Not a Bestseller

My Folks are a Little Angry OR Everything's Ben Taken Care Of

When it came to a title, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to state a fact or use a pun to put some lightheartedness on the situation. On one hand, facts abbreviate the situation and create important emotional detachment. On the other, a bad pun can be a turnoff for readers, which would make them burn this book at the stake. So, I did both.

My eyes trailed the clock's minute hand, watched it circle around the circumference thirty-six times. That's when the cop's radio went off. (It might have been a phone, I wasn't paying attention.) He spoke murmurs into the speaker. I focused on the buzzing of the ceiling lights.

He set the device down.

"Your parents are here." His right hand found my shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to wait here so long, Son. And you don't need to worry about any of this. It's all been taken care of."

My voice reminded me of a drone in a space film. "What does that mean?" 

Tiny Person planned my trial. If I couldn't do anything more with my nonlife, I'd climb the ladder of ultimate unusualness. Maybe there'd be a halftime show. Fireworks could be latched to my head when they burned me at the stake, make it entertaining and worth a match. No. I got it! I'll be the first televised execution with caterers. Everyone will touch the sweet buttermilk frosting to their tongues while I take my last precious breaths.

Great, now I want cake. Actually, waffles. Chocolate chip waffles sound good.

The cop's eyebrow bristled. Either he was trying to figure out what was going on inside my brain, or he was building some muscle tone in his temples.

I wish he was an easier guy to hate. These insults are getting harder to coin up.

"Your parents worked out a deal with Richardson." The cop unshackled my hand and helped me up, drawing his eyes to the ceiling. "No doubt they shut him up with some of their billions." 

I blinked. He didn't think I could hear him. I pretended that was the case...for the sake of both of us.

Tiny Person did not approve.

The cop gestured his clothed arm at me. I slouched alongside him. "Are my parents picking me up?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what I said?"

I scratched my head and shrugged. I guess this guy wouldn't know Ed's purpose.

We walked like a couple of sloths. Tiny Person latched to a word he'd been using. Was that curiosity in my chest? No...I wanted to get out, desperate to leave. That's why I engaged in conversation. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the "movie best-friend" vibes I'd gotten earlier. You know, before he insulted my parents and became a TV friend.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Son?'" I asked.

He paused. "What would you rather be called?"

"I don't know...my name." 

"Okay, Benjamin."

"Ben."

He smiled and opened the door. 

I squinted as a blinding light flashed over my gremlin face. Then another. And another. And another.

Reporters have this magical, demonic ability. They can find what they want to find when they want to find it. But rather than using this gift to end world hunger or smooth out the Middle East, they decide it's a better idea to exploit a seventeen-year-old kid's problems. Ruining my life was and is their top priority.

I knew each reporter outside the station was asking me a different question, but all of their words blended together. It sounded something like this: