A Boy and His Dragon

By Michael Bowler

Bradley Wallace Murphy just turned thirteen, and he’s not happy about it. His life is lousy, with no relief in sight. He doesn’t fit in at school, he’s no good at sports, a bully torments him, he’s a disappointment to his parents, and his only “friends” are fictional characters on a TV show called “Dark Shadows.” He’s on the verge of manhood - and wants no part of that, either.

Then he finds the egg.
And everything changes.

From this egg hatches Whilly, a supposedly mythological dragon that bonds with him physically, emotionally and spiritually. The sudden responsibility of hiding and feeding and caring for a rapidly growing dragon in a small California city in 1970 forces Bradley Wallace to grow up whether he wants to or not.

Through their adventures together, boy and dragon learn the true nature of their symbiosis, and Bradley Wallace comes to understand that he is not just a misfit kid who happened to find a misfit creature from some other time.

He is something far more dangerous.
More dangerous than anyone in history.
So dangerous that he’ll be killed if the truth comes out.
The boy who doesn’t want to grow up comes to realize that it might actually be better if he didn’t.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bowler
• Release date: Mar 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301609901

Michael Bowler

Michael J. Bowler is an award-winning author of nine novels––A Boy and His Dragon, A Matter of Time (Silver Medalist from Reader’s Favorite), and The Knight Cycle, comprised of five books: Children of the Knight (Gold Award Winner in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards), Running Through A Dark Place, There Is No Fear, And The Children Shall Lead, Once Upon A Time In America, Spinner (Winner Hollywood Book Festival; Honorable Mention San Francisco Book Festival; Bronze Medal from Reader’s Favorite; Literary Classics Seal of Approval), and Warrior Kids.His horror screenplay, “Healer,” was a Semi-Finalist, and his urban fantasy script, “Like A Hero,” was a Finalist in the Shriekfest Film Festival and Screenplay Competition.He grew up in San Rafael, California, and majored in English and Theatre at Santa Clara University. He went on to earn a master’s in film production from Loyola Marymount University, a teaching credential in English from LMU, and another master's in Special Education from Cal State University Dominguez Hills.He partnered with two friends as producer, writer, and/or director on several ultra-low-budget horror films, including “Fatal Images,” “Club Dead,” and “Things II,” the reviews of which are much more fun than the actual movies.He taught high school in Hawthorne, California for twenty-five years, both in general education and to students with learning disabilities, in subjects ranging from English and Strength Training to Algebra, Biology, and Yearbook.He has also been a volunteer Big Brother to eight different boys with the Catholic Big Brothers Big Sisters program and a thirty-year volunteer within the juvenile justice system in Los Angeles.He has been honored as Probation Volunteer of the Year, YMCA Volunteer of the Year, California Big Brother of the Year, and 2000 National Big Brother of the Year. The “National” honor allowed him and three of his Little Brothers to visit the White House and meet the president in the Oval Office.His goal as an author is for teens to experience empowerment and hope; to see themselves in his diverse characters; to read about kids who face real-life challenges; and to see how kids like them can remain decent people in an indecent world.

Book preview

A Boy

And His

Dragon

Michael J. Bowler

Copyright © 2011 Michael Bowler

All rights reserved

ISBN-10: 061552477X

ISBN-13: 978-0615524771

PART ONE

A BOY’S LIFE

CHAPTER 1

Discovery

The boy held his breath as the tall, raven-haired figure stealthily approached the door, its movements silent and cat-like. A pale, bloodless hand reached out from beneath the folds of a dark, billowing cloak. A black onyx ring adorning the index finger caught a pale shaft of moonlight filtering through the nearby dust-encrusted window and glinted ominously. Slowly, deliberately, the bloodless hand began turning the ancient, ornate brass door handle. The boy’s eyes remained glued to the brooding figure as the door inexorably creaked open, hinges screaming in pain. Suddenly, with a crescendo of dramatic, impending music, the image of the figure’s hand on the doorknob dissolved into that of a toilet paper commercial.

Exasperated, Bradley Wallace sat back from the tiny, five-inch television screen and sighed, removing the old, yellowed earplug and scratching his itching ear. Almost immediately he heard the approaching footsteps, and quickly switched off the TV. He stuffed the earplug into his pants pocket and dashed to his small, roll top desk, plopped into the chair, and flipped open his English book, burying his face in its new-smelling pages.

Just in time, too. His mother, a tiny, but strong woman in her forties, pushed open his door (without knocking, of course!) and gazed suspiciously into the boy’s cluttered room. She scanned the junk strewn counter and the myriad movie posters adorning the off-white walls, and shook her head. She hated those posters - all horror films, something to which her son seemed addicted and which she thought to be extremely unhealthy for a thirteen-year-old boy. But then, there was so much about her sandy-haired son she feared would always remain a mystery - like why he would want to stay in his room on a beautiful day like this reading comic books or those dreadful horror movie magazines, or watching television, when he could be outside playing like all the other boys.

Putting a hand to her hip - she always did that when she suspected something amiss - Marge flicked her eyes curiously from the silent, staring television screen atop the cluttered counter, to her apparently reading son, who seemed oblivious to her entrance.

Bradey, were you watching television again? she asked. He looked up from his book as though noticing her for the first time.

No, Mom, he lied, certain his face must be turning red. He was a terrible liar. I was just doing my homework.

His mother squinted crossly at him. You know your father and I forbid you to watch that show, and if I catch you at it again, that little TV gets locked up. Understand? Her intense gaze told Bradley Wallace his lie had been detected. And he didn’t think she was bluffing this time. Looking down at the floor, he murmured the usual Yes, and left it at that.

But his mother still hung in the doorway like a predatory bat from the roof of a cave. Why does she have to keep staring at me, he thought? She’s already yelled at me, so why doesn’t she just leave? Next it’ll be Why don’t you go outside and play?

As if on cue, Marge said, Why don’t you go outside and play? Despite his discomfort at her presence, Bradley Wallace smiled at his own perceptiveness. If only she knew him as well as he knew her.

I’m sure the other boys are down at the schoolyard playing ball, his mother went on, beginning to sound like the drone of a hovering bee. Why don’t you go see? It’s such a beautiful day and, well, she faltered a moment, reacting to his blank expression, "well it is your birthday, after all, and you shouldn’t be sitting in here. It isn’t healthy." As soon as she said that last part, Marge knew from his expression she’d gone too far.

