My brother Peter shuffled up to me, a goofy smile plastered across his face. He ran his fingers through his long, straight hair, pushing it into his eyes.
"I just brushed my hair," he said happily, the grin widening to show his short teeth.
I paused, looking up at him. "Um...great?"
Peter brushes his hair around ten times every day. Also, he hates getting it cut short. Therefore, at the moment, his hair conceals his eyebrows and dangles right into his eyes. He crosses his eyes at me and punches me in the shoulder before bounding away, laughing a fake laugh at the top of his lungs. He snatches up an inflated ball and kicks it around, engaging one of my other brothers in a game of indoor soccer. He smooths down his athletic shirt, bends into a goalie position, and screeches as the ball slips past him into his "goal." Squirming into an odd position of frustration, with his arms twined together, he claims that he was distracted, and that the goal shouldn't count. The two of them begin to bicker, and I decide it's time to move downstairs.
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