By Bill Myers

The next time I want to watch a PG-13 movie without my parents knowing about it, just put a sign across my forehead that reads:

Warning: 
Unsmart Person Under Construction 
Toxic Waste Site 
Brain Transplant Needed
(Check appropriate boxes)

Of course, Mom and Dad don’t normally let me watch PG-13 movies. I have to get a presidential order signed in triplicate just to see a PG flick. But when your best friends are set on going to a scary movie . . . well, there are ways.

Unfortunately, there are always ways.

It all started the Saturday afternoon before Halloween. Wall Street (my best friend—even if she’s a girl) and Opera (the eating machine) wanted to see a lovely little movie called:

Body-Stealing Monsters From . . .

[Da-da-da.]

(That’s supposed to be scary music.)

Jupiter!

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds pretty scary.”

“Yeah!” Opera exclaimed.

“Cool!” Wall Street agreed.

“The ads on TV show it’s pretty violent.”

“Oh, yeah!” Opera exclaimed.

“Oh, cool!” Wall Street agreed.

Then she threw in another little phrase—one that’s hard enough to hear from a guy who’s your friend, but if it comes from a girl . . . well, you can just kiss all normal thinking goodbye.

“What’s the matter, Wally?” she said. “You chicken?”

“Of course not!” my mouth shouted as my brain thought, Oh no, McDoogle, here we go again.

“Great!” she said. “We’ll see you 3:30 at the theater!”

“You bet!” I said.

I’m dead, I thought.

Nothing but the Half-Truth

Saying yes to my friends was my first mistake. My second mistake was lying to Mom. Well, they really weren’t lies . . . more like half-truths. Unfortunately, half-truths are a lot like half lies.
“Hey, Mom, can I hang out with Opera and Wall Street?” I asked.
“Is your homework done for Monday?” Mom asked.
“Of course.”

(Truth: I’ve got a book report due Tuesday.)

“Where are you going?”
“To the mall.”

(Truth: The theater is in the mall.)

“What for?”
“Maybe to buy some stuff.”

(Truth: stuff like popcorn, Coke and . . . oh yeah, a movie ticket)

“Sure, as long as you’re home for dinner.”

Unfortunately, she believed me.
Unfortunatlier, I didn’t know which felt worse, telling Mom half-truths or having her actually fall for them.
Unfortunatliest (don’t try that word on your English teacher), now I had to watch:

Body-Stealing Monsters From . . .

[Da-da-da.]
(Insert more scary music here.)

Jupiter!

Scary Movie

I met Opera and Wall Street in front of the theater. First, we had to buy tickets, which is no problem for almost-teens like us. Then, because we were late, we had to crawl past everybody in the dark.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

“Ooch!”

“Excuse me!”

“Those are my toes you’re stepping on!”

At last we got to our seats and sat down to watch the movie—though I was doing a lot more nonwatching than watching. (Watching a movie is kinda hard when you’re under the theater seat, praying for your life and getting your face stuck to the floor on somebody’s old gummy worms).

It’s not that the movie was that scary. I’m just not a big fan of monsters from another planet stealing humans to put in their petting zoos back home. (Although, I hear the food is great!)

After more screaming, shrieking and body stealing than any alien life form should be allowed, the movie finally ended.

“Was that cool or what?!” Wall Street said, after the paramedics restarted my heart for the third time and we headed home.

“Ab (munch, munch) so (crunch, crunch) lute (burp) ly!” Opera said, polishing off his third barrel of popcorn with extra butter. (Hey, you can’t blame him—the theater gives free refills.)

“I don’t know, guys,” I said, checking the sky for any low-flying UFOs that might be looking for kids to snatch. “I thought it was pretty creepy.”

“Yeah!” Wall Street grinned.

“BURP!” Opera agreed.

“I’m not so sure we should have seen that,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. (Sometimes alien life forms like to sneak up from behind.)

“C’mon Wally,” Wall Street said. “It’s not like that stuff is real or anything.”

