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My brother did a little jig-slash-breakdance in the aisle. One month until Christmas and he was already almost peeing himself in excitement. But he had forgotten the deal we made in January.“Deal?” he asked in thirteen year-old angst. “What deal?”The deal that means you won’t see Christmas. “The deal,” I reminded him in sixteen year-old severity, “that got you laid by Becky Parker.”Now fidgeting more than dancing, he refused to look directly at me. “I don’t remember any deal.” He laughed, putting on a mask of cocky self-assurance. “I remember Becky Parker couldn’t keep her hands off me.”“Fifteen year-old girls can keep their hands off thirteen year-old dorks,” I assured him. Unless other powers intervene. “Unless they have a reason not to.”My brother stood completely still. “You never told me what her part of the deal was.”“You admit there was a deal?”“No.” He bit his lip. “Maybe.” He started to play with a cigarette he’d stolen from dad. “Okay, there may have been some kind of a thing. But it wasn’t a deal.”“I told her that iff she screwed your brains out,” I said carefully, “I wouldn’t kill her.”“Thanks,” he said weakly. No stomach in that that kid. “So don’t forget about our deal.”“I won’t.”“Then stop whining about Christmas, since you’re not going to be around anymore by then.”“Okay.”Kids. I reached toward the shelf. “Hey, which kind of oatmeal do you want?”“Maple brown sugar.”“You got it.”“Thanks.”