Bradley Wallace eyed his mother knowingly. You mean I shouldn’t be hanging around the house when Dad gets home because it’ll only cause trouble.

Taken aback by his frankness and perception, Marge moved to her son and tousled his hair, something he was beginning to hate.

You need a haircut, she observed, and he quickly brushed the scraggly bangs out of his eyes. He hated haircuts, too, though Tony, the barber, was an okay guy. For a grownup.

His mother added, almost as an afterthought, You know your father only wants what’s best for you. We both do. Her voice had taken on that patronizing tone adults always seemed to use on kids, no doubt born of their pompous certainty that the child hasn’t brain one of his own. Well, two could play that game.

Yeah, he replied in his best imitation of patronization, which was not lost on his mother. She pulled her hands away from him uncertainly.

Can I go now? he asked, staring fixedly at the brown cola stain near his feet. That stain had stubbornly refused to come off his bright red carpet, despite his mother’s best efforts. Even K-2R had failed. That stain openly defied his mother, something he wished he had the courage to do. He secretly hoped it would never come clean.

His mother nodded and stepped aside. Rising from the dark-brown, pressed-wood-veneer chair, Bradley Wallace stood at least two inches above his mother’s five feet, five inches. He’s getting so big, she thought as she watched him move to the door.

Bradey, she called, hesitantly. He turned and she attempted an easy smile. Try and have fun.

He had to smile at that as he hurriedly stepped into the hall. Fun? And that name! He hated that name! Bradey! What kind of a name was that? His own was bad enough, but the nickname was intolerable! As he entered the playroom adjacent to his own and slid open the big, glass door leading to the Murphy back yard, he recalled the origin of that vile diminutive - his older sister, Katie. When they were both kids she couldn’t pronounce Bradley Wallace and had, one night at supper, regurgitated the name Bradey in her struggles to get it right. Like dirty old gum to the sole of your shoe, the nickname had stuck. Try as he might, Bradley Wallace could not pry it loose. Everyone thought it was so cute!

Ouch! Lost in thought, he caught his finger in the gate latch. Man, that hurt! His temper flared. Gripping the top angrily, he slammed the wooden gate as hard as he could, not caring if the old, warped wood cracked more than it already had.

It was a crisp, clear and sunny April afternoon, as was so often the case in this rather sedate California suburban town of San Rafael in the year 1970. Bradley Wallace’s neighborhood, located on the East side of town and having been developed later than the West side, was suburbia all the way. But at least all the houses didn’t look the same. Bradley Wallace hated neighborhoods like that (a new one was springing up not too far away) - they were so boring.

Bradley Wallace was rather big for his age, broad-shouldered and husky (the word his father was fond of using to describe him). The boy knew he wasn’t terribly good-looking like some famous movie stars, just ordinary, like a well-worn, comfortable old chair everyone takes for granted. But he did have piercing green eyes, laughing eyes the color of the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz, and always alert and inquiring. His hair, usually cropped short by his mother now covered his ears and drooped listlessly down past his eyes (unless he continually pushed it back) and was the color of wet sand most of the time. But under certain light, especially moonlight, his hair took on a curious reddish-orange cast the color of an under ripe tomato. The boy usually dressed sloppily according to his mother, but cords, a t-shirt, and Keds didn’t seem sloppy to him, just comfortable.

Once out of the yard, Bradley Wallace felt free of the stifling atmosphere of the house. He always felt so awkward with his parents, especially over the last few years. They always seemed to be watching him, giving him unwanted advice, telling him to do this or that. But there was no real bond between parent and child. They just didn’t understand him, and he couldn’t feel at ease in their presence. And then there was his sister . . .

His thoughts were suddenly cut short by the faint sound of tinkling music floating in from down the street - ice cream truck music! Hurrying across the asphalt drive, Bradley Wallace carefully avoided the deadly pampas grass bushes (if you grabbed hold of even the slimmest tendril, the effect was like gripping a double-edged razor blade) and sprinted down the sidewalk just as Mr. O’Conner’s aged truck rounded the corner of Manderly and Kinross. Bradley Wallace loved that old clunker (not to mention its contents) because the truck was painted to look like an ice cream sundae - white around most of it with dark brown spilling over the top and down the sides, and best of all, a bright red cherry adorning the very tip top. But even more than the truck or its contents, Bradley Wallace liked Mr. O’Conner, and eagerly awaited the old man’s arrival at precisely 4:41 p.m. every other day during the spring and every day during the summer.

Mr. O’Conner had snow-white hair, wizened features, big, bushy eyebrows, and small, wire-rimmed spectacles surrounding his vibrant blue eyes, the deepest blue of the deepest ocean, the boy thought. The old man always reminded Bradley Wallace of Gandalf, the wizard in Lord of the Rings, one of his favorite books. The sundae truck rattled up to the curb noisily, and spluttered to a stop, sounding like someone choking a cat.

The bespectacled old man carefully alighted to the sidewalk, beaming cheerfully at his youthful friend, who jumped to a stop in front of the truck.

Land sakes, lad, you aimin’ for the Olympics? the old man jested. Bradley Wallace smiled, reveling in Mr. O’Conner’s lilting Irish brogue, still potent after so many years away from the old country.

You bet! the boy answered, leaping up onto the truck’s running board and gazing in at the dashboard, where the old man kept a large, broken shard of crystal suspended by a chain from the rear-view mirror. Bradley Wallace gripped the crystal in both hands and pressed his eyes closed tightly, concentrating.

I wish for excitement and adventure, and most of all, a friend to share it with. opening his eyes, he released the stone and caught Mr. O’Conner’s eye. He winked and flashed a mischievous smile before clambering down from the truck and moving to face the old man.

Bradley Wallace had been wishing on that crystal for as long as he could remember, ever since Mr. O’Conner had told him it was enchanted. Even though the boy now knew that part to be just another of the old man’s tall tales, he still enjoyed the ritual of wishing on the prism-like crystal, hoping against hope that maybe, someday, his wishes might come true. The old man’s eyes seemed to twinkle behind his spectacles as he regarded the boy before him, who was now almost as tall as he.

You seemed to concentrate extra hard on that wish today, lad, he teased. Now why would that be?

Bradley Wallace grinned. You know why.

Mr. O’Conner shrugged and scratched his head, as though struggling to recall something important. Can’t say that I do.

Come on, Mr. O’Conner, the boy prompted, somehow not in the mood to be teased, even by his favorite grownup.

