My older brother, Kai, had a penchant for blackmailing me. To be fair, I used the same tactics against him. If he refrained from telling our parents about the time I stole a five-dollar bill from Dad’s wallet, I wouldn’t tell them about the time I caught Kai copying answers on his math homework. Our childhood was one long standoff. We collected collateral against each other, strategically stockpiling it in the deep recesses of our growing brains. It was a miracle that we didn’t blow the ceiling off our cramped bedroom of smelly socks and grudges.  

Kai also had a knack for constantly one-upping me. If I won a prize at a carnival, he’d immediately win a bigger one. If I did a magic trick in the school cafeteria, he’d do one that would generate louder applause. We vied for first place in our parents' hearts, like runners tripping each other up at the finish line. But our sibling Olympics didn’t matter much when our parents split. They said it wasn’t our fault, but we couldn’t help but feel like we both came in last place. 

As we bounced between households and were introduced to the strange world that is known as high school, our standoff continued. Despite my growth spurt, Kai still managed to hold things over my head. He refused to show me how he crafted such impeccable paper airplanes. They were fast, accurate, and able to fly long distances. One time he threw one at me and the tip struck me in my eyeball. I saw fireflies for a full minute. I threatened to tell Mom about the incident in exchange for his paper airplane instructions, but he wouldn’t fold. 

When we were twenty-somethings, Kai pulled the ultimate power move and gave me one of his kidneys. If I hadn’t been so desperate, I would have refused the offer. I was afraid I’d never hear the end of it. Even as I was falling under the anesthesia, I saw images of Kai laughing in my face and saying, I’m the reason you still exist. To my surprise, he never held it over my head. I guess he wanted to keep me around for a while. I told him I owed him one, but deep down I knew I owed him everything.  

The years have blurred, and Kai isn’t here anymore. But there’s an actual part of him I carry wherever I go. As far as I know, he never spilled about the time I scratched Dad’s Toyota. And I never spilled about the time he shattered Mom’s favorite wine glass. These days, I see his face in the constellations. I see his face in the palm trees. I see his face in the foggy mirror. I see his face when I close my eyes. The weight of our secrets became paper airplanes, floating from a mountaintop and catching a western wind. Perhaps they glided on forever.  

Zach Keali’i Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in The MacGuffin, Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Raritan Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, Little Patuxent Review, Flash Frog, and more. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.