My younger sister Kaia’s loved to sing all her life, but Dad wouldn’t let her pursue any career avenue that might lead to fame while she was still a minor. She went on a road trip with a friend when she turned eighteen to hit up every open mic night on the West Coast, and within a month she had a record deal. Of all of the Hughes siblings, she’s the one with genuine talent. She’s got a raspy, bluesy sound—she’s been in four bands so far, an indie darling—but I’ve heard a couple tracks from her upcoming album and it’s scary, how huge she’s going to get. She’ll be mainstream by this time next year.

Felix, my parents’ only son as well as firstborn, has assistant-directed two films that both tanked at the box office, and he thinks he’s Tarantino. After each divorce (right now he’s on wife number four), he does something tragic to his hair, stirs media buzz by getting violently kicked out of a bar, and steals another man’s wife. He pursues married women almost exclusively, as persuading a woman to love him is one thing, but persuading a woman away from someone else is an even headier achievement. A year after each divorce, he tones up, gets a new tattoo, and lands interviews with teasers like he’s back, and he’s ready for you to take him seriously or the prodigal grandson, reformed. “I’m feeling better than ever. This is the happiest I’ve ever been—I’m done messing around. I’ve grown up, found a new project I’m passionate about, and you’re going to see a Felix Hughes like you’ve never seen before.”

There’s a saying about the dysfunctional black sheep of the family, the one who makes the others look better by comparison but, overall, makes the family look worse: Every family’s got one. My family has two: Felix and me. He and I are pits of lawsuits and rumors, some of which we started ourselves. We’re layers of abandoned passion projects, struggling to find meaning in our lives, stumbling over and over on a world stage. The difference between us is that nothing ever keeps him down. Felix’s success is his inability to quit trying.

Then it dawns on me: for the first time, I have an edge over my brother and sisters. I don’t have their cherubic offspring or a Grammy in my future, but I’ve got unfettered access to any limited-edition, coveted, out-of-stock thing I can possibly dream of, and what’s the use of having that if I’m not rubbing my loved ones’ noses in it? If I can transport Niall Horan to a random Taco Bell in Chicago (I did that an hour ago and it was marvelous) and decorate a gossip columnist’s apartment with a water buffalo, what else can I do?

Thanks to Hall, I’ve got the ability to make it look like I’m happier and more successful than any of them. They’ll roast alive with jealousy, and I’ll be the least dysfunctional one of us all!