I was the youngest of three kids, and the only girl. My brothers were 5 and 7 years older than me, and they delighted in finding ways to mentally torture me. <i>"Leave that child alone!"</i> my mother would shout. <i>"She's going to grow up twisted!"</i>

Well, maybe.

One day, my oldest brother Harry sidled up to me and stage-whispered, "Don't tell Mom, but I killed John!" Now by this point, I was somewhat wise to their ways and so demanded proof. "C'mon," Harry said. "I'll show you the body." He pulled me upstairs and into my own bedroom. We knelt on the floor, and he flipped up the side of the bedspread. John was sprawled on his back under the bed. He had a 1970's embroidered headband, the sort you only find on Etsy these days, wrapped once around his neck, with the ends tucked loosely in the palms of his hand.

"Why does he have a headband around his neck?"

"I wanted to make it look like suicide."

I reached under the bed and used my thumb to flip up one of John's eyelids. He rolled his eye around in its socket.

"Aha! See? He's not dead!"

"No, Anne. All dead people's eyes roll."

Hey, I was four, maybe five.

The funny thing is, I knew for a fact that John wasn't dead, that Harry hadn't killed him. But I also still lived in that world of the very young, where the line between reality and fantasy is blurred—if it's there at all.

So of course I marched downstairs and into the kitchen, to announce to my mother in a loud voice that Harry had just killed John.

Both of them, standing in the doorway behind me, cleared their throats and batted their eyes innocently.

Once upon a time there was a boy who refused to eat his vegetables, so he died.

The end.

I will, but not right now. Sadly, I HAVE to get to sleep asap.