The nameless narrator has reason to hate big brother Harry, and reason to resent being told she really doesn't. (""You dislike Harry sometimes,"" says her father unctuously, ""but you don't hate him."") Like other put-upon siblings, too, she doesn't hate him all the time: Harry can be nice. The trouble with the book is that, though it's amusing page-by-page (see especially the luscious brownies, that Harry lets her help bake--then frosts, he claims, with chopped-up frogs), it doesn't go beyond validating the narrator's mixed, mostly negative feelings. Once, when Harry yells at her for not closing the bathroom door, we're given to understand why (""He was just embarrassed,"" says her mother, ""because his friends were with him""); but his general hatefulness continues undiminished and unexplained (though he's given her a little sign that he doesn't altogether hate her). Some funny business en route, but apt to frustrate anyone with expectations of a story.