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Lucky for me, my dad was willing to run block. And he did it over and over again. He told her

I was busy or sleeping or just plain gone. He was a

lifesaver.

My sister, on the other hand, tried to sabotage me any chance she got. Lynetta's like that.

She's four years older than me, and buddy, I've learned

from watching her how not to run your life. She's got ANTAGONIZE written all over her. Just

look at her — not cross-eyed or with your tongue sticking

out or anything — just look at her and you've started an argument.

I used to knock-down-drag-out with her, but it's just not worth it. Girls don't fight fair. They pull

your hair and gouge you and pinch you; then they run

off gasping to mommy when you try and defend yourself with a fist. Then you get locked into

time-out, and for what? No, my friend, the secret is,

don't snap at the bait. Let it dangle. Swim around it. Laugh it off. After a while they'll give up

and try to lure someone else.

At least that's the way it is with Lynetta. And the bonus of having her as a pain-in-the-rear

sister was figuring out that this method works on

everyone. Teachers, jerks at school, even Mom and Dad. Seriously. There's no winning

arguments with your parents, so why get all pumped up over

them? It is way better to dive down and get out of the way than it is to get clobbered by some

parental tidal wave.

The funny thing is, Lynetta's still clueless when it comes to dealing with Mom and Dad. She

goes straight into thrash mode and is too busy

drowning in the argument to take a deep breath and dive for calmer water.

And she thinks I'm stupid.

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Anyway, true to form, Lynetta tried to bait me with Juli those first few days. She even snuck

her past Dad once and marched her all around the

house, hunting me down. I wedged myself up on the top shelf of my closet, and lucky for me,

neither of them looked up. A few minutes later I heard

Dad yell at Juli to get off the antique furniture, and once again, she got booted.

I don't think I went outside that whole first week. I helped unpack stuff and watched TV and

just kind of hung around while my mom and dad

arranged and rearranged the furniture, debating whether Empire settees and French Rococo

tables should even be put in the same room.

So believe me, I was dying to go outside. But every time I checked through the window, I

could see Juli showing off in her yard. She'd be heading

a soccer ball or doing high kicks with it or dribbling it up and down their driveway. And when

she wasn't busy showing off, she'd just sit on the curb

with the ball between her feet, staring at our house.

My mom didn't understand why it was so awful that “that cute little girl” had held my hand.

She thought I should make friends with her. “I thought

you liked soccer, honey. Why don't you go out there and kick the ball around?”

Because I didn't want to be kicked around, that's why. And although I couldn't say it like that

at the time, I still had enough sense at age seven and

a half to know that Juli Baker was dangerous.

Unavoidably dangerous, as it turns out. The minute I walked into Mrs. Yelson's second-grade

classroom, I was dead meat. “Bryce!” Juli squeals.

“You're here.” Then she charges across the room and tackles me.

Mrs. Yelson tried to explain this attack away as a “welcome hug,” but man, that was no hug.

That was a front-line, take-'em-down tackle. And even

though I shook her off, it was too late. I was branded for life. Everyone jeered, “Where's your

girl friend, Bryce?”