Regular Guy by Sarah Weeks Page A

see-through heels.
    â€œNice outfit, Mrs. Strang!” Buzz called as he reached for a cookie. He took a large bite and sang through his mouthful, “Snicker Doodles, Snicker Doodles, rah rah rah!”
    â€œCan you picture your mother walking around in a getup like that, Buzz?” I asked as I slid a cookie off the plate. “I mean, put yourself in my place, can you imagine what it’s like?”
    Buzz just shook his head and crammed another cookie in his mouth.
    â€œMaybe it was one of those mix-ups in the hospital where they give the wrong baby to the wrong mother,” I said.
    â€œThink that could really happen?” Buzz asked.
    â€œSure. I bet it happens all the time,” I said.
    â€œAnd you never know until you have a bad car accident and they call your parents to the hospital so they can give you a kidney or something and you find out you don’t match up genetically, right?” asked Buzz.
    â€œYeah,” I said, “I mean, do I even look like either of them?”
    â€œWell, I’ve never actually seen you in stretch pants….”
    â€œCome on, Buzz, I’m serious. Do I bear any resemblance to them whatsoever?”
    â€œNone whatsoever.”
    â€œI swear, I don’t think they’re my real parents,” I said.
    â€œWell, they seem pretty convinced of it,”Buzz said. “And you already asked about whether you were adopted, right?”
    â€œYeah, they denied it. But something’s not right, Buzz. I can feel it in my bones.”
    â€œYou mean, your kidneys.”
    â€œGoof on me if you want, Buzzard, but I know there’s something fishy about this family.”
    â€œWhatever you say, Guy. Hey, do you want that last Snicker Doodle or can I scarf it?” Buzz asked as he reached for the cookie.
    I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t think about cookies at a time like this. Somehow or other I had to come up with a way to uncover the truth about my origins. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I couldn’t stand it much longer. I needed to know who I really was.

CHAPTER TWO
    â€œW hat’s with the golfers?” Buzz asked.
    â€œMy mother thinks it’s a manly sport, and since I’m her ‘little man’…” I trailed off as if that was enough of an explanation.
    â€œWhen did she do it?”
    â€œLast night, after I went to sleep.”
    We were discussing my lunch box. The day before it had been an ordinary red plastic box with my name written on it in black Magic Marker, but my mother had been visited by one of her frequent creative urges and had decoupaged a bunch of pictures of golfers and golf equipment all over it. My mother loves to decoupage. The way you do it is you take some object and glue downpictures on it, then you paint over it with this liquid stuff that makes everything all shiny and smooth. You can do it to almost anything, trust me—I know. Another thing I know is that once it’s dry, that’s it—it doesn’t come off no matter how much you want it to or how hard you work at it with a screwdriver.
    â€œWho’s that guy up by the handle?” Buzz asked.
    â€œLee Trevino,” I said, reading the caption under the golfer caught in mid swing.
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œManly golfer, I guess,” I said.
    We snapped open our lunch boxes and flipped back the lids. I looked longingly at Buzz’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
    â€œWant to trade?” I asked.
    â€œWhatcha got?” he said, peering into my lunch box.
    â€œOne raw hot dog, three grape kebobs, couple of garlic twists, and an apricot nectar.”
    â€œSheesh.” Buzz turned away and took abite of his sandwich.
    He ended up taking pity on me and giving me half of his sandwich, which I washed down with the apricot nectar. Then we dismantled the grape kebobs, eating the grapes and piling the chunks of candied fruit she’d alternated with them on the