F a r t, p.1
F.A.R.T., page 1
For Richard
DIARY 1
RIDE AT YOUR OWN RISK
The guys who run amusement parks won’t tell you this, but all the really good rides have a secret exit just before you get on them. It’s true. They call it a “Chicken Hatch,” and it’s for people who lose their nerve at the last minute.
Me, I think it’s wrong to call people “chicken” because they don’t want to vompedo their lunch on some roller coaster. That’s why I’m offering you a chance to exit this diary right now.
I’m serious. I’ve kept this journal in case something should happen to me, but the detours and trapdoors that follow could easily scramble your eggs. But before you leave, consider this: F.A.R.T. wants you to take this exit.
Yes, you heard that right—F.A.R.T. They want you to laugh at their ridiculous name and go back to eating your cornflakes because you’re not supposed to know anything about them. Not you or your friends or any kids anywhere.
Now, if you’re still with me, ask yourself this question:
ARE YOUR PARENTS SUDDENLY SMARTER?
I mean a lot smarter. Do they always find your hiding places for junk food, like the Pringles can you disguised as a fire extinguisher or the cake frosting you use for toothpaste? Have they recently discovered that you’ve rigged the thermometer in the medicine chest to read 10,000 degrees when you want a sick day, or put Meow Mix on your veggies so your cat will eat them?
How about you? Has a change come over you at school? Do you high-five your teacher when she pulls a pop quiz, remind substitute teachers that homework is due, or tell fellow students, You only hurt yourself when you forge a bathroom pass? Sound familiar?
And riddle yourself this: When your parents go to a PTO meeting, where do they really go? IS there a PTO? Have you ever been to a meeting? Of course not.
Like you, I ignored these warning signs until I stumbled onto the truth. It was a bizarre truth that made sense of it all, but none of my so-called friends could believe it. If you must know, they laughed at me. The fools!
What I needed were people who could grasp the incredible. People I could trust. And I needed them now.
That was when I called THE ONLY ONLYS.
DIARY 2
THE ONLY ONLYS
I had never used a pay phone before, and it took me forever to find one, but I couldn’t trust my cell anymore. Nor should you. After I dialed the number, CRABAPPLE (not her real name, though it should be) answered on the first ring.
“Speak.”
“It’s POPCORN,” I said.
“It is? What number are you calling from?”
“That’s not important. I need a meeting with the Only Onlys today.”
I could hear her typing. She was always typing.
“No, not today,” she replied.
“What do you mean no?”
“ ‘No.’ It’s in the dictionary after ‘goodbye.’ Goodbye, Popcorn.”
“Hold it! This is serious. I’m serious.”
“You? Serious? I’m on a deadline for a Big Story that’ll get me into Journalism Camp. That’s serious. Tell you what, let me switch you to voice mail, and you can—”
“Voice mail? Who do you think you are—tech support? You’re about to miss THE biggest news story of your life.”
The typing stopped.
“What Big Story?”
“I’ll tell you at the meeting.”
“At least give me a hint.”
“F.A.R.T.”
“Gross! When are you going to grow up? Goodbye, Popcorn, and I mean it.”
“Wait! Isn’t this what the Only Onlys are about—coming when one of us calls?”
“Don’t tell me what the Only Onlys are about!” she snapped. “I came up with the name.”
“Then come up with a meeting place. Someplace secret. Like one of those empty houses that your mom is selling. This is your last chance.”
The line went quiet for what seemed like two years. Had I gone too far with that “Big Story” stuff? Had she hung up? Was I being watched? Do all pay phones smell like feet?
She came back with an address and told me to use the rear entrance.
“Can the other Only Onlys make it?” I asked.
“APRICOT adores you, and BANANA (also not their real names) has no life. They’ll be there. Popcorn, this had better be good.”
“It isn’t.”
“Excellent,” she said, and hung up.
I guess good reporters love bad news.
* * *
I skateboarded down dead-end streets and dark alleys to make sure I wasn’t followed. When I got to Crabapple’s meeting place, I found a run-down store for rent with an old sign tacked on to the back door: SQUID KIDS PRESCHOOL.
Yikes! No wonder the address seemed familiar. This was my old preschool, or what was left of it. I remembered my first day there: an only child dropped into a cauldron of KIDS—all kinds of kids—criers, liars, biters, bullies, screamers, and even a kid who could pass gas to the tune of “Bananaphone”! Had he learned other songs since then? I wondered.
I opened the door slowly as if there was still a riot going on inside, but instead I saw Crabapple sitting in the same corner that had once corralled the Reading Rodeo, her favorite hangout as a child. (The rest of us slackers preferred Crayon Canyon.) Typing on her laptop and dressed in her private-school blazer, starched collar, and black tie, she looked like a person who fires other people. People like me, for example.
“Of all the places to meet, why did you choose Squid Kids?” I asked.
DIARY CODE NAME: Crabapple
Reporter at Pollywolly Prep School newspaper… Voted Most Likely to Disagree… “I don’t like being right. I just am.” Spelling Bee Beastmaster… “You don’t plug it in. It’s a book, dummy.” Goal: Journalism Camp, change the world with THE BIG STORY.
