The Accidental Siren by Jake Vander Ark

biffida. I don’t have learning disabilities, I’m not
fat–no offense–and I’m not allergic to latex.”
    Whit was halfway through a book about secret
codes and taught me clever ways to disguise my secrets. Our
production notebook became a tome of cyphers; I would write, “Please Eat Nine Interesting Smarties, Brother. Reptiles Eat A
Tiny Hamburger!” Whit would write: “All Signs Say We’re
Inbred People Eaters!” then we would trade messages and die
laughing.
    When Mom (who upheld “sucks” as a dirty word
until I turned eighteen) discovered the notes in the trash, it
didn’t take her long to decipher our intricate system of words. My
teeth were promptly smeared with a bar of soap and Whit was sent
home with an apology letter to his parents.
    We regrouped the following morning. Mrs.
Conrad dropped her son off in the driveway and I carried his chair
up the foyer steps. He hoisted himself back into his seat and
rolled to my bedroom. When the door was closed, he clapped his
hands once and declared, “We gotta make this movie!”
    I stood beside my bed and stared at the
tussled remains of a restless night. “We need a camera to make a
movie,” I barely replied.
    “We’ve been planning this thing since
Christmas. Two weeks ago I couldn’t shut you up about the monsters
and the castle and the fireworks. Then we run into one little snag,
and you act like you don’t care anymore!”
    My sheets were covered in big,
primary-colored dinosaurs roaming cotton ripples and the damp
stains. “I’ve been busy,” I said.
    “You remember Dave-the-nose-picker?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “His mom got first place at The Lakeshore
Celebration Art Show last year. She makes real ugly pictures; I
think she gives finger paint to a toddler and calls it art.”
    “So what.”
    “So she won! And her trophy was huge!”
    “We’re kids. We’re not gonna beat real
artists with a movie.”
    One of the twins blew through the door,
tongue flubbering in a torrent of slobbery motorboat noises. He
made a running leap for my bed but I caught him mid-air, spun him
around like an airplane, aimed him at the exit, and said, “Scat!”
The boy buzzed away and I slammed the door behind him.
    “Why don’t you talk to Danny,” Whit
suggested. “See if he’ll give you back the camera.”
    I sighed and paced my bed. “Roslyn’s gone,
remember?”
    “So trade him somethin’ else. Your dad’s an
architect.”
    “So?”
    “He’s rich.”
    “I’ve got bigger things on my mind than a
stupid fairytale.”
    “Hey! I’ve been producer on this thing
since–”
    “Since Christmas, I know.”
    “And I’m the co-writer, too.”
    “Bull Shanky! You came up with one idea!”
    “And it was good! The Girl gets seduced by a
nasty monster–”
    “We don’t have a camera!” I shouted, then
snapped the little-kid dinosaur sheets off my bed.
    Whit rolled his eyes. “How long till the tape
comes back?”
    “We sent it two days ago.”
    “Crap. So another five?”
    “At least.”
    “You better not watch it without me. You
promised.”
    I balled the sheets in my arms, threw them at
the hamper, and plopped down on the bare mattress.
    “Think your sexy girlfriend is on the
tape?”
    “It’s not tape, it’s film. And for the
bagillionth time, I don’t know.”
    “Think we’ll see her bedroom? I love the
smell of girl-bedroom.”
    “You wouldn’t know a girl’s bedroom from a
hamster cage.”
    “Why are you so crabby?” Whit rolled to the
bed and poked me in the arm. “Are you whipped?” When I didn’t
respond, he sang, “ James and Mara, sittin’ in a tree–”
    “Grow up.”
    “ F-u-c-k-i-n– ”
    “Whit! Knock it off!”
    He groaned. “Why aren’t we having
fuuuuun!”
    I sighed again. “I have a question...”
    “What.”
    “You wore diapers ‘til you were eight,
right?”
    Whit’s face crumpled into an angry snarl. “They fixed that. And if you tell anybody–”
    “I think something’s wrong with me.”
    He