"The only thing I want to change," I informed my parents, "is that I want to go to Lou's party on Saturday."

They glanced at each other for a moment, then Dad said, "As Tinkerbell, or Lite Brite?"

"It's Rainbow Brite," I corrected.
 

---

 

5. The Big Piehole
 

"Who's Tatum O'Neal?" Miranda asked.

"She was the foul-mouthed girl in The Bad News Bears," her mother replied.

"Maybe we should watch it together," Miranda told me.

"I don't think so!" My mother put in, rather testily.

"She was joking," I explained.

Miranda made a yeah-but-we-should-anyway face at me, and I nodded, grinning. A look from my mother wiped my grin away.

If you've ever been a child, you can probably imagine my ride home with my mother: full of scolding, apologies, promises, retractions...

When we arrived in our neighborhood, I slouched way down in the seat to avoid being seen. I blessed and thanked the technology gods that we have a garage door that opens and shuts by remote control. I was even more thankful for the door that leads from the garage directly into the kitchen. No one had seen me; no one would see me.

So far I'd been lucky, and I would have gotten to my room and changed back to my boy clothes in a flash, but I literally ran into my father, who was shocked into open-mouthed silence when he saw me. His hands closed on my shoulders, and he was too stunned to let go of me.

With a bit of shaking and dodging, I got out of his grip. I slid past him and had one foot on the stairs, when Mom called me back to help with the bags.

"Can't I change first?" I asked.

She said, "Victor, I am so angry right now that–"

I knew the routine all too well, and years of experience have taught me that it's better to cut off my mother's tirade before she really got going. "Coming!" I shouted, and dashed back to the garage. I picked up as many bags as I could and started hauling. I'd forgotten about the costume stuff in the back seat: there were things for me and Miranda, and all those bags went into Mom's workroom. Next came a huge, bulky bag with Miranda's princess dress, and last came the bags of my new clothes.

As the parade of clothes and bags and accessories flowed past him, my father began a faltering, "What the heh–" and stopped. He didn't know what to say. He was completely dumbfounded.

"It's not so funny any more, is it?" Mom demanded of him.

He stared open-mouthed from her to me, until finally he was able to ask what happened, and why she was so upset.

For some reason, Mom choose to begin her story with Robert's kiss-assault and my effing invocation.

If she wanted to convey her own offended, angry mood to my father, it was absolutely the wrong way to go. Soon he was reduced to tears — sitting in a chair, doubled over, clutching his sides, wheezing with pain, and asking, "Wha– Wha– Whadiddee say?" before spilling into a new cascade of hysterical laughter.

I would have slipped out of the room, but my mother's baleful look caught me each time I took a step toward the stairs. But I really needed to get away. In the first place, I was itching to get out of the dress. More importantly, it was painful to stand there, because I was fighting to not laugh along with Dad, and the battle was not going my way.

With inevitable timing, just when my father nearly regained his composure, the dam broke inside me, and I let off a shriek of laughter that got my father going all over again. He looked into my mother's face, helpless, tears streaming down, mutely protesting his innocence, and at last she broke down too and started laughing.

---

Once the laughter was exhausted, the three of us sat around the table, and Mom and I told the story of our evening.

Dad listened with a serious face, and in the end he said, "You know what I'm thinking? We have to call this whole thing off, right now. Call up Macy and tell it it's done. No more. Victor can still go to Boston and trick or treat with Miranda, but — like he said before — as Victor."

"There's still the problem of his being recognized," Mom countered. "Plus, I've already made the costumes."

"I don't want to call it off," I announced.

"You don't?" Dad asked incredulously. "But you said you were scared to death tonight! What if someone had recognized you in that getup?"

"But they didn't," I replied. "Not even Kristie and Diana, and I was as close to them as I am to you." I put the glasses on, and he reared back in surprise at the difference they made.

"The only thing I want to change," I informed my parents, "is that I want to go to Lou's party on Saturday."

They glanced at each other for a moment, then Dad said, "As Tinkerbell, or Lite Brite?"

"It's Rainbow Brite," I corrected, "but I could wear one of my old costumes, like from last year. It should still fit. I haven't grown."

"Yes, but..." Dad began, "We made a lot of special plans so you could do this. I look off Monday and a half-day Friday. We made hotel reservations."

"I know. We can still do Sunday and Monday in Boston."

Mom said, "We were going to leave on Friday, right after school. If you go to Lou's party, we'll miss a day and two nights there."

"You two could go!" I said. "I could probably for sure stay at Lou's house, and take the train in Sunday morning by myself. You'd have the weekend away, and I'd get to go to the party!"

Mom and Dad looked at each other. Dad shrugged. Mom thought a moment, then said, "Fine. But *you* have to explain to Miranda. She's expecting to do that Saturday thing with you."

"Okay!" I said. "I'll tell her tomorrow, after school!"

---

At dinner the next night, I was miserable.

Dad laughed. "No way! Are you kidding? How? Why?"

Mom shook her head. "I don't under–"

"She started talking about a Halloween party," I said. "About how the museum would be all little kids, and how it would be better to be with your own friends. I thought she was talking about my friends, *Lou's* party..."

"How could she possibly know about Lou's party?" Mom asked, incredulously.

"I thought maybe you told her mother, and her mother told Miranda."

"I didn't say a word."

"So we talked all around this party thing, and after we both said that going to a party was better, I realized that I'd agreed to go to a Halloween party with her friends on Saturday afternoon."

My father spat a mouthful of mashed potatoes across the table and broke down laughing. My mother scolded him, and the two of them got up to clean the mess away. Once that was done, I said, "Dad? Is your mouth empty? Because that isn't the worst part."

He quickly swallowed his drink and set the glass down. "Fire away," he said, grinning in expectation.

"It's at Robert's house," I sighed, and Dad literally fell out of his chair. A string of weak ee-ee-ee's and groans came from the floor. I felt ready to die, and then I saw my Mom's cheeks twitching. "Oh, go ahead and laugh," I huffed, feeling miserable, and she did.

---

Later, when we were clearing the table, Mom asked, "Do you think she tricked you into going?"

"No," I said. "She is smart — smarter than me — but she isn't devious. She just wanted to be sure I wanted to go before asking."

Mom took this in quietly. Then she asked, "You think she's smarter than you?"

"Way smarter," I said.

She pursed her lips. "You really like her, don't you?"

"Oh, Mom," I groaned. "Don't start with that again."

---

I didn't tell my parents the other worst part.

In school today, Diana had sat next to me in math, and when the class let out, she asked whether I was going to Lou's party. Thinking that I'd settle the issue with Miranda later on, I answered, "Definitely!"

She said, "I wanted to ask you... I got my costume last night, but I need a partner to make it really work, and I wondered whether you..."

I got it. She wanted me to be the groom. Diana likes me! She wants me to be her groom! I said, "Okay, I'll do it!"

She gave a light laugh, obviously pleased, and said, "But you don't even know what it is yet."

I smiled and kept my mouth shut. She told me. I agreed again. She touched my arm, and pushed her hair from her face. She thanked me and walked away.

It was the most romantic moment of my entire life so far.

And now I had to undo it all.

I called Diana and explained about my Uncle Mickey–

She interrupted, "If you didn't want to do it, you should have just said so right away."

I protested, "No, really, I–"

"It's alright," she said coolly. "I don't think I'll have a problem replacing you," and she hung up.

I felt like a heel.

---

The next day added insult to injury. I called Miranda to ask whether she'd given Robert my address.

"No, of course not. Why?"

"Because he sent me a DVD. In the mail!"

"Oh. What is it?"

"The Bad News Bears." I spat the title out, and Miranda started giggling like mad.

"It's old and used," I added, "and it even smells." I jerked the phone from my ear when she started shrieking.

---

That same day in school, Kristie had sat next to me in math. Before the class began, she said in a low voice, "I heard you blew off Diana when she asked you out."

"I didn't blow her off," I protested.

She gave me an arch look as if she didn't believe me, then asked, "Is it because you like someone else better?"

The bell rang before I had to answer.

A quarter of an hour later, the teacher asked us to do a word problem. As I read and worked over it, Kristie kept glancing at me.

"What?" I said.

"What what?" she answered.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" I whispered.

"I'm trying to figure out what you're humming." she said, and suddenly got it. "Hannah Montana? You're humming the theme to the Hannah Montana show!? Oh, Victor, are you a fan of hers?"

I blushed, and made a mistake on the page. I began erasing, then stopped. "That wasn't what I was humming, but even if it was, how would you know it? Are *you* a fan?"

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, but after that she quit bothering me.

---

And so it went until Saturday morning, when Mom drove me into Boston. I had an appointment to have my hair cut and styled, but I'll tell you about that later.

It was almost eleven-thirty in the morning when Miranda and I entered the Museum of Science. We had a half hour before the IMAX show began, and my stomach gave out a loud roar.

"Are you hungry?" Miranda asked.

"Starving! I didn't have breakfast! Is there anything to eat here?"

Miranda led me to the food court, but cautioned me that we'd have to be quick. The shortest line was for pizza, and it was ready to go, so I took a small pepperoni pizza, a root beer, and — on a whim — a slice of Boston Cream Pie. It was near the cash register, and I heard it call out to me.

"Do you like Boston Cream Pie?" Miranda asked.

"I've never had it," I told her. "It looked interesting."

I wolfed down the pizza and gulped the fizzy drink, and then we had to run. I planned on taking the dessert into the movie, but a man stopped me at the door and said, "No food or drink allowed. You've got to throw it away or finish it before you go in."

I look at the trash can and the pie.

The man said, "You have five minutes, and then we close the doors."

Five minutes? I was sure I could do it. I opened my mouth as wide as it could go, and bit off half the pie. The remaining half took two more bites (because it was the wide end of the slice). As I licked my lips, I realized that Miranda was gaping at me, her eyes as big as saucers.

