Chapter 2

My name was Peter Jones, and I was 23. I'd graduated from college that year and was working in the city.

My mom was Dolores Bender. My dad was Henry Jones. And my older brother was Eric Jones.

Dad was Mom's second husband, and Eric was Mom's son from her first marriage. As for me, Mom adopted me from an orphanage.

I'd known all of that for as long as I could remember. Whenever relatives came over, they would always tell me how lucky I was.

"I swear, Peter practically fell into the good life."

"Dolores and Henry are such kind people for raising an orphan like he's their own flesh and blood. You'd be hard-pressed to find people like them."

"And look how well they've raised him. He's clean-cut and soft-spoken. You can tell he's the studious type just by looking at him."

Mom would always smile, glowing with satisfaction. "Peter's done us proud. He makes all our hard work worth it."

I thought I was lucky, too. I had the nicest room in the house.

It was south-facing, a good 160 square feet, and got plenty of sunlight. I had an air conditioner, a computer, and a desk. Posters of my favorite athletes covered my walls.

On the other hand, Eric lived in the attic, where there was only a bed. It felt like an oven in the summer and an icebox in the winter.

I'd been up there once, in the dead of winter. Ten minutes was all it took for me to catch a cold.

I asked Mom, "Why does Eric live up there?"

Mom let out a sigh, looking exasperated. "He insists on staying up there. Says he goes to bed late and doesn't want to disturb your studying."

I asked about it, but he merely smiled and said, "The attic is great. It's pretty quiet up here."

And I believed them. All my clothes were the latest stuff from the big department stores.

Whenever the seasons changed, Mom would take me to the biggest mall in the city and buy me a whole new wardrobe.

Whether it was Nike, Adidas, or some other brand, I got whatever was popular at the time.

Eric's clothes, on the other hand, all came from the flea market. Mom would get him one or two things whenever she went there to stock up on supplies.

He would wear the same five-dollar T-shirts and ten-dollar jeans for years.

Mom shook her head. "You think I don't want to? He won't have it. He says he does manual labor, and wearing nice clothes would just be a waste. You're different because you're in school. You've got to look presentable."

And when I asked Eric about it, he merely said with a smile, "I do construction work, so I'd only end up ruining anything nice I wore."

I was naive back then, so I believed them again. I went to the best private high school in the city. Tuition was over 30 thousand dollars a year.

Mom said resolutely, "I'll do whatever it takes to put you through college."

When Eric graduated from high school, he decided to start working instead of going to college. Mom went around telling everyone that he just didn't want to study anymore.

But this time, I didn't believe her. I went straight to Eric and asked him about it.

"Eric, why don't you want to go to college? Did you get mixed up with those troublemakers from around town?"

I knew his grades weren't bad, so there had to be another reason he didn't want to keep studying.

But something I said must've hit a nerve, because he shoved me away, hard, and roared, "You want to know why? Because your grades are better than mine! Because you're more like Mom's real son than I'll ever be!"

I stood there frozen, unable to get a single word out. It took everything I had to force out, "Eric, do you hate me?"

Eric wiped his face, then suddenly smacked me lightly on the head. "Why would I hate you? It's not your fault."

His voice was low and rough as he added, "You just stay in school and study hard. If you don't make it into college, I'll kick your butt."

I took those words to heart and studied like a madman from then on. I got into one of the top colleges in the country, becoming the first person from our small town to ever do it.

Mom laid out three tables full of food and invited all our relatives and friends. She went around toasting everyone, proudly showing me off. "My son here made it into a top university!"

Eric sat off in the corner that day. He didn't even take a seat at the table. I knew it was eating at him.

Not long before that, Eric had taken a fall off the scaffolding at the construction site and broken his left leg. He had to stay home for three months.

According to Mom, the foreman had coughed up some money as compensation, enough to cover Eric's medical bills and recovery. She didn't look the least bit concerned as she said that.

Since I'd saved up some money working part-time, I stuffed a few thousand dollars into Eric's pocket. Alas, that made no difference because his leg still ended up permanently damaged.

That night, after Thanksgiving dinner, I couldn't sleep no matter how much I tossed and turned. Eventually, I got up to go smoke on the balcony.

As I passed the master bedroom, I heard Mom chewing Dad out. "This is all your fault! One drop of that cheap beer and there's no holding you back! You know perfectly well Peter can never find out about that!"