Mr. O’Conner seemed to sense this in the boy, for he burst into a wide, toothy grin. Well now, it wouldn’t have anything to do with this bein’ your birthday, now would it, lad?

Bradley Wallace smiled back.

I know you, the old man jested, and you’re just reminding me so you can get yourself a free ice cream, eh?

Of course! the delighted boy chortled, his eyes laughing with pleasure.

The old man scratched his head again. Well now, I’m not so sure today is your birthday. You might be just pullin’ my leg.

Bradley Wallace raised his right hand in a feeble attempt at the Boy Scout salute. He had been a Webeloes Scout, but hadn’t really fit in with the other boys and dropped out before gaining the Boy Scout rank, much to the dismay of his father.

Scout’s honor, he pledged, trying hard to look serious.

You’re not any boy scout, lad, Mr. O’Conner barked.

Do I have to be to get a free ice cream? Bradley Wallace asked, trying to look so sincere that Mr. O’Conner burst out laughing.

Anything you want, for the birthday boy, the old man offered, gesturing toward the truck. Take yer pick.

Bradley Wallace gleefully leaped back into the driver’s seat and poked his head through the opening into the freezer compartment. Ooh, it’s cold in here! he exclaimed, his voice echoing hollowly and sounding far away.

That’s why they call it ice cream, lad, Mr. O’Conner noted with good-natured sarcasm. How old you be today? he called out.

Thirteen! came the muffled reply. Then Bradley Wallace pulled his head out of the freezer, cracking it against the top of the opening. Ouch! he cried, angrily clenching his fist as though to strike the truck itself.

Now, now, Mr. O’Conner cautioned, poking his head into the truck, don’t take it out on poor ole Shannon just cause you don’t watch what you’re doin. He smiled easily, and the boy’s surge of anger dissipated as he climbed down from inside the truck.

I wouldn’t have really hit her, he explained, patting the aged truck almost lovingly.

Mr. O’Conner nodded and sighed. She and I been through a lot together, he reminisced, then turned his attention to the Eskimo Pie Bradley Wallace held in his hand, cradling the ice cream bar as if it were the most valuable gift in the world. I see you got the usual, the old man added.

What else? Bradley Wallace replied easily, stripping the wrapper from his Eskimo Pie and taking a big bite.

You’re gonna turn in ta one of dem things, Mr. O’Conner joked, eyeing the boy curiously.

What are you staring at? Bradley Wallace asked, looking quickly down at his shirtfront. Did I spill something? He looked up again into the old man’s quietly probing eyes.

Sorry, Mr. O’Conner apologized, breaking his fixed gaze. Staring is rude, lad, and don’t let no one tell you different.

Then why were you staring? the boy asked, taking another bite of his melting Eskimo Pie.

Mr. O’Conner shook his head and scratched absently behind one ear. I just can’t believe you’re thirteen already. Seems like just yesterday you were a fat little beach ball of a baby.

Bradley Wallace scowled. Like Dr. McCoy said once in ‘Star Trek,’ ‘If you’re gonna get nasty, I’m gonna leave.’ He quickly swiped with his tongue at a stray dribble of vanilla ice cream, just catching it before it dropped onto his hand. His Eskimo Pie was melting fast in the warm afternoon sun.

Mr. O’Conner laughed at the boy’s comment. Sorry, lad. It’s just that, in many cultures, you’d be considered a man today, and have to own up to all those responsibilities boys don’t have to worry about.

Bradley Wallace took another big lick of ice cream and sat down on Shannon’s running board, contemplating the old man’s words. Mr. O’Conner sat beside him, stretching out his legs carefully. After a few minutes, Bradley Wallace broke the reflective silence.

I’ve been thinking about that, growing up and all, and I’ve decided I don’t want to be a man. I want to stay a boy forever, like Peter Pan. I mean the only thing good about being grown up that I can see is that you can do what you want when you want to. But grown-ups never seem to have as much fun as kids. Right now I never get to just do what I want, to just be free to be me. So, if I become a man, I’ll have missed out on being a boy, if you see what I mean.

Mr. O’Conner eyed the boy with interest. I think I get part of it, but I don’t see how not growing up would change anything.

But don’t you see, Bradley Wallace went on eagerly, gratified to finally be sharing these notions he’d thought so long and hard about, if I stay always a boy, I’ll eventually outlive my parents, and then they can’t tell me what to do or what I should like or not like and I’d be free to just have fun. His emerald eyes sparkled as he spoke, and Mr. O’Conner marveled at the logic with which the boy reasoned. He paused a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. This was one sharp kid.

Well, lad, be began, I can only speak for myself. I think I’d find being in one state for eternity to be a crashing bore, even if that state was the magical, fleeting period of childhood, when everything is so new and exciting. Me, I’m older than the hills, and while I had fun as a boy, I have fun as an old man, too. It’s just a different kind of fun, see? Change is the most exciting aspect of life, for me, anyway.

He stopped and gazed down at the child, who absently licked the remaining globs of vanilla ice cream from the wooden stick and considered the old man’s words.

I guess I understand. But how do I know I’d have fun when I got old?

Mr. O’Conner smiled. You don’t. That’s what makes it all so exciting.

Bradley Wallace nodded thoughtfully.

Then a mischievous grin crept slowly across his face and he tossed the naked Popsicle stick out into the street. Mr. O’Conner cleared his throat noisily and pointed to the discarded stick, its slippery surface reflecting the golden rays of sunlight. You’re not to go litt’ring up the streets with my sticks, laddy. You just pick that up and throw it away proper.

Laughing delightedly, Bradley Wallace jumped up from the running board and snatched up the fallen stick, its bottom now covered with dirt and debris from the street. Yuck! He returned to the truck and tossed the dirty stick into the litter box Mr. O’Conner kept stashed on the floor beneath the glove compartment.

So, what are ya doin’ for your birthday tonight? the old man asked conversationally.

The boy’s face clouded and he stuffed both hands into the pockets of his dark blue cords. I don’t know. Not much, I guess.

Mr. O’Conner eyed him carefully. You still havin’ problems with your pappy, eh?

The boy nodded. We just don’t connect, you know? So I stay out of his way. I figure that’s best, right? But he won’t let me alone. He always tries to get me to do things he says boys are supposed to do, like play sports.

He spat out that last word as though it were phlegm lodged in his throat. I’m nothing like either of my parents and it drives them crazy. Sometimes I feel like I must be adopted or something.

