You

The cartoons are nothing but half-hour commercials for action figures, interrupted every six minutes with actual commercials for the same action figures. It was that way when you were younger and you can’t believe you actually used to get up early to watch this crap. If you don’t count the sports, the news, the infomercials, the black-and- white movies, the religious programs, or the home-remodeling shows-and you don’t-there’s nothing on.

If it had been a typical Friday night, you’d still be asleep with another four hours to go before you woke up at the crack of noon. But around seven you started to get a headache and had to get up, the first time you had been out of bed before your parents on a weekend since Christmas five years ago.

You’re sitting on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket, clicker in one hand, when your sister sits down next to you.

Paige is five years old, she’s in kindergarten, and she’s the nicest person you know. She’s never been whiny or demanding like all the kids you see at the mall, and as far as you know she’s never thrown a temper tantrum or punched something just because she was pissed off.

You got all those genes.

You were ten when she was born, just about the point when your parents must have realized that you were going to screw it all up.

Their Plan B.

The way you see it-the way your parents see it-she can do no wrong. The yin to your yang.

She’s wearing her pink pajamas, but no socks, and has a bright blue folder in her hands. Without saying anything, you flick open the blanket and toss a section across her legs, reaching over to make sure her toes are covered. She sets the folder on her lap and looks way up at you and waits.

“What channel?”

She smiles her gap-toothed, cute-as-hell smile. “Twenty-two, please.”

You flick. It’s Dora the Explorer-it’s always Dora the Explorer.

“Thank you.”

You watch her watch, her lips moving along to the theme song, her hands clapping together without making a sound.

Every girl is somebody’s sister.

You reach over and slide the folder out from under her tiny hands. “Whatcha got?” You don’t notice how your voice changes when you talk to her.

She looks at you and rolls her eyes. Now you’re the master of the obvious. “My folder.”

“I know that. What’s inside?”

Another eye roll. “My papers.”

You pull out a stack of papers, all folded and bent and wrinkled, with “Good Job!” and “Great Work!” written between blue and silver and gold stars, with “Paige Chase” printed in fat pencil at the top. You flip through the stack, trying to remember a time when this was tough stuff. Worksheets on the alphabet, short “The cat is very fat” sentences, pages with apples or trucks or birds to be counted-then a sheet with no stars and a red “Oops! Try Again!”

One of these is different. Circle the one that doesn’t belong.

There’s pictures of a dog, a table, a boy, and a horse. With a tight-fisted, squiggly line, Paige had circled the boy. And with a quick swoosh of her red felt-tipped marker, the teacher had circled the table, adding a frown face next to Paige’s circle.

“That’s wrong,” Paige said, pointing to her selection. “I was supposed to pick the table because the dog and the boy and the horse are all alive and the table is not.”

“Why’d you pick the boy?”

She scrunches up her shoulders. “All the others have four legs and he has two. But that’s wrong.”

You want to tell her that she’s not wrong, that her answer is just as good as the correct answer, maybe better. You want to tell her that what’s wrong is the whole stupid assignment, that all it teaches kids is that there’s one way to think, one way to act, so that by the time they reach high school all they have to do is look at somebody and they can tell if he’s cool or a nerd or a jock or a hoodie. That way if somebody starts thinking for himself, starts acting all weird, like wearing a sport coat to school, they’ll be easy to spot.

One of these people is different. Avoid the one that doesn’t belong.

You want to tell her all of this, but you don’t. She’s smart. Smarter than you, probably. You thought her answer was wrong, too, until she explained it.

But she’ll grow up, go to high school, and figure it all out on her own. She won’t need you there to explain it all to her.

Which is good, because you won’t be.

Two in the afternoon, the postman delivers the mail-a cheap advertising newspaper, a credit-card offer for your mom, your dad’s Golf Digest, and a small, odd-size envelope with your name on it and no return address. You rip it open and pull out a bright pink Hello Kitty card.

Except it’s not a real Hello Kitty card because, while you’re no Hello Kitty expert, you don’t think she usually has a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

WE’RE HAVING A PARTY!

SATURDAY NIGHT

493 FOX MEADOW ROAD

COCKTAILS AT 9

DINNER JACKET OPTIONAL

Z

A week ago you would have tossed it out. But that was a long time ago. A lot can change in a week.

It takes you half an hour to walk to his house. You could have asked your mom for a ride, but then she might start asking questions about parental supervision. Better to let her assume you’re hanging out in a dark, cold park with your low-life friends than a warm house with no adults around. You don’t know there won’t be any adults there, but given the invitation, it’s a safe bet.

Zack lives on a cul-de-sac. It’s the suburban term for a dead end. His house is a lot like yours, a lot like all the others, with a door and windows and a brick walkway lined with those low solar lights that should have been put away when the leaves started to change. There are three cars in the driveway and none look like the kind a parent would drive. You step up on the porch. Inside you can hear people laughing and the muffled sounds of the stereo.

Up till now Zack has just been this kid you went to school with, a kid you bumped into now and then. He stood up for you, and that now meant you had to do the same for him, but that didn’t mean you had to hang out with him. Ringing the bell changes things, crosses another line. He goes from being some kid to a guy you know. Not quite friend level, but there’ll be a connection.

When people talk about him, you might get mentioned.

Is that what you need right now, you being associated with the school freak?

You think about your options.

And you ring the bell.

A minute later the door opens.

“Mr. Chase, I’m glad to see you made it.” Zack reaches out his arm and shakes your hand, careful not to spill his drink, a tall frosted glass topped with a tiny paper umbrella. He’s wearing that black sport coat and a white shirt, a black pair of pants and polished black shoes. You, of course, have on your hoodie uniform.

He leads the way through the living room to the kitchen, where an attractive dark-haired girl is slicing a lime. “Careful,” Zack says, sliding up alongside the girl, kissing her on the cheek, “I’d hate to have another guest lose a