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American Craft Singles

Anthony Koranda

    Your older brother tells you “that isn’t real cheese,” as you pull the little flap of plastic encasing the yellow slice.
    “What do you mean?” you ask him, holding the floppy square up to the light, as if to check its authenticity, like a corner store clerk looking for an imprint on a hundred-dollar bill.
    “There’s no real cheese in it, stupid,” he says, thumbing through a new issue of National Geographic at the kitchen table. He squints at a map of the Paris catacombs meandering under the city, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
    “But it says right here,” you say, holding up the package in front of the refrigerator, the motor clicking on, a fog of cold air pushing into the summer humidity.
    “No, it doesn’t. That’s just a picture of a cow to make idiots like you think there’s actually milk in it.”
    You look down at the package, reading “American Craft Singles” written in red, white, and blue lettering above an image of a cow standing under a picturesque sky, an Uncle Sam hat perched on its head in anticipation of the upcoming 4th     “Then why is it in the cheese aisle?” you ask him, closing the refrigerator door and taking a seat across from him at the table.
    He didn’t look up from his magazine, but you could see his grimace, as if to tell you to refer back to his “idiots like you” comment.
    He had changed over the first month of summer break, becoming moody, no longer willing to play with you at the park or take you to the neighborhood pool. His face was breaking out in painful looking red bumps, and he attempted to style his hair with a thick white gel you thought looked and smelled like Elmore’s glue.
    He reached across the table and grabbed a slice of the “not real cheese,” a drip of sweat running down his temple, tinted white from the styling gel.
    Your mother wouldn’t be home from her shift at the hospital until well after dark. She was off at four but had to “run errands” afterwork and normally didn’t get home until much later. She stocked the fridge with cheap food and snacks for you and your brother. During long summer days, you were allowed to go to the pool or the park or the corner store, only with your brother, and only if you made sure to close and lock the apartment windows, and the door’s deadbolt.
    And, this was important, under no circumstance were you to run up the electric bill by turning on the air conditioner. Cool air was reserved for nighttime hours, when mom needed a good night’s rest for work the next day.
    “Can we go to the pool?” you ask, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
    He sighs, closing the magazine, picking off the corners of the slice and tossing them into his mouth, “The pool is for losers.”
    “What about the park, or at least the corner store? I can’t just sit her all day,” you whine.
    He said nothing, opening the magazine and adjusting his glasses.
    “You never want to do anything, just sit here reading stupid magazines. Why do you even bother running that gunk through your hair if you just sit inside all day?”
    He didn’t look up.
    You stretch across the table, slapping an open palm onto the page he’s reading, gripping the waxy paper in a fist, and tear it from the spine. You study it for a moment as he looks at you in shock. You’re shocked, too, shocked that he covers his head in that weird glue, shocked that he ruins everything, even cheese, shocked that you could destroy something of his, something he enjoyed, and you didn’t even feel guilty about it.
    You take off, small feet pattering against fake hardwood, but he had just hit his growth spurt, long strides following close behind. You turn the corner, bursting through the door of your mother’s room, a safe zone, and leap on the bed. He jumps on top of you, holding your arms down against the mattress. Without thinking, you throw a knee, connecting with the inside of his thigh, and he winces, releasing your wrists. You roll to the floor, crawling under the bed to safety, the frame just low enough he can’t fit underneath.
    He drops to his stomach, long arms grabbing you by the ankle, pulling you back into the open. You grab anything in reach to stop him, but nothing is fixed. Out you come with dust and a discarded shoe, a black metal box gripped to your chest.
    You try to use the box as a shield, but he tosses it to the side, its contents scattering the floor. He stops, eyes wide, looking at the debris around you. There are leather straps connecting to a rubber ball, handcuffs, a black mask with covered eyes and a circle cut open for the mouth.
    He stands, helping you to your feet, “go back to the kitchen,” he says, and as you’re leaving, you see a polaroid of a woman from behind, bending over, wearing strange nets wrapped tightly around her legs and thighs, perched on black high heels. You couldn’t see her face, but you recognize your mom’s bedroom.
    You sit at the table, and you hear your brother pick up the contents and slide the box back under the bed, close the door and walk in the kitchen.
    “Let’s go to the park,” he says, and you close and lock all the windows and make sure the deadbolt is latched, and you know, without saying, that neither of you will ever forget this afternoon as long as you live.

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