Mr. O’Conner appeared momentarily startled by the boy’s statement, and then quickly regained his composure. He stood and placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders, forcing Bradley Wallace to meet his eyes. I’ve known your parents all your life, lad. They’re good people, but they’re only human, and they do the best they can. It may not be to your liken’, but it’s all they’re capable of. Just remember that much, okay?

He broke into a wide smile, obviously trying to coax a smile from the troubled boy. And it worked. Bradley Wallace smiled despite his pain, always infected by Mr. O’Conner’s omnipresent cheerfulness.

Okay, he agreed.

Grunting loudly, Mr. O’Conner eased himself slowly into the seat of his truck. Well, lad, it’s time I made my rounds. Can’t keep all the other lads and lassies waitin’, don’t ya know. He winked, eliciting another smile from the boy, who suddenly felt overcome with emotion toward this wise old man.

Uh, the boy began, suddenly shy as his feelings clogged in his throat and kept the words from coming. Mr. O’Conner turned the ignition, and the old truck spit and sputtered and kicked her way to noisy life, idling like an earthquake. Well, lad, I haven’t got all day. Out with it.

Still Bradley Wallace hesitated, never very good at expressing his true feelings, which were usually kept bottled up inside like a genie struggling to escape confinement. The old man frowned.

I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words with me, Bradley Wallace, he spoke seriously, all jesting to one side. What is it?

Suddenly the words spilled out. I just want to thank you for being the only grownup who listens to me and sometimes I think if I didn’t have you I’d bust apart!

Fearing he might start bawling like a baby, Bradley Wallace leapt onto the running board and kissed Mr. O’Conner on the cheek, instantly jumping back down and tearing as fast as he could up the street.

Surprised and moved, the old man watched from under his spectacles as the troubled young boy disappeared from his view around a corner. He smiled to himself, shifted into gear, and pulled away from the curb, rattling off down the quiet afternoon street.

Bradley Wallace sped past his own house without stopping, darting across the street at an angle and dropping down a steep incline that sloped downward into his favorite haunt, the Gully. There he stopped, panting, to catch his breath and wipe away the tear working its way noticeably down his cheek. Sometimes he didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have Mr. O’Conner to talk to. He fought to quell this melancholia that seemed to descend on him more and more lately, and tramped through the dead brush and dirt clods, past the old abandoned warehouse, toward the grove of trees and tiny, snake-like creek winding its way between them.

The Gully was what everyone in the neighborhood called this particular tract of land because, well, that’s basically what it was - a wide ravine that cut a circuitous path beside the roadway for several blocks. Aside from the hills above the neighborhood, the Gully was the only wilderness left in the area, and thus was a natural favorite of the local kids, who loved to run amongst the trees, laughing and playing hide-and-seek, and even more, against parental orders, of course, loved to play in the condemned old warehouse that Bradley Wallace’s mother kept insisting should be torn down.

No one even seemed to remember what the dilapidated old structure had been used for; looking at it now, you would never guess it had ever been anything more than an eyesore (his mother’s word for it). Nonetheless, the kids loved that aging building. They reveled in throwing rocks at its corrugated metal exterior (the windows had all been broken years ago), and squeezing between bent and twisted panels to explore the cluttered, junk-filled interior. If you were real lucky, you might see a snake or a rat, or sometimes even a bat. Those were neat.

Bradley Wallace figured he probably knew that old warehouse better than anyone; so much time did he spend in its musty interior just sitting and thinking, or sometimes reading without fear of being interrupted or chastised. He enjoyed the solitude, and the sunset looked mighty pretty from the Gully. Mighty pretty.

Today he wended his way through the trees beside the trickling creek, stopping briefly to listen for the distant, echoing who, who, whooing of the reclusive neighborhood owl, whom no one had ever actually seen. Once, Bradley Wallace had spent hours searching for that crafty old bird’s hideout, trying to follow the misleading, plaintive whooing. He must’ve checked every tree for miles, but all he succeeded in doing was tearing his pants and scraping his hands on tree bark. Then, to add insult to injury, he’d been late for dinner (something his parents hated) and had been punished for that. Insatiable curiosity was one of his big problems, at least according to his parents. But he rather liked being interested in everything. Why, he bet his parents couldn’t even watch a sunset anymore, if they ever could. Boy, were they ever missing out.

Not hearing the elusive owl, Bradley Wallace meandered through the dark shadows of late afternoon, his PF Flyers crushing dried leaves and

dirt clods as he followed the stream’s twisting bank. Actually, this wasn’t a real, official stream or anything. It didn’t even have any polliwogs in it. And it didn’t empty into the ocean like real streams or rivers were supposed to. Sometimes Bradley Wallace felt really gypped, being born in California in this time. He wished he could be like Huckleberry Finn and ride paddle wheelers or rafts down huge, wide rivers, and wander free and easy, and not have to worry about grownups hassling him. Yeah, those were the days he longed for. All this little creek did was flow through a big, wide sewer pipe at the end of the gully and ended up who knew where.

Actually, though, the boy had to admit he enjoyed exploring that old sewer pipe. At least it was something. But even then, Bradley Wallace had never gone far enough in to find out where everything came out - he was too afraid (though wouldn’t admit this, of course) that someone somewhere would flush a toilet and he’d get crap dumped all over him. Try and explain that to your parents.

Tracing the path of the stream, which sometimes in winter almost resembled the river of the boy’s daydreams when the heavy rains caused its banks to overflow in raging torrents of water, Bradley Wallace came upon his destination - the rope swing.

He didn’t know who’d originally put it there, but the large piece of hemp rope as thick as his wrist had hung suspended from the highest branch of the highest tree in the Gully for as long as he could remember, and it was a favorite hangout of the neighborhood kids, especially during the summer.

They all loved the thrill of swinging from one bank of the Gully to the other, and Bradley Wallace was no exception. In fact, he may have been the rope swing’s most frequent user.

There was just something about climbing up that steep incline, placing the large knot of rope between your legs, and just soaring out into space as if he were Tarzan or Huck Finn, or even a bird, just floating above the stream some ten feet below. This was far enough to make it challenging, but not far enough down to be really life threatening.

But, naturally, every parent in the area hated the rope swing, claiming it was far too dangerous and constantly threatening to have it dismantled. Thus it was an unspoken rule among the kids never to remind their parents of the swing’s existence; they merely played on it in secret, and of course, no one ever got hurt. Bradley Wallace always wondered why it was that whatever kids seemed to think was fun, parents thought was dangerous. It just didn’t seem fair that they called all the shots.