“BUR—” Opera started to burp, then caught himself. “It’s not?” (Opera’s not the brightest candle on the birthday cake. Sometimes he doesn’t even make it to the party.)

And now came the two hardest parts:

1. Having to face Mom and Dad.

2. Having to go to sleep that night.

Facing My Monsters

The good news was my parents were too busy to talk. They were helping one of my older twin brothers, Burt (or was it Brock?), with his multiplication tables. (The fact that he’s 16 and still hasn’t learned them explains why it took both of them to help.)

The gooder news (another word not to use in English class) is that the movie didn’t affect me at all. I mean, other than:

• the 17 nightmares.

• never wanting to set my bare tootsies on the floor again. (They say body-stealing monsters love to hide under beds.)

• never wanting to stick my head out from under the covers . . . EVER.

Of course, there was the minor problem of breaking into hysterical screams every time I heard strange and mysterious sounds, such as my chattering teeth, knocking knees or whimpering breaths.

Other than that, everything was great . . . until I got out of bed a week later and went downstairs for a glass of milk. That’s when I spotted Dad sitting at the kitchen table.

It was great seeing him.

It wasn’t so great seeing my movie ticket stub in his hands.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“Your mother was doing laundry and found it in your pocket.”

“Oh, I wonder how that got there.”

Coming Clean

Dad gave me one of those looks (you know the type parents give—part laser beam, part hurt puppy) before I told him the whole story—including the plot points of each and every one of my 17 nightmares.

When I was done, he sat a long moment or two . . . or three. Finally he spoke, “Tomorrow we’ll think up a suitable punishment for your lying.”

“Actually they were half-truths.”

He gave me another look.

I glanced down, mumbling, “But half-truths are the same as half lies.”

“And as far as seeing that movie, do you understand why your mother and I are against you watching such things?”

“Because Wall Street has bad taste in movies?” I asked.

He gave me another look. “No. God tells us not to fill our heads with garbage. Do you know why?”

“So we can avoid parent lectures?”

He gave another look. I decided to keep quiet.

“Wally,” he said, “what you feed your mind is what you become. If you feed it garbage, your mind, your thoughts, even some of your actions will become garbage.”

I frowned and listened harder.

“You have images in your brain now that you’ll never be able to get rid of. You’ve polluted it. And it will stay polluted your whole life.”

I felt my eyes starting to burn.

“Son, you’ve got only one mind. Why let other people dirty it up with filthy music or ugly language or violent images?”

My throat tightened. Finally I croaked, “I really messed up, didn’t I?”

He nodded.

I lowered my head. “I’m sorry,” I choked. “I’m really sorry.”

When I looked up I saw his eyes filled with moisture. “Me, too, Son,” he said. “Me, too.”

And then suddenly, before I knew it, I was on my feet throwing my arms around him in the world’s second biggest hug. (The biggest hug was the one he gave back to me.) How long we held each other, I don’t know. But when we’d finished, I had only one question to ask.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Wally?”

“Can I sleep with you guys, tonight?“

He reached out and tousled my hair. “You’re a little old for that, aren’t you?”

“Not when there are body-stealing monsters from Jupiter waiting to kidnap me.”

He rose to his feet and pushed the chair under the table with a smile. “All right, just this one night. But you’ll have to wear socks—your feet are always like ice.”

“Great!” I said.

As we headed for the stairs, I made a promise to myself never to see that type of junk again, while at the same time making sure every window along the way was locked tight.

“What are you doing?” Dad asked.

I shrugged and walked a little faster to keep up with him.

“Body-stealing monsters from Jupiter love to come in through open windows.”

“Right,” he said, though I knew he didn’t entirely get it. But that’s OK. It’s my life, and I don’t entirely get it either. But I’m learning. One bungling step after another, I’m learning.

	Q: What is a bird’s favorite game? A: Air hockey. Adam O., 9, Arkansas Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe