Petey was the one to watch for.
He was big.
His fat brown fingers clutched at giant-sized bags of potato sticks, corn chips, cheese curls, or whatever other oversized portion of snack food had been on sale the day his mother went shopping. Though older than me and my sisters, Billie’s baby brother was still a boy, the youngest of all her mother’s sons. Even so, Petey strode around the place like an oily-fingered king.
We fashioned tall grasses into huts out in the field while Petey sat on an old stump, holding his snack food in one hand, while he fed himself with the other, eating and watching. On days when I had any pride at all, I ignored the fat boy and his greasy bag. But pride was a luxury not always afforded, and most days found me licking my lips and begging Petey for some chips. He wouldn’t share—I knew this, but couldn’t help myself and begged anyway. He beamed, loving the way I wanted what was his and his alone. It made him larger. He’d take out a chip, toss it onto his tongue, and then chew it, loud and sticky, his mouth open all the while.
Sometimes he even held the bag out to me. I knew the game, but approached anyway. Whenever he lifted his snacks high in the air, he’d watch as my arms flailed, and then push his lips into a tight, rippled “o,” laughing his small circular laugh, his mouth like the tied end of an inflated pink balloon.
The only one he ever shared with was Steph. She was tough and quiet and could have snatched the bag right out of his hands if she had wanted. Petey seemed to admire her for her bravery, and so from time to time would extend his bag to her. Sometimes she’d grab a handful of cheese balls and split them with me, but usually her pride was larger than he was and she steered clear of the big boy and his bag of snacks altogether.
I wondered at her strength, almost glad that it wasn’t me he liked; for I knew just how easily I’d have been swayed, slipped my hand into his bag, and stood at his side, his greasy queen, helping rule over a yard full of hungry kids.