to be too deviant — at least at first. For example, have him explain the difference between latex and lambskin condoms. Ask him how to do a proper foreskin cleaning or if you ever grow out of obsessive masturbation. Then later you can move on to things like penile implants and scrotal piercings.”
Charlie excitedly adds these to the list.
“I really don’t think I can do that.”
“You can and you must,” Charlie insists. “If
you’re
embarrassed, just think how mortified
he’ll
be. Parenting is not for the faint of heart. We need to teach him that.”
“What else?” I say. “Besides sex stuff.”
“All right, moving on.” Charlie writes DRUGS AND ALCOHOL on another line. “At some point you’ll want to ask him if he’s ever smoked pot. Or done LSD. Or tried magic mushrooms. Ask him if he ever got drunk as a teenager. Then ask him how often. Parents hate talking about that kind of thing with their kids because they usually have to lie. And if we can catch him in a lie, we can use that as ammunition later.”
I shift in my seat, my stomach gripping up.
“What about things I can
do
?” I say. “I’m much better at that than talking about stuff. Like getting him to leave the hockey game early because I had ‘a stomachache.’ That was fun.”
Charlie nods. “OK. OK. You’re more of an actor than an orator. We can work with that. How about biting your toenails when we’re sitting around the campfire? Picking your nose and eating it? Constantly playing pocket polo?”
I sigh. At first, I really wanted Charlie’s help. But I didn’t expect him to get so into the whole thing. And now that he’s committed himself to the trip — gotten over his initial terror of the contaminated wilderness — Charlie has been on a tear, arming himself with an arsenal of disinfectants and concocting countless pranks for me to pull on Hank.
“OK, class.” Ms. Drizzler clears her throat. “We only have a few minutes left, so we’ll go over your budgets when we return from vacation. In the meantime”— Ms. Drizzler opens her desk drawer and pulls out the little plastic baby carrier with the Baby-Real-A-Lot doll lying inside —“we need to decide who gets to care for our little class cutie over the break. Do I have any volunteers?”
Erin shoots her hand up immediately. “I’ll take Baby Robbie, Ms. Drizzler.”
Ms. Drizzler smiles. “You’ve already had your turn, Ms. Reilly.”
“I know, but I love him so much,” Erin says.
Several people in the class laugh. I grin dopily. She is so adorable.
“Yes,” Ms. Drizzler says. “It certainly was evident by the perfect Care Score on your ID bracelet. And the fact that you named him. And printed up a birth certificate. And made a baby book. Not to mention the beautiful sweater you knitted. I have no doubt you will be an exemplary parent someday, Ms. Reilly. But I’m afraid it’s time for one of your classmates to have a turn.”
Ms. Drizzler turns to the rest of us. “Now, before you all go raising your hands at once, let me remind you that this assignment constitutes fifty percent of your final grade. So”— she holds up the baby —“who would like to volunteer?”
Nobody makes a move.
Erin bites her lower lip.
“Come, now,” Ms. Drizzler says. “Don’t be shy. You each have to watch the baby at some point. Do
not
make me have to assign a parent. I’ll grade you much harsher if I do.”
I stare down at the desk, classic I-can’t-see-you-so-you-can’t-see-me. There is no way in hell that I’m taking a baby — pretend or not — on a survival trip.
“I’ll give you to the count of five,” Ms. Drizzler says. “Then I’ll simply stab my finger at my attendance roster, and that will be that. One . . . Two . . .”
Suddenly, I feel someone kick my ankle. I look over and see Charlie giving me a nod.
I frown at him.
“Do it,” he whispers.
“What?” I mouth.
“The baby.” Charlie lifts his chin toward the front of the
Charlie excitedly adds these to the list.
“I really don’t think I can do that.”
“You can and you must,” Charlie insists. “If
you’re
embarrassed, just think how mortified
he’ll
be. Parenting is not for the faint of heart. We need to teach him that.”
“What else?” I say. “Besides sex stuff.”
“All right, moving on.” Charlie writes DRUGS AND ALCOHOL on another line. “At some point you’ll want to ask him if he’s ever smoked pot. Or done LSD. Or tried magic mushrooms. Ask him if he ever got drunk as a teenager. Then ask him how often. Parents hate talking about that kind of thing with their kids because they usually have to lie. And if we can catch him in a lie, we can use that as ammunition later.”
I shift in my seat, my stomach gripping up.
“What about things I can
do
?” I say. “I’m much better at that than talking about stuff. Like getting him to leave the hockey game early because I had ‘a stomachache.’ That was fun.”
Charlie nods. “OK. OK. You’re more of an actor than an orator. We can work with that. How about biting your toenails when we’re sitting around the campfire? Picking your nose and eating it? Constantly playing pocket polo?”
I sigh. At first, I really wanted Charlie’s help. But I didn’t expect him to get so into the whole thing. And now that he’s committed himself to the trip — gotten over his initial terror of the contaminated wilderness — Charlie has been on a tear, arming himself with an arsenal of disinfectants and concocting countless pranks for me to pull on Hank.
“OK, class.” Ms. Drizzler clears her throat. “We only have a few minutes left, so we’ll go over your budgets when we return from vacation. In the meantime”— Ms. Drizzler opens her desk drawer and pulls out the little plastic baby carrier with the Baby-Real-A-Lot doll lying inside —“we need to decide who gets to care for our little class cutie over the break. Do I have any volunteers?”
Erin shoots her hand up immediately. “I’ll take Baby Robbie, Ms. Drizzler.”
Ms. Drizzler smiles. “You’ve already had your turn, Ms. Reilly.”
“I know, but I love him so much,” Erin says.
Several people in the class laugh. I grin dopily. She is so adorable.
“Yes,” Ms. Drizzler says. “It certainly was evident by the perfect Care Score on your ID bracelet. And the fact that you named him. And printed up a birth certificate. And made a baby book. Not to mention the beautiful sweater you knitted. I have no doubt you will be an exemplary parent someday, Ms. Reilly. But I’m afraid it’s time for one of your classmates to have a turn.”
Ms. Drizzler turns to the rest of us. “Now, before you all go raising your hands at once, let me remind you that this assignment constitutes fifty percent of your final grade. So”— she holds up the baby —“who would like to volunteer?”
Nobody makes a move.
Erin bites her lower lip.
“Come, now,” Ms. Drizzler says. “Don’t be shy. You each have to watch the baby at some point. Do
not
make me have to assign a parent. I’ll grade you much harsher if I do.”
I stare down at the desk, classic I-can’t-see-you-so-you-can’t-see-me. There is no way in hell that I’m taking a baby — pretend or not — on a survival trip.
“I’ll give you to the count of five,” Ms. Drizzler says. “Then I’ll simply stab my finger at my attendance roster, and that will be that. One . . . Two . . .”
Suddenly, I feel someone kick my ankle. I look over and see Charlie giving me a nod.
I frown at him.
“Do it,” he whispers.
“What?” I mouth.
“The baby.” Charlie lifts his chin toward the front of the
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