Excerpt:
A group of boys from my class were at the same movie (of course they were!), sitting in the last row of the theatre; eating from huge barrels of popcorn and oversized boxes of chocolate-covered raisins.  And laughing!  Laughing!

I saw, eating my four cookies and watching stone-faced, as the extraterrestrial dogs dressed in three-piece blue-stripped suits took over Washington, D.C. Once in office, the dogs threw all the cats in jail and passed inane laws, mandating “people pooper-scoopers.”  Every time a dog said this – people pooper-scooper – my classmates howled with laughter. 

I hated that my mom and sisters were hearing this phrase.  (Poop, butt, and shut up were considered bad words at our house.)  I also hated that my dad was sitting at the end of our row, snoring.  I couldn’t blame him.  The movie wasn’t the least bit funny.  It didn’t even make sense.  When the dog president ate the poisoned dog biscuit, the dog vice president should’ve become president – not the cat who lost the election and was sulking in prison on feline-y charges.

Why did everything have to be so stupid?

And why had I wanted to see this cheesy Bargain Bonanza-grade movie?  My dad must’ve thought I was an idiot. But that was my point!  They didn’t have to come with me.  Why did we have to do everything together?   And why did my classmates have to be at the same movie?  At least Victor Wolfe wasn’t there.

I tried to slip out of the theatre unnoticed, but the boys from my class were in the lobby (Oh, of course!  There’s Victor Wolfe!  With a girl?!), horsing around in their cooler-than-thou way.  They noticed me with the same enthusiasm I’d notice a dirty penny on the sidewalk.

“Oh, hey, it’s Charlie Harrisong.”

“Hi Charlie.”

“Hey Charlie Harrisong, you big people pooper-scooper!”

They collapsed as one in a spastic fit of uncontrollable laughter.  I smiled – mouth closed – and lifted my hand in a casual wave.

I was careful not to look too interested or eager.  Or even troubled by the fact that six – no wait, not six, eight (EIGHT!) – boys in my class had gotten together to see this movie.  These things didn’t just organize themselves.  Oh no.  Someone called someone.  And then someone called someone else.  And then someone’s parents had to drive them all here and then pick them up.  No, they’d probably just ridden their bikes.  Just another little adventure!  No big deal.  And all of this had transpired without anyone ever thinking to ask me to join them.

Me.  Mister Irrelevant.  Clique-free Charlie!

Oh, who cared?  My mom probably wouldn’t have let me go with them, anyway.  Not without a parental chaperone.  We didn’t do that kind of thing in our clique.  Still, this was not a disaster.  At least I was wearing long pants.  (And to think how close I’d come to wearing those uncomfortable cutoffs!)  Not even close to the red zone.  Just get out of the theatre before –

Dad was walking into the lobby, hand in hand with Sally.  They were passing right in front of my classmates. 

Please, God.  Let them keep walking.  Just keep walking.  Don’t say anything.  Keep walking.  Don’t –

“Well,” Dad said in a voice like a Roman orator.  “This has certainly been a night to remember!”

I gave up on God.  Or at least on the idea of God as an aggressive manager with a passion for details (Get me that Charlie Harrisong file.  NOW!”)

Apparently God had grown tired of the whole thing.  Well?  Think how old He was.  I was only eleven and already I know how He felt.