The best part of today’s adventure was the total solitude. Bradley Wallace could swing to his heart’s content, without fear of being interrupted or teased. He could let his daydreams flow free and easy - he could be Batman, James Bond, and Superman all rolled into one. Grabbing the loosely hanging rope, quivering a bit from the crisp April breeze, Bradley Wallace clambered up the side of the gully and stood at the top, gazing down into the placid, silent ravine below, seeing in his mind’s eye a bottomless gorge over which he would have but one chance to pass before the shrieking band of blow-gun wielding headhunters overtook him.

He gripped the rope firmly in both hands, muscles taut with tension. His arms being naturally strong, Bradley Wallace never had any trouble climbing ropes, poles, or other objects requiring upper body strength, including the fences around places he shouldn’t be exploring. Athletic ability and coordination, however, had always eluded him, something his father didn’t seem to understand. With a wild cry of Yahoo! he kicked up his feet in a shower of dirt and sailed out into space.

The gorge below looked indeed bottomless. If he should slip and fall . . . Then, tempting fate, the boy failed to alight on the opposite side, rather riding out the return swing, passing just within range of the headhunters’ deadly poisoned darts, one of which imbedded itself in the thick rope with a thud, missing his hands by inches. He laughed triumphantly as the swinging momentum pulled him back, out of range.

Gazing at the creek passing beneath him, Bradley Wallace felt certain he knew how a bird must feel; the exhilaration of soaring high above the earth, free and clear, just floating on the wind without a care in the world - no homework, no parents, no big sisters, nothing. Just living. Even being a vampire would have its advantages, he mused. After all, they can fly when they change into bats. Of course, there wasn’t much to see at night, and he would miss every sunrise and sunset. That would be awful. But to fly, oh to fly!

The thought of vampires caused him to reflect on what such an existence would be like. Barnabas Collins, the vampire who didn’t want to be a vampire on Dark Shadows, always seemed so sad, so full of regret. He suspected it wouldn’t really be any fun, not even the flying part since most of the time he’d only be looking for blood to drink. Yuck! Dark Shadows was unquestionably his favorite television program besides Star Trek, which sadly went off the air last year. His parents hadn’t liked him watching that weird science fiction thing and positively hated that crazy horror soap, so naturally they forbade him to watch it.

Not healthy for a boy to stay in every afternoon at 4 PM and watch vampires, werewolves, and witches on television, they claimed. He should be outside playing with his friends. But they didn’t understand, as usual. Those characters were his friends, the only ones he really had outside of Mr. O’Conner, and he just couldn’t give them up. He couldn’t.

He lived the lives of those fictional characters even more than they did; they were real to him, more real than most people he knew. But try to explain that to parents - you might as well talk to a wall. And so he had to sneak around like a criminal to watch the show, rarely getting caught as he had today. But he had to do it. He had to.

Lost in his own private nether world of thoughtful musings, Bradley Wallace was completely caught off-guard when, quite suddenly, as the swing took him back up the incline, he was grabbed from behind and violently shoved to the hard ground, dirt clogging his mouth and nostrils. Confused, temper flaring, the boy leaped to his feet and whirled around. Facing him was the one person in the world Bradley Wallace honestly felt he hated: John Wagner.

No bigger in size than Bradley Wallace, but somehow more threatening in appearance, Wagner had a shock of jet black hair, always unkempt and greasy, baleful grey eyes, like those of a rabid wolf, and a cold, cruel mouth, a sneer usually twisted across his blood-red lips. Wagner was the official class bully (every school had one, didn’t they?), and picked on anyone who let him. Flanking Wagner on either side were his two cronies, Roger Raley and Sam Smith, less fearsome in appearance, but no less delinquent. Raley was tall and lanky with surfer blond hair, while Smith was short and stocky, with a freckled face and big-lipped mouth that always made Bradley Wallace think of a frog, and an ugly one, at that. Wagner was undisputedly the leader of this mini-gang, and it was he who did most of the talking.

What the hell do you think you’re doin’ on my rope swing, Murphy? Wagner spat viciously. The three bullies squared off against Bradley Wallace like panthers surrounding their intended dinner. Though frightened of being beaten up (he didn’t care for that), Bradley Wallace stood his ground as forcefully as his rising anger permitted.

This isn’t your swing, Wagner, so just get lost and leave me alone, he shot back defiantly, hoping his fear wasn’t evident.

His emerald eyes locked on those of Wagner, who sneered derisively.

Leave me alone! he mimicked mockingly. Hear that guys, the wimp wants me to get lost.

Make him make you, John, Raley put in, pushing straggly strands of blond hair away from his beady little eyes. The three of them gazed steadily at Bradley Wallace, challenging him without words. He knew they wanted him to make the first move so they could jump him en masse, being very familiar with Wagner’s modus operandi (a term Bradley Wallace picked up in detective novels, especially Perry Mason books) from past experience. But he was determined not to let simple anger play him right into Wagner’s grimy hands. Ever since he’d gotten into Star Trek, Bradley Wallace had been fascinated by the logical Mr. Spock, and saw much value in not catering to his more violent emotions. But what would Mr. Spock do in a situation like this? Probably give all three his Spock Special neck pinch and that would be that. Too bad Bradley Wallace didn’t know that trick.

Well, Wagner challenged again, Are you gonna make me, fag? Bradley Wallace stared back, trance-like and seemingly oblivious to the presence of the three bullies. Raley and Smith exchanged a curious look, and Raley shrugged.

Hey, fag, Smith spoke up (he even croaked like a frog), You gonna fight or are ya chicken? We ain’t got all day, ya know! He laughed, and Raley snorted like a hog. Wagner merely continued staring at Bradley Wallace, his wolf-eyes blazing with contempt.

Finally, Bradley Wallace addressed his challengers, but the voice that came forth from his mouth was different from any he’d used before. It sounded more mature, more desperate, more threatening.

Claude North is with Roxanne now. He’s going to make her speak. There was nothing I could do to stop him.

Wagner’s sneer dropped like a rock, and he turned to his cronies in obvious bewilderment. What the hell was all that gibberish? He turned back to Bradley Wallace.

Look, faggot, if you’re chicken, just say so, Wagner replied, a touch less assurance in his voice. What’s this Roxanne crap? Who’s Claude North? He was getting angry that this little crap-head was making him look like a jerk in front of his boys.

