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she said.
    â€œSo did I,” I said quietly.
    â€œListen, Guy, your dad and I had a great idea. We thought it might be fun to have a party tonight, you know, invite a few people over for a barbecue? And here’s the kicker. We’re going to fill the wading pool with lemonade and float your father in it. What do you think?”
    â€œDad’s going to float in the pool?”
    â€œNot the real Dad, the ice sculpture Dad. It’ll give me a chance to show it off.”
    â€œWell, count me out,” I said as I swung my legs over the edge of the hammock and hopped out.
    My mother put her hands on her hips. “Are you still mad about the lamp shade?” she asked. “Is that what this is all about?”
    â€œThat’s only part of it, just the tip of the iceberg,” I said. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be dressed up as a lint ball and sent out in public? Or what it’s like to see yourself naked on top of a cake being served to your entire second-grade class? No one eats raw hot dogs for lunch, do you realize that?” My mother didn’t say anything. “I like peanut butter and jelly, and white underwear. I like Superman, not Lee Trevino. I like blue and white, not purple and orange, and I don’t like my prized possessions glued to household appliances.”
    â€œBut white underwear is so boring , honey.”
    â€œThen I guess I’m boring,” I said. “And you know what? If you want someone more exotic than me for a son, maybe you should have been more careful about which little bundle of joy you brought home from the hospital that hot July afternoon. Did you ever think about that, Lorraine ?”
    â€œWhat in the world are you talking…”
    But I was already halfway across the yard, propelled by my anger and the need to straighten out this ridiculous sham of a life I was leading.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I stayed up in my room for the rest of the afternoon. I heard my parents dragging the wading pool off the rafters in the garage and across the backyard to the patio. I listened as they made preparations for their little “shindig,” as my mother kept calling it.
    â€œHow many gallons of lemonade do you think it’ll take to fill it up, Wuckums?” my mother called to my father. His name is William, but he’d had trouble pronouncing it as a child and had inadvertently nicknamed himself “Wuckums” for life.
    â€œJust dump in all of the containers and fill it with the hose,” he called back. “If it’s too weak I’ll run down to the store and get more.”
    My father got the grill going, and soon the odor of barbecued chicken wafted up into my room. I put the pillow over my head and ignored my rumbling stomach. I was not going to this party no matter what. Even with my head covered I could hear my mother squealing as she and my father carried the ice sculpture from the front yard to the back.
    â€œOooh, you’re giving me goose bumps, Wuckums!” she cried.
    Then I heard a loud splash as they tossed my mother’s work of art into the pool.
    â€œYou know, dear, it really does look like me. Especially around the ears,” my father boomed cheerfully.
    Pretty soon I heard people arriving. I recognized the voices. Leo and Emma Biedermeyer, the two wackos who owned the art-supply shop in town. Petra Vidnowich, an accomplished classical pianist who taught all the kids in the neighborhood even though she hated children. Sammy and Val, our next-door neighbors, who liked my parentsbecause they didn’t complain when their cat used my old sandbox for a toilet. And then I heard a voice I knew I recognized, but I couldn’t quite place.
    â€œLong time no see, William. Long time no see.”
    â€œCall me Wuckums, John. Everybody else does.”
    â€œReally? Okay…Wuckums,” said the man tentatively.
    John. Who was John? I racked my brain but came up