Politics
Jennifer and John Jefferson had two sons, Jared, ten, and James, eight. James, who preferred Jim, was skilled at provoking his brother who never called him Jim. He called him “Jar-Head” and “Jorrid,” and did things like putting wet washcloths in his bed and hiding vital Lego pieces. To retaliate, Jared would leave post-it notes for his brother with questions like “How long did the Hundred Years War last?” and “In what state would you find Indiana University?” so he could correct him. “Actually, it was a hundred and sixteen years.” “It’s in Pennsylvania. Look it up.” He called his little brother “Jimbecile” and “Cement-Head.” Jared always got perfect grades; James didn’t. James was good at every kind of sport; Jared wasn’t.
Jennifer’s method of dealing with her boys was simple. The more worked-up they got, the calmer she became; the louder their voices, the softer she made hers. This worked well because both boys adored her; and, though this was itself at the root of their abrasive rivalry, neither wanted Jennifer to be mad at him, just at his brother.
One day, Jennifer baked a chocolate sheet cake. It was on the kitchen counter when the boys got home from school. They burst through the door arguing about Ms. Pitt who had been Jared’s teacher two years before and was now James’. Jared thought she was wonderful; James hated her because of how often she compared him to his brainy brother. “Teacher’s pet!” he shouted with contempt. “Jimbecile!” Jared retorted smugly.
“Quiet down, you two,” said Jennifer then gave each a long and soothing hug.
The boys spotted the cake.
“Can I have some?” both said. Neither said, “Can we have a piece?”
“It’s for dessert.”
“Aw, Mom,” whined James.
“Please?” begged James. “I’m famished.”
The boys looked at her pleadingly with extravagantly watering mouths. “I have to run to the dry cleaners,” said Jennifer, realizing that this wasn’t an answer. “Well, all right. You can each take a small piece off the side.” She laid a knife on the counter. “Be very careful with this.”
“I will,” said Jared.
“Me, too,” Jim echoed.
“Bön voyage, Maman,” said Jared, who was teaching himself French.
Jared insisted on taking the knife first on grounds of seniority. He cut a small slice off the left side of the cake and laid the knife down on the counter.
“Just a small piece, and be very careful with the knife,” he warned his brother.
“Be careful with the knife,” James said in the falsetto he used to mock his bossy brother.
The cake was delicious, moist, chocolaty inside and on top.
James looked hard at the cake, the knife, and his brother.
“She didn’t actually say one piece.”
Jared, surprised by his brother’s astuteness, considered his point. “Or one time.”
“Right!”
So, each cut another slice, one from the left, the other from the right, bigger ones this time.
Jared got the milk from the refrigerator. James went to the cupboard and took out two glasses.
They cut more slices, from each side. The middle got narrower, thinner, tinier, until scarcely even a sliver was left.
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