We walked quickly into the theater, which was a bit scary, because the room is very steep. We entered at the back, at the very top. We gingerly climbed down the steps. As we slid across the narrow row to our seats, I said, "Miranda, if we fall, we're going to roll over everybody's heads and end up on the floor in front of the first row!"

A middle-aged man and his wife in the row ahead of us glanced at me as I spoke. Miranda plunked down right behind them.

"Why did you sit right behind them?" I whispered.

"Oh great," the man muttered to his wife.

"Because these are the best seats," Miranda replied. "Exactly in the center."

The man turned around and said, "I hope you girls aren't going to talk during the movie." Neither of us said anything, so he turned back. We both stuck our tongues at the back of his head.

"Was that pie good?" Miranda asked.

As if in response, my stomach rumbled and the sound of many bubbles was heard. "Ooh," I said. "Must be the root beer."

"And the pizza and the pie," Miranda added. "So was it good?"

"Huh?"

The lights came down and the theater fell silent. I was taken completely by surprise when a huge, loud, frog-like burp shot out of me.

"I didn't know you were such a piggy," Miranda told me.

"I'm not!"

Smiling, she mimed shoving a huge piece of pie into her mouth.

"I so did not!" I protested.

"You shoved that pie — right into your piehole!"

"SSHH!" the man in front of us hissed.

"Stop that shushing!" someone else in the theater called.

"We're going to start a riot," Miranda whispered, giggling.

"Shhh!"

"Quiet!"

Then the film began. Have you ever been to an IMAX movie? The way it's different from a regular movie is that the screen surrounds you: it curves above and to the sides, so the movie fills your whole field of vision.

What that means is that if, for example, the film is shot from inside a moving car, you see the road rushing up before you, and the scenery flying by the corners of your eye. You really feel the movement.

The sound system is part of the effect: the sound comes from everywhere, so it's a more total experience than a regular film.

And if, for another example, the film starts with you flying in a helicopter, following the twists and turns of the Nile, you feel it. You really do. You find yourself leaning into the turns, and bracing your feet so you don't fall.

And if you have a hastily-eaten cream pie in your stomach, the cream pie feels it, too.

"Eeeeeee," I admitted, in what I thought was a soft moan. "Eeeeeee-oh."

The man in front of us bristled, and Miranda whispered, "What are you doing?"

"Ugh, I shouldn't have eaten that cream pie," I told her. "My stomach is churning and I'm afraid I might hurl."

"Hurl?"

"Throw up."

At that, the couple in front of us lost no time in changing seats. The man even whispered a warning to the people two rows ahead, but they stayed put.

"Ooooh," I said, staring at the screen and clutching my stomach. "Eeeee-hah."

"Close your eyes," Miranda suggested. "I'll tell you when we land."

I closed my eyes. She took my hand. It was a lot better that way.

---

We managed to get through the movie unscathed, using that system.

When the film was done, I finally exhaled. I stood up carefully, teetering over the rows of seats before me. "Whew! We survived!" I exclaimed. A wave of relief swept through me, and I felt myself relax. At that moment, I felt another rumble inside me, followed by a low buzz.

"What's that?" Miranda asked.

"Um, I'm farting," I admitted, redfaced. "I'm sorry."

She jumped up with a giggle, and made an oinking sound.

"I'm not a piggy, really," I protested, but my body was giving me the lie. This turned out to be the longest toot I ever tooted. The buzz attracted some attention, but when it was followed by a loud FAP! and a series of smaller, rhythmic claps, the adults looked away and the children giggled. Miranda did both.

"Sorry," I repeated, as it trailed off in a long hiss. "Well, thank God that's over."

But it wasn't over. The hiss signed off with a high pitched whee! just to complete the fun. I wanted to die.

Miranda fanned the air in front of her nose with her hand. In a voice that filled the theater, Miranda exclaimed, "That must have been some pie!"

Afterward, she told me she hadn't mean to be so loud. At that moment, she buried her nose in my shoulder and pushed me out of the row.

---

We spent the next two hours in the museum, which would have been fun (I mean, I liked it a lot more than I expected), but everywhere we went we seemed to run into kids who'd been in the IMAX.

I was looking into something like a fun-house mirror, when a little boy asked, "Aren't you the girl who farted in the movie?"

"No," I replied, and kept my eye on the mirror.

"Yes, she is!" another boy shouted. "That was the best part of the movie! Oh! Oh! What kind of pie was it?"

"Fart pie!" the first one exclaimed, and much hilarity ensued.

"Bean pie!" the second one shouted and I slunk off.

After this scene repeated itself (with small variations) I asked Miranda, "Is there any place in this museum where we could hide?"

"Don't worry," she said. "We're leaving soon." She giggled. "We do have time for more pie, if you want some."

"I'll pass," I said.

"I know!" she cried, laughing. "Whee!"

"How old are you, twelve?" I asked in what I thought was a withering tone.

"No, duh, I'm ten," she laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes. "How old are you?"

"Oh, man," I replied, "I wish I knew."

© 2007, 2008 by Kaleigh Way