But Bradley Wallace continued in the same tone of voice, as though Wagner’s response had been exactly what he wanted. And his face remained so blank, his eyes so lifeless.

In a matter of minutes you are going to be destroyed.

Raley and Smith lost all outward signs of haughtiness, the former even displaying traces of nervousness. He’s crazy, John, Raley squeaked. Let’s split before he has a fit or somethin’.

He’s just bullshittin’ us to get outta fightin’, idiot! Wagner barked scornfully, but somehow lacking his former self-confidence. Now cut the crap, Murphy. You’re makin’ my pal here uptight. He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh, without conviction.

But before you go, Bradley Wallace continued undeterred, his voice strong and sure, his eyes still glassed over, You’re going to sign a confession that’s going to clear Quentin Collins. And you’re going to tell me where Julia Hoffman is.

Now Wagner, too, was showing outward signs of nervousness, and his gang looked ready to high tail it out of there.

Wagner shifted his feet uneasily, considering how to handle this situation and not lose face with Raley and Smith. Was Murphy just shittin’ them, or had he really flipped out after all? Wagner wondered. Murphy was a pretty weird kid.

Look, Murphy, he challenged as forcefully as his doubts allowed, I told you to cut the crap and I meant it!

He placed both hands on his hips and thrust out his chest like a lion trying to impress an opponent. But it was obvious his conviction had faltered. This wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d spotted Murphy on the rope swing and decided to have a little fun, and Wagner didn’t like it when things weren’t what he expected. He liked to know ahead of time what was coming; he liked being in control.

Bradley Wallace merely gazed back at him in confusion. Why do you address me so? That is not how I am called. Begone from here, lest ye be cursed forever. He paused and scanned the anxious, disoriented faces before him. His glassy emerald eyes seemed to burn with argent fire, piercing the very souls of Wagner and his gang.

Let’s get outta here, John, the frog croaked falteringly. But now Wagner was more angry than nervous the one thing he hated more than little kiss-ass punks like Murphy was being made a fool of in front of his friends. That he wouldn’t stand for, no sir.

Get him! he yelled, his temper inflamed anew.

Suddenly, Bradley Wallace’s eyes lost their glazed-over appearance, and he seemed to snap back to his senses. Just in time, too, as the three boys were lungeing at him. What had he said, he wondered as, with surprising agility (he thought), Bradley Wallace turned down the incline and gripped the still swinging rope, kicking off over the stream as hard as he could? His pursuers, caught off guard, scrabbled down the incline after him.

Reaching the opposite side, Bradley Wallace dropped to the ground, and took off like a shot, running along the upper edge as fast as its precarious nature allowed, simultaneously slanting downward towards the bottom of the Gully, which provided better, more stable running ground.

His breath was already coming in short gasps by the time he did reach the bottom, and he wished he had bigger lungs. Whales’ lungs would be perfect; he could run forever, then.

But as it was, he wasn’t terribly athletic and the others were gaining fast. He could almost feel their hot, fetid breath on his neck like that of a pack of wild dogs.

Legs pumping furiously, PF Flyers living up to their name, the frantic boy scanned the Gully ahead, ever mindful of tripping over rocks or gnarly old weeds, as he pelted onward. Looming dead ahead, like a cast-off old shoe someone had tossed there indiscriminately, was the old warehouse, looking shadowy and ominous in the waning, pinkish-orange sunlight. He knew that warehouse better than anyone, and he knew exactly the place to hide once inside. But first he had to get there.

C’mon, you guys! he heard Wagner shout from somewhere not far behind. Then, obviously directed at him, We’re gonna beat the crap outta you, faggot!

This time Bradley Wallace realized they were gaining on him, and fast. Breath rasping, lungs at the bursting point, he pumped on through sheer strength of will. His legs had turned to Jell-O long ago. The warehouse loomed closer. Almost there!

At last, the dented, dingy grey metal walls rose up before him, and he quickly darted around the corner, flinging himself at the slit between two metal panels, above which a faded, mud-spattered, gum-encrusted sign just barely displayed the words No Trespassing, and squeezing into the musty interior. Eerie, pinkish-orange sunset light filtered in through the shattered windows along the walls near the ceiling, but Bradley Wallace didn’t need it to find his way around. He could navigate this structure in the dark, if need be.

Dodging debris and broken equipment, the boy raced to the opposite corner, where a rusting old machine sat, lonely and forlorn, as though waiting patiently for someone from another time to come and reactivate its aged mechanism.

Bradley Wallace had been told by someone (he couldn’t remember who anymore) that the machine used to be called The Masher, but he wasn’t curious enough to climb inside and find out how it acquired that particular nickname.

He dashed around behind the Masher, where a large, wooden crossbeam had dropped from the ceiling - or perhaps it had just been dumped there (people had used the old building as a dumping ground for years before it had been officially condemned). He slipped under the beam and pressed himself flat to the ground. They’d never find him here. No way.

Panting heavily and fearing he must sound like a wild boar in heat, Bradley Wallace fought to control his erratic breathing. Damn! If only he had those whale-sized lungs! He listened, but only heard silence for a few moments, an impending silence. Then, distant and muffled, came Wagner’s strident voice, He must be inside. Now we’ve got him.

Something caught his eye, and Bradley Wallace tuned Wagner out as he inched forward across the dirt floor. A hole he’d never seen before lay open and gaping a few feet in front of his face, a big hole, at least two feet in diameter. A glowing light emanated from within. The boy’s heart, already pounding wildly from the exertion of running, was now gripped by an intense cold, and the cautionary feeling that he’d stumbled onto something perhaps best left alone. But his insatiable curiosity got the better of his caution. He had to know what was inside that hole.

Inching further along, Bradley Wallace’s face finally reached the rim of the hole, and he carefully peered downward. A blinding glare forced him to conceal his eyes.

What the . . . ? Peeking out from under his hand, the boy strained to make out any details. But the blazing light too effectively obscured its source. He crawled forward just a bit more, hoping for a better view.

Without warning, the hole’s rim gave way and the ground around him seemed to heave. Bradley Wallace pitched downward.

He scrabbled at the dirt for a handhold, something to grip to stop his downward plunge, but only succeeded in filling his mouth with dirt and pebbles. He continued falling, the earth caving in around him, the glare blinding his dirt-filled eyes. As he fell, the beam shifted its ponderous weight and crashed heavily to the ground, covering the hole and sealing the boy within. But Bradley Wallace was only dimly aware of this, however, as he suddenly struck bottom hard, cracking his head loudly against what felt like concrete. Stars filled his vision, and he blacked out.