She didn’t look up. I wasn’t worthy of a glance. “I forgot it was here,” she said, “until I saw that stupid sign.”
“Remember when Apricot painted those screaming kids on it?” I asked.
She nodded. “It was an improvement. I mean, it’s not even a squid. It’s an octopus with six arms. Idiots.” She shut her laptop so hard it must have voided its warranty, and then she aimed her lasers at me. “Okay, what’s your Big Story?”
Before I could answer, a wave of peach perfume rushed up my nose.
“Popcorn!”
Apricot tackled me from behind and giggled as we fell to the floor. Imagine a Hello Kitty sundae topped with cherry hair and golden glitter. That was Apricot. It’s not something I’d order at DQ, but on her it worked.
DIARY CODE NAME: Apricot
Artist, poet, attends Atomic Science Junior High (under protest)… “It’s all good.”… Can speak emoji. Personality: Creative, Disease to Please… Goal: Convince Crayola to bring back heliotrope-colored crayons.
The words gushed out of her as we helped each other up. “I love your ViewTube videos. Did you stop making them? Can you believe we’re back at Squid Kids? Popcorn, you don’t look so good. No matter. We’ll fix it. Big news!” She pulled a book out of her tote bag. “I finished my book of poetry. I even worked the name ‘ONLY’ into the title. See?”
A glance inside the book told me that it was very Apricot—kittens, friendship, twilight, flowers, butterflies… you get the idea.
She studied my face for a reaction. “Tell me that you love it!”
“I love it.”
“Oh, you’re just saying that. Banana gave me a promo code to get it printed for free.” Her eyes darted about the empty rental space. “Hey, where is Banana?”
CRASH!
A shock wave rattled the store’s light fixtures and knocked the FOR RENT sign off the front door.
“Guess,” said Crabapple.
A fast-moving electro-biker had met a slow-moving mailbox in front of the store, saved by his massive black crash helmet, the kind used by human cannonballs in the circus. He staggered around the entrance until Crabapple unlocked the door and Apricot led him to a chair. Banana was wearing the same Supreme shirt with the same Mountain Dew Kickstart stains from when I saw him last. This was no surprise. An ace gamer like Banana could spend weeks on end in his room blasting around the universe, which also explained why he smelled like the Moons of Endor.
Apricot tapped on his dark visor. “Can you see out of that thing?”
“No,” was his muffled reply.
“Then why do you wear it?”
“Protection from gamma rays, of course.” He pried off his helmet and found a half-eaten Slim Jim inside. He offered it to Crabapple, who glared her refusal.
“I know this place,” he said as his eyes adjusted to the light.
“Yeah,” I said, “this used to be Squid Kids.”
“No, after that. My parents sent me back here when it became WonderWords and back again when it became Vowel Power.”
DIARY CODE NAME: Banana
White hat hacker, Comic-Con costume judge… “I’ve got an app for that.”… 7-Eleven Customer of the Year… “I have a promo code for that.”… Has a Microsoft security update named after him… Goals: Destroy all black hat hackers. Meet Batman.
“Oh?” said Crabapple. “Did they ever get their money back?”
“Don’t listen to her,” said Apricot to Banana. “We’re all special in our own way. Anyway, it’s Popcorn we’ve come to hear.”
“You’re right,” said Crabapple as she pulled down the front window shade. “Popcorn,” she commanded, “it’s time for show-and-tell.”
DIARY
HOW I FOUND IT
It really did feel like show-and-tell. We even sat in our old assigned seats—Apricot, Banana, Crabapple, and I—four kids that you’d never see hanging together except on a derpy poster in the guidance office, you know, the kind that says TEAMWORK IS COOL! YAY!
It was odd that we’d still come together when one of us called. Being the only only children in Squid Kids had bonded us, but that was long ago. Our schools were different, and so were our friends. Maybe as only children we wanted to be the brothers and sisters we’d never had, and so we were.
“Stop stalling, Popcorn,” said Crabapple, cautiously eyeing the front door. “My mother could show up at any second with a buyer for this dump.”
She was right. I was stalling, but how do you tell a nutball story without sounding like a nutball yourself?
Then Apricot came to my rescue. “Popcorn, if this was a movie, how would it begin?”
“A movie?”
“Yes, what’s the first thing we’d see?”
“My house.”
“When?”
“About a week ago.”
“How were you feeling?”
“Happy.”
“Why?”
“Because things were going great. The three kids on my payroll had shown up on time, which freed me up to shoot my ViewTube video before my parents got home.”
“A payroll? What do these kids do?” asked Crabapple.
“My chores. You know—walking the dog, taking out the garbage, completing my chemistry project, mowing the lawn. The usual.”
“Whoa! A chemistry project is not ‘the usual,’ ” said Crabapple. “You pay some kid to do your homework?”
“Not just any kid, an honor student.”
“You can’t do that.”
“When you hire someone, you’ve got to pay them,” I replied. “It’s the law.”
“He’s right,” agreed Banana.
“Where are you getting this money?” persisted Crabapple.
