Regular Guy by Sarah Weeks

CHAPTER ONE
    â€œI know it’s a long shot, but I don’t feel I can just eliminate the possibility that I was raised by wolves without at least considering it for a second, do you?”
    â€œYou’re touched in the head, you know that, Strang? Positively touched.”
    I count on my best friend, Buzz, to be honest with me. We’ve known each other since second grade, when he moved to Cedar Springs from some place down South. Most of his accent is gone by now, but his twang still shows through a little, especially when he gets what he calls “riled up.”
    â€œDo you really think it’s out of the question?” I asked seriously.
    â€œWell, do you howl at the moon, Guy?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHave cravings for raw jackrabbit?”
    â€œDefinitely not.”
    â€œLick yourself?”
    â€œNever,” I said.
    â€œOkay, then I think it’s safe to say we can rule out the wolf theory.”
    â€œWait a minute, Buzzard. Did you ever consider the possibility that maybe it was so weird and horrible out there in the wild with my wolf-pack family that I just can’t let myself remember it?”
    â€œIn that case, maybe you’d better consider the possibility that you were actually raised by possums, Guy, not wolves. I mean, just because you don’t hang by your tail and play dead now doesn’t mean you didn’t used to, right?”
    â€œAw, shut up.”
    â€œAnything you say, possum boy.”
    We sat there in silence for a minute.
    Finally I announced, “Last night at dinnermy father did the oyster trick again.”
    â€œOh, man. Were you home at least?”
    â€œNope. Right in the middle of the restaurant. ‘Watch this,’ he goes, ‘watch what your old man can do, Guy.’ Like I don’t already know. Then before I can even look away he sticks it up his nose, sucks it up there with that horrible noise, and spits it out of his mouth.”
    â€œGross me out the door!”
    â€œI thought I was going to puke,” I said. “My mother, of course, applauded.”
    â€œDid he stand up and make the announcement about how no one should attempt it at home?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell, you know what I always say—just add an ‘e’ to Strang and look whatcha get. Man, you really can’t go out in public with them, can you?” Buzz said.
    â€œIt’s not like it’s so much better being around them at home, either. Take a look in my sock drawer,” I said.
    â€œWhich one is it?”
    â€œSecond from the top,” I said as I watched Buzz pull open the drawer.
    â€œWhat’s the deal?” he asked as he pulled out a balled-up pair of unmatched socks.
    â€œShe’s a firm believer in the idea that opposites attract.”
    â€œBut, socks?” Buzz held up another mismatched pair.
    â€œThere’s not one matched set in there. Open the top drawer.”
    â€œI’m afraid.”
    I laughed. Buzz opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of rainbow-colored underwear.
    â€œGroovy, man. Very sixties!”
    â€œShe tie-dyed every pair of underwear in the house last week,” I said with a sigh.
    Just then there was a knock at the door. I groaned, flopped back on my bed, and waited for the inevitable. In she came, singing at the top of her lungs.
    â€œSnicker Doodles, Snicker Doodles, rahrah rah! Eat a bunch, hear ’em crunch, siss-boom-bah!”
    My mother danced around the room, holding a plate up in the air like a fancy waiter. She had on lime-green stretch pants and a frilly Day-Glo orange top. Her curly mop of bright-red hair was pulled up into a ponytail, which she kept in place with a twist tie—the kind you use to close up garbage bags. She finished her song with a last wiggle of her rear end, set down the plate of lumpy cookies, and clicked out of the room in her favorite high heel shoes—the ones with the plastic tropical fish suspended in the