Squeezing through the narrow slit, Wagner tore his pants and cursed loudly, his anger having reached its boiling point. He would not be made a fool of, especially by the likes of Murphy! Raley and Smith followed, sniggering at their leader’s mishap. A quick, silent glare from Wagner shut them up cold, however.

The three boys spread out and searched the quickly darkening warehouse. But they found nothing. Murphy had seemingly disappeared. Dirty and tired, the gang stopped to rest by the fallen beam, oblivious to the hole beneath it. Wagner stewed in his festering anger.

Where did he go? he demanded of no one in particular. He has to be here, I tell you, he has to be! He slammed his fist down hard on the beam, causing it to drop another few inches, just missing his foot.

That was close, John, Raley stammered, eyeing the beam fearfully. You couldda lost your foot or somethin’.

Smith’s frog face was also traced with worry. What if he really did curse us, John?

Wagner glared at him so fiercely that Smith dropped his gaze to the floor. You got crap for brains, you know that, Smith?

Raley piped up, a bit timidly, He did disappear on us, John. And what about all that confession stuff, and bein’ destroyed? I always knew he was weird, but I think this time he really freaked out.

Genuinely stumped, but determined not to reveal his own doubts and apprehensions, Wagner reached for a rock near his foot and flung it hard against the corrugated metal wall. The dull ping echoed slightly. Without another word, Wagner turned and strode confidently to the slit. He can’t hide at school. We’ll get the little bastard, one way or another. Then he ducked through the slit without looking back.

Smith and Raley exchanged cursory glances and, though neither would openly admit it (that wasn’t cool, after all), both were definitely jittery and neither wanted to stay around this place after dark. No way. What if Murphy really had cursed them or something? What if . . . ?

The beam shifted position again with a dull thud, startling the nervous boys.

No longer worried about being cool, as one they dashed for the slit, exited into the sultry sunset, and raced off after their fearless leader. The light was fading fast, and long, deep shadows crept up on the warehouse like the threatening tentacles of a man-eating plant. Breaking the silence came the distant who, who, whooing of Bradley Wallace’s elusive owl.

The boy stirred. A dull throbbing pounded at the back of his head and his body felt twisted up like a pretzel. Spitting dirt from his mouth, Bradley Wallace carefully cracked open his eyes.

The light pierced his pupils like knives, and he snapped his eyelids shut, easing them open slowly, giving them time to adjust. His mind was so muddled. What happened? He glanced up at the beam covering the aperture, and then he remembered. The ground had collapsed! He shifted his position, striving to unloose his twisted limbs. Oooh! Man, his head hurt! It felt like there was a rock group playing inside - using real rocks!

Suddenly he recalled why he was there in the first place, and listened intently for any sounds of movement from above. Hearing nothing, he decided Wagner and gang had given up and gone home. How long had he been here, anyway? Shaking the cobwebby feeling from his still-befuddled brain, Bradley Wallace suddenly sucked in a startled breath. A rhythmic, throbbing sensation crept slowly up his back, like the magic fingers of the motel bed he’d slept in years ago on the family’s first and only trip to Disneyland. Back when the family did things together.

The space in which the boy had fallen was not large, but Bradley Wallace did manage to squirm awkwardly around to confront the source of those mysterious vibrations. Eyes wide with curiosity, he peered closely at an object half-buried in the dirt. Its color was that of dirty chalk, and its shape (from what was visible) seemed to be ellipsoidal. It sure didn’t look like any meteorite, thought Bradley Wallace as he examined the glassy smooth surface. Hesitantly, the boy reached out and placed a hand on the vibrating thing. He pulled away at once. The thing was warm to the touch, almost hot. Reaching out again, he lightly rubbed his dirty hand along the surface. It looked smooth, he noted, and yet felt rough and bumpy, sort of like a pomegranate or an avocado. The warmth seeped into his hand and spread upward along the length of his arm. It felt so soothing, so comforting he never wanted the sensation to end.

Then, almost as a whisper, he heard, or thought he heard, his name called out. Startled, he jerked his hand back, and sucked in a nervous breath.

Had he really heard his name? Naw. He couldn’t have. There’s no one else here, after all. It must’ve been the wind or something. Suddenly fearful, but ever curious, the boy leaned closer and gingerly placed his ear against the surface of the thing. His features scrunched up with confusion. What the . . .? Something inside was moving, shifting position restlessly. Then again, almost indistinct, like the faintest rustling of leaves in a light breeze, Bradley Wallace heard - or was it felt - his name called out. That did it!

Pulling back, he scrambled to a kneeling position. Fear pumping new strength into his system, the boy pressed up against the heavy beam with all his might. Muscles straining, heart pounding with desperation, Bradley Wallace felt the ponderous weight of the beam shift a few feet, enough for him to squeeze through. Darkness poured through the gap from above, a marked contrast from the brightly lit enclosure, and the cold night air chilled him.

Bradley Wallace gripped the rafter and used it to pull himself from the hole, kicking more dirt down as he scrabbled up and finally lay panting on the solid warehouse floor. Oh God, he realized, it’s night already! He’d get killed for being late. Casting a final, fearful glance at the glowing object, the boy clambered to his feet and dashed for the slit, pushing his way outside into the dark, shadowy Gully. His eyes hurriedly scanned the area, just in case Wagner was still lurking about the premises waiting to attack. Satisfied that he was alone, the boy raced on up toward the incline to the street, away from the warehouse and the mysterious thing within.

As expected, Bradley Wallace got bawled out by his parents upon arriving home. He was filthy and late, an intolerable combination as far as his parents were concerned. In addition to which, it was his birthday and his mother had prepared his favorite dinner - lamb chops. His father glowered sternly at him, demanded to know where the boy had been, and only blithely accepted his son’s explanation that he’d been hiking in the hills and simply lost track of time.

After sending Bradley Wallace to the bathroom to clean up, the family sat down to dinner.

Katie, Bradley Wallace’s sister, who was fifteen and thought she knew everything, did most of the talking. But then, she usually did. Why did girls always have to talk so much? Katie was shorter than him, freckle-faced, with straight brown hair that hung limply down her back very nearly to her waist and which she determined never to cut. She and her mother had had many dandy knock-down-drag-outs on that subject, and Bradley Wallace enjoyed watching her get picked on for a change. His mother was weird when it came to hair.

