When I was little, there was a time when I didn’t know how to brush my hair. Well, it wasn’t so much that I didn’t know how to brush my hair, but rather, that my hair didn’t know how to get along with the brush. The two were constantly fighting. And more often times than not, it seemed my hair won out. Sometimes I would have to get my father to cut the brush into pieces in order to get the plastic out of the mess.

This was the time when I first met him. The guy that is supposed to be my fake husband. In fifth grade. I hadn’t cared about my hair much until then. For some odd reason, vanity seems to become something tangible to a girl around this age, or at least for me. Something that can be possessed. That can be attained, if I gave it some effort. And I wasn’t exactly sure why go through all the effort. That question hadn’t crossed my mind yet. But I do remember having a vague sense that this kid-ish desire to play with nail polish, or at least put myself together like mommy—as far as appearances can go for a fifth grader—was somehow connected more to people than to inanimate objects, and definitely more than for my own pleasure when I look in the mirror. It was, somehow, connected to boys.

That specific revelation—the idea that links vanity to boys— came as a jolt, one day, while in P.E.

“You look like a lion,” he’d said, after I’d walked over to pick up a dodge ball, thrown rather astray during the game, and landing a few feet from where he was sitting.

I followed the sound of the voice, and found myself staring at some barely freckle faced kid, calm in demeanor, easy on the eyes, and, at the moment, appraising me as if I were somehow a new animal at the zoo that wasn’t on the pamphlet.

“Your mane, I mean,” he clarified. He’d said it so matter of fact, and without shame, that I didn’t know how to take in the gesture. Was I something to be approximated in this fashion? Today? Forever? Or was he really just playing in his own mind, somehow ignoring that I, Annalise, was there, somewhere inside me. Whatever it was, I distinctly remember that these questions compelled me to look at myself, and my relationship to my appearance, and, for the first time, to monitor how I present my appearance to others.

That was it. This tiny memory, in a sea of memories that I have, which now helps me to locate his face in the auditorium. I’m unsure if I have other memories of him, maybe, or maybe not, some more that could involve having crossed his path later on in life, just due to the smallness of this town. I just know that it is this specific memory from fifth grade, this image of his young face, when we were both little, that helps my eyes land directly on another set of eyes across the room. A set of eyes which are set inside a face that bears an unmistakable, somewhat older, and familiar set of features.

Even in all the commotion, I notice something passing through me, or touching me, from the inside. Somewhere in my stomach. This notion from my body makes me bite my lip, involuntarily, as I see his eyes widen. He might be in shock. Or maybe he’s just now noticing me looking at him too, though I can’t quite tell because of the dimness of the auditorium lights, and the distance between us. He’s near the side wall, at the end of a row, and I’m still closer to the door, in the middle aisle, with Petey.

“What’s next?” I hear Petey say.

I almost forgot about Petey. Forgot about what we were doing in here.

“Oh,’ I say, as calmly as I can. I wanted to try to reassure him, as though there were no reason to panic. But really, there are plenty of reasons to panic.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The campaign battle that’s coming, it’s going to be a blood bath. What kind, I’m not entirely sure. All I know, is that there is information I have that Petey has not had time to learn or understand. He’s too young. Even when I was his age, even knowing more than him at that point, I still wouldn’t have been prepared for what’s coming.

“Look,” I say, kneeling down. I compel my kit to me, and open up a tab. It has all the rules I became privy to over time. A treasure trove of documents, maps, drawings, schematics, data, and much more. But out of all of it, the most important thing I can teach Petey, with this little bit of time, is his player stats. He will have to make decisions on his own soon, I’m sure of it, although I don’t know how soon. But it will come. And the most important part of those decisions comes during a particular phase. When we all must choose our own player stats.

“You’re a brave boy,” I say, touching his cheek. “Promise me one thing.” I look at him directly in his eyes. They’re big, and blue, and when he stares back, really stares back, I can tell he’s paying attention. Knows this is important. “You need to take care of yourself,” I say. “But more importantly, perhaps best, is to make as many of your choices when we create our own characters. There’s a phase called Character Creation. Wait until then, and then do your best for me, Okay?”

He seems confused. A lip out, his eyebrows pinched. He goes to scratch his head, but I don’t let him. I pull his hand down, back to his side. It hurts me, but I know he’s just trying to communicate to me visually, as though this is a show. And we don’t have time for that.

“No, Petey. You don’t have to understand all of this right now. Not all of it.” I say. “I just need you to remember this. Character Creation. Make your choices. Do the best you can. It’s not a game. Think about—,” I stop short.

Really, I don’t know what to expect after that. What could he possibly prepare for? What could any us possibly prepare for? What settings in the arena could be waiting for us once this all begins? How could I, or we, make choices, somehow trying to take an accurate measurement—qualifying the value of items, weapons, gear, and so forth—that might be best during the campaign battle to come, when you don’t know the parameters of the campaign battle itself yet?

I don’t care. And honestly, whatever I’ve told Petey thus far is better than nothing. In fact, it’s better than that. It gives him something to focus on. Something to keep his feet on the ground, when it all takes us up by storm.

Before I can check to make sure he’s heard me, I feel something bump me from behind. When I turn, a pair of legs rubs by my face, rather quickly, and I feel Petey’s hand lose my grip.

“Come on kid,” a woman says. By the time I’ve caught on to what’s happening and stood up, I see a couple, twenty somethings maybe, boy and girl, leading Petey away from me by the hand.

“Hey!” I shout. It doesn’t seem to work, so I lunge, grabbing Petey by his backpack, and tugging hard. For a moment, the couple and I are in a tug-of-war for my little brother. Then, I lose my grip, and the three of them fall back onto the ground. They hurry to raise themselves to their feet, still holding onto Petey.

“Listen lady,” the man says. “He’s been assigned to us as our child.” He’s breathing heavy, and I can see some pain in his eyes, like, did you not just see us get spliced into roles against our will? “I didn’t choose this either,” he says, probably knowing that I was catching on to that look.

We hold a brief gaze, and I, unfortunately, painfully, submit. I don’t have a choice. I don’t even have time to say goodbye or do anything significant to or for Petey. I just catch his eyes, for a second, as they pull him away.

My chest hurts. Is heavy. Is tight. I want to cry, immediately. Or punch something. But the noise in the auditorium. It grabs my attention without fail. Take care of him, I think. Take care of my sweet little baby brother.