“I told you—from my ViewTube channel, Furious Popcorn’s Snack Attack! I’ve got, like, ten thousand subs, or had them. That’s how this whole thing started. See, while my parents were at work, I set up our kitchen to shoot an episode where I’d secretly replace the KaleNuts Fiber Bars in my lunch with cookie dough.”
“That’s what your channel is about?” asked Crabapple. “Junk food?”
“I don’t use that term. I believe in nutritional equality.”
“It’s junk.”
“Okay, it’s junk. Anyway, I rate the latest potato chips, explain how to hide Pop-Tarts around the house in case of emergency, test new flavors for gum companies—”
“But don’t your parents run a health-food store?” asked Crabapple.
“Indeed. That’s why I disguise myself with shades and a hoodie. If they ever found out, there’d be no more channel, no more payroll, and no more free swag from snack companies. And then where would I be?”
“In juvey?” said Crabapple. “Where you belong?”
“Crabapple,” said Apricot, “don’t interrupt the movie.”
I continued: “So, to make the cookie dough, I first washed my hands. You know, I once found a Band-Aid inside an ice pop, so I know the value of clean food prep.”
“Too much information,” muttered Crabapple.
“Then, I reached for an Auntie Futz cookbook off the shelf, but when I grabbed it, I tore its cover. That’s when I saw that it wasn’t a cookbook at all. It was… well, it was…”
“What was it? What did you see under its cover?” asked Apricot.
“You won’t believe me.”
“Come on, dude, finish the movie,” said Banana. “You don’t get killed in the end, do you?”
“How can he get killed?” snapped Crabapple. “He’s standing right there. Out with it, Popcorn!”
“It was a parenting manual,” I replied.
My announcement hung in the air like a piñata.
Naturally, Crabapple took the first swing. “That’s it? A parenting manual? That’s the Big Story? That’s why you called us together? There are millions of them out there.”
“Not like this one. It’s a secret parenting manual.”
“Oh, really? Let’s see it,” she said.
“I don’t have it with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it might explode if I remove it from my home.”
“Explode. Yeah, sure. Okay, then, why didn’t you take pictures of it?”
“I tried. All the shots came out fuzzy. They must have used a special paper to print the manual.”
Crabapple had that tired look of a parent listening to a child explain how a magic zebra had eaten all the cupcakes. “Can you describe this secret book that might explode?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” She flipped open her professional reporter’s notebook (it said so on the cover) and clicked a gel pen. “Start talking.”
I began with the manual’s cover. “ ‘The Number One Guide to Hacking Your Kids,’ it said. By Families Against Rotten Teens, or F.A.R.T. It sounded like a joke. I thought, Were ‘S.N.O.T.’ and ‘B.A.R.F.’ already taken? But maybe a name like ‘F.A.R.T.’ was supposed to trick me into thinking it was a joke book.
“The next few pages were meant to scare off kids who found the cookbook by accident, like me.”
“Popcorn,” said Crabapple, “where was this book printed? Where did your parents buy it?”
“The next few pages answered some of those questions,” I replied. I did my best to describe them.
ARE THERE DOTS BLINKING BETWEEN THE SQUARES?
DROP THE BOOK. EXIT THE AREA. THANK YOU.
CONGRATULATIONS, PARENTS!
YOU’RE IN!
YOU’VE MADE IT!
YOU’RE ONE OF US!
Greetings, Mr. & Mrs. Parents,
Do not scream or jump for joy, even though this is the happiest day of your life. Do not draw attention to yourselves, especially in front of your kids.
Our records indicate that your kid(s) have reached their “Rotten Years.” You are now ready for this manual.
Mr. & Mrs. Parents, did you know that your parents and their parents all the way back to ancient times read some version of this manual?
It’s true. And now, so shall you….
We are F.A.R.T.—Families Against Rotten Teens. Our spies monitor rotten-kid activity everywhere and share it with our members. Remember PostYourPARENTSweirdUNDERWEAR.com? Well, our parents were warned and hid their underwear. Did you?
Who are our spies?
You are! All parents are. We’re all in on it! Ha-ha! Go ahead and laugh. You’ve earned it.
We know all about you.
Mr. & Mrs. Parents, YOU were rotten once, just like your kids. When YOUR parents went to a PTO meeting, do you know where they really went? They went to see us! (By the way, there is no PTO.)
Stop being a wimp!
All your troubles began after you taught your kids the alphabet. Back then, you believed all those books about your kids’ self-esteem. Well, what about YOUR self-esteem? We saw your underwear on that website!
You’re holding dynamite in your hands!
This manual will render your kids powerless, but the manual must remain secret or it won’t work.
Be careful!
If your kids ever see manual number 3278, we’ll repossess it, expel you, and convince everyone that your kids made the whole thing up. Sorry.
Lola Butcher
Lola Butcher, President and Loving Parent
“So, it’s like our parents are in on this big joke?” asked Apricot.
“Yeah,” I replied, “and we’re the joke.”
Crabapple looked up from her notebook. “Popcorn, all parent manuals try to control kids. What makes F.A.R.T. any different?”
“They don’t play fair. They’re organized. They share dirty tricks from one parent to another. From one generation to the next. It’s like, it doesn’t matter who wins, as long as kids lose. And then there’s security.”