In between mouthfuls of petit pois peas (another favorite food of Bradley Wallace), Katie deigned to explain how, at thirteen, Bradley Wallace was no longer a child, but a teenager, and, as such, had to act more grown up.

Like you, you mean? the boy scoffed, irritated by her pompous tone.

She turned up her nose and sneered. I just mean it’s time you stop acting like such a little kid, watching all those stupid TV shows and reading comic books. Teenagers don’t do things like that.

She has a point, Bradey, his mother chimed in, never missing the slightest opportunity to needle him about his unusual proclivities, an expression he’d overheard his parents use one night a while back. He didn’t bother to look up proclivities in the dictionary. If they used it in regards to him, it must be bad.

Bradley Wallace’s father had been reasonably silent after chastising his son for being late. He was real good in the not-talking department. Jack Murphy wasn’t a big man physically, but he had definite presence, and personality, too, when he chose to show it. He had a sharp mind and wit, and was more often than not the life of any party, especially after having a few drinks; actually, almost always after a few drinks. Somehow he never seemed comfortable with himself, and only loosened up through alcohol. Bradley Wallace always thought it strange that his father still wore his hair in a crew cut, but figured maybe it went back to his father’s army days (he’d served during the tail-end of World War II). Jack’s features were naturally ruddy, giving him the constant appearance of being angry. Tonight he seemed more ill-at-ease than usual, Bradley Wallace noted. Of course, he always seemed ill-at-ease when talking to his son, and the feeling was mutual.

So, son, how does it feel to be thirteen? his father asked politely.

The same as it did when I was twelve, the boy thought. Why do parents ask such dumb questions? But he merely replied, Fine, I guess. His voice cracked slightly, like a sick bird attempting to warble, and Katie burst into laughter. Bradley Wallace flushed with embarrassment, and knew his ears must be turning bright red. Damn that Katie!

Don’t worry about it, his father reassured him. Every boy’s voice changes at your age. That’s normal.

Bradley Wallace nodded, afraid to say more for fear of further derision from his sister. But he didn’t fail to notice the emphasis Jack Murphy placed on the word normal, obviously implying that the boy’s voice change was one of the few normal things about him. But, of course, he pretended not to notice, and managed to get through the entire meal without his voice changing octaves again.

After dinner came the birthday cake, again his favorite - devil’s food - and the usual chorus of Happy Birthday which everyone sang in his or her own key, of course.

Admonished by his mother to make a wish quickly, before the candles drip all over the cake, Bradley Wallace secretly wished he could be a normal boy and thus more acceptable to his parents, and then blew out all the candles with a single breath. Once Katie had washed the dishes (she and Bradley Wallace alternated weeks), it was time for the presents.

He got the usual assortment of clothes - a couple of alligator knit shirts, a pair of blue jeans (which he hated and which his mother knew he hated, but which all the other kids were wearing and which were easy to clean, so he could just get used to them), and a new pair of swim trunks for summer. He also received a wrist watch so he could tell time better and not be late anymore (Katie never let him forget the fact that he didn’t learn to tell time till he was ten years old, but how could he have learned when no one had bothered to teach him?), a new super ball (a rubberized ball that bounced wildly in any and all directions, and man, could those things go high - everyone at school had one), and the book Fifty Saints for Boys (the Murphys were Catholic, except Jack, who was atheist but tried to hide it for the sake of the kids.) Bradley Wallace was aware of this, as he was of most things his parents thought he wasn’t, but Katie wasn’t quite so astute.

Bradley Wallace tore the wrapping from his final present and threw the paper aside. Bradey, you could be a bit neater, you know, his mother chided. But her words went right past the boy, who was staring down at the gift in his hands, speechless. A football. A football! He hated football. And they both knew he hated football.

I know the other kids give you a rough time when you play because you’re not as good as they are, his father explained uneasily, striving to be as diplomatic as possible, so I thought, well, maybe if you had your own football, we could practice more and you’d get better. How ‘bout it?

Sure, was all the stupefied Bradley Wallace could muster in reply. Why wouldn’t his father get a clue and give up?

We just want you to fit in with the other kids, Honey, Marge put in softly. We worry that you don’t have many friends.

Actually, he didn’t really have any friends, but he wasn’t going to debate the issue. He’s too weird for everyone else, chirped Katie, delighted at the chance to badger her little brother.

That’s enough, Katie, Jack commanded sternly. But Bradley Wallace could detect the note of agreement in his voice, and a complimentary look on his face. He agreed with Katie.

Bradley Wallace stood up slowly, surrounded by shredded wrapping paper and mangled ribbon. He tried to look enthusiastic as he said, Thank you, for everything.

You’re welcome, Bradey, his mother replied, hugging him and planting an affectionate kiss on his cheek. Happy Birthday.

The boy half-heartedly smiled, and shook hands with his father. Jack had long ago given up hugging his son, so long ago, in fact, that Bradley Wallace couldn’t remember the last time. Jack also wished him a happy birthday.

Well, Bradley Wallace broke the awkward silence that had descended on the room like a stifling fogbank, I’d better get this stuff back to my room.

Anxious to quit the room as soon as possible, the boy knelt down and scooped up his presents, hanging the clothes over his arms, cradling the book under one elbow and the football under the other. Hunched over like Quasimodo to keep from dropping everything, Bradley Wallace scurried from the family room, past the kitchen, and down the white-tiled hallway toward the relative safety of his room.

Well, Katie announced with a loud sigh, as though it were of prime importance, I’ve got homework to do. Excuse me. She hurried after her brother.

Marge set about gathering up the shredded wrapping paper, balling it up and tossing it into the fireplace. Jack remained seated, a thoughtful look on his ruddy features. Marge threw the last of the paper into the fireplace, and then turned to her husband.

I don’t think your brainstorm went over too well, she began hesitantly.

I don’t think you should force him to play sports if he really doesn’t want to.

I’m not forcing him to do anything, Jack replied testily. I just want him to try, that’s all. And I want him to be acceptable to the other kids.

So do I, Marge agreed. But I want him to be happy, too.

You think I don’t? Jack asked, sharply.

I think you think that’s what you want, Marge answered carefully, but I’m not so sure it’s true.

When I figure out what you just tried to say, I’ll come up with an equally stupid reply. He snatched up the TV remote control from the small table beside his chair and switched on the television, signaling