The Monkeyface Chronicles by Richard Scarsbrook

the kitchen floor and lopes into the living room. She sighs.

    With both Dennis and Michael absent from the table, there isn’t much conversation during dinner. My father, who isn’t very chatty to begin with, says almost nothing. As usual, he cuts his food into mathematically equal pieces, alternating mouthfuls in a meat/vegetable/starch/beverage pattern, frequently pausing mid-cycle to squint at the refrigerator door as if he’s trying to see through it. He clasps and unclasps his hands between chewing and swallowing, his biceps and triceps twitching beneath his shirt. I’ve never seen him quite this nervous about the impending arrival of one of his mysterious scientific colleagues.
    â€œImportant meeting tonight, I guess?” my mother asks.
    My father looks directly at her, which he hasn’t done for the entire meal, and says, “June, this could be the one. This could really be the one.”
    â€œI hope so, Landon,” she says. “You’ve been searching for a long time.” Mom gets up from the table, and begins spooning leftover food into a large orange Tupperware container. “Landon, I told your father I’d bring him dinner tonight,” she says. “I’ll stay over there a while and visit, to give you some time with your colleague .”
    She says ‘colleague’ with a strange inflection; not like the obvious tone Dennis uses when he says ‘mother’ or ‘father,’ but in a way that casts a slight shadow. I guess she’s mad because he spends so little time with her.
    â€œI’m sure Dad will appreciate the visit ,” my father says, with the same subtle undertone. “Have a nice time.”
    â€œYou too,” Mom says. She crosses the kitchen with the plastic container in her hand and takes her coat down from its hook. “I’ll see you boys later, then. Philip, find something quiet to do in your room, okay?”
    â€œOkay.”
    I know the rules. When my father has a conference with an associate, noise is to be kept to a minimum, using the kitchen and living room is strongly discouraged, and entering the basement is strictly forbidden. This leaves just two options: either leave the house entirely, or hide upstairs.
    The door clicks shut behind my mother. I ask to be excused from the table, but my father doesn’t hear me; he is deep in thought again, wringing his hands and flexing his muscles. He must be thinking through some complex problem. I tiptoe from the kitchen to the living room where Dennis reclines on the sofa, reading one of the glossy investment magazines that fuel his obsession with becoming obscenely wealthy as quickly as possible. This one is Techno Entrepreneur , a magazine that uses dollar signs instead of the letter S. The cover story is CA$H IN on the HOME $ATELLITE RU$H! Dennis’ lips are twisted into a crooked smirk, his eyes bugging out, and his face takes on an unsaintly glow as I slip past.
    â€œHey! Douchebag!” he says. “I’ve got that feeling again! Wanna invest some of your savings in a winning business venture?”
    A strange sense of déjà vu rushes through me. I’ve seen this look on his face before, and I’ve heard almost these exact words.

    About a year and half ago, in the summer of 1999, Dennis was reading an article called, Make BIG BUCK$ from the Y2K $CARE ! when the same wide-eyed eureka expression appeared on his face. “Hey! Douchebag!” he said, “How would you like to earn some easy cash? You’ve heard about this Y2K Bug thing, right?”
    It had been the major news story of 1999. The Y2K Bug was a computer problem that was supposed to result when the calendar year changed from 1999 to 2000. Someone noticed that the processors on a lot of computers were designed to count only to the end of the year 1999, and predicted that there would be worldwide computer crashes, and an ensuing state of anarchy beginning at