.
I kick the door hard and storm off.