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have to say anything. You can just sit and listen.”
    â€œI don’t want to just sit and listen.”
    She paused and took a breath. “Well, we’ll try it and if you don’t like—”
    â€œI don’t like it.”
    â€œIf you don’t like it when we go to church—”
    â€œI don’t like it when we go to church.”
    â€œFreddy!” she said sharply. I looked down at my plate.
    â€œHe already knows he doesn’t want to go to church,” my father said, his mouth full of pasta. “The kid’s smarter than you think.”
    In the morning, my mother remained determined in her decision that it was time I made the Lord’s acquaintance, so it was time to go to church. I was alarmed at such a serious breach of my Sunday routine. Our battle was epic.
    Mom ordered me to the bathroom; I ran away.
    She carried me; I pounded at her back.
    She struggled to brush my teeth; I resisted.
    She tried to comb my hair; I cried in agony.
    She tried to fit me into my best clothes; I squirmed.
    â€œI want to wear PYJAMAS!” I shouted at her.
    She tried to soothe me. “You can wear pyjamas when we get back, sweetheart.”
    â€œI want to watch DORA!” I rebutted as I twisted my arm loose from her grip, desperately trying—and succeeding—to remain shirtless.
    She took a deep breath and grasped my wrist firmly. “I know, sweetheart,” she said. “I know you want to watch Dora the Explorer . And you can. After church.”
    â€œBut listen: I want to watch it now .”
    â€œCan’t argue with that logic,” my father said, sipping his coffee as he leaned against the door jamb.
    â€œWell,” my mother said crisply, “maybe if you helped me get him dressed, you could go watch your football game. Or would you rather I gave up, and the two of you can watch cartoons instead?”
    In the blink of an eye, he pinned me down and she forced a shirt on me. I screamed mercilessly the entire time. I continued wailing even after I was dressed, even after he picked me up, squeezed me like an anaconda, took me to the car, and strapped me into my booster seat.
    â€œHave a great time,” he told me and patted me on the head.
    â€œI don’t WANT to have a great time,” I shouted back at him.
    I don’t know why this is a Favourite Thing, but it is, by the very fact that I continue to revisit it. By the very fact that I continue to think about it; by the very fact that it still sits, a thread in the corner of my mind, and that I still wonder why this memory is so important.
    Favourite thing number 27.

CHURCH, AFTERHAND
    I was correct. I didn’t like church.
    I didn’t like the pews. I didn’t like that they wouldn’t recline. I didn’t like that they were called pews .
    I had to sit beside strangers. Everything smelled like turpentine. The organist was loud, and her timing was off.
    As the minister spoke, I fidgeted and tapped a rhythm on the pew in front of me. My mother gritted her teeth, then finally gave me a hymn book. After that, I sat quietly, half listening to the choir, half listening to the congregation as it shuffled and muttered in prayer and cleared its collective throat. I was happy with this arrangement. I flipped pages.
    The sermon ended and I quickly stood up to leave, but my mother put her hand on my arm. “Not yet, Freddy,” she said and bade me wait with her until after the congregation spilled out the doors, into cars, and meandered off to Denny’s for brunch.
    The minister came and sat with my mother. He smiled at me. “I’m pleased to meet you, Freddy,” he said and offered me his hand. I regarded it with suspicion.
    â€œI’m here against my will,” I said, then turned and ran away.
    As they talked, I raced up and down the rows, my hands sliding across the tops of the pews, making motorboat sounds with my mouth. I had no reason to make the sounds,