Attack of the Mutant Underwear

Attack of the Mutant Underwear

Tom Birdseye

To Amy T.
Wonder Girl!

Monday, September 4
Labor Day

Hear Ye, Hear Ye! Listen Up, Everybody!

I, Cody Lee Carson, have an announcement to make. As of this exact moment (drumroll, please), I have resolved to become (louder drumroll) a changed man!

That's right. No more embarrassing mistakes, like when I got my head stuck in the school bus window.

No more bozo-brained mess-ups, like the time I dived out of the maple tree with a bungee cord hooked to my belt.

No more trips to the principal's office, or bad grades, or missed recesses, or being grounded for stuff I really didn't mean to do.

That was the
old
Cody Lee Carson. Today another Cody Lee Carson has magically appeared—tah-dah!—the very cool New Me!

And this is my New Me Journal, page one, numero uno. In which I will write the story of my New Life here in my New, Nobody-Knows-About-the-Old-Cody town of Benton, Oregon. That way, after I take full advantage of this second chance, and everybody is wondering how I turned into such an incredible, amazing superstar and ace-brilliant-type-author-guy, they can just read this and they'll know the whole story.

So remember, whoever you are who found this ordinary-looking journal (probably in a trunk in some dusty attic), you're holding a priceless piece of history in your hands. DON'T DROP IT!

But on with my New Life. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was about to explain how moving to a place where nobody knows you can actually be the best, especially when—oops, gotta go. Mom is calling. But don't worry, I'm not in trouble. I didn't do anything stupid or wrong. That was the Old Me, remember? Mom is just ready to go shopping, that's all. Got to get my New Clothes so I can start fifth grade at my New School looking like—you guessed it—the New Me.

Don't change that channel while I'm gone, though, Cody Lee Carson fans. Stay right here, okay? Good! Now I've REALLY got to hightail it. Mom is beeping the horn.

Later!

Still Monday, September 4
Labor Day

What do you get if you spell
Mom
backward?

You get the same thing you started with, that's what. M-O-M turned around is still M-O-M. Just like my M-O-M can still be a pain when she wants to be.

You'd think that after I told her about the New Me, she'd treat her one and only son with all the honor and respect I clearly deserve.

You'd think.

It all started in the boys' section at Mattingly's Department Store. We were almost finished shopping for school. Things had gone pretty well, until Mom decided she did
not
want to buy me a pair of Imadude jeans.

“Too expensive,” she said. “All that money for a fancy label.” She had that look on her face. (You know, like she's totally made up her mind and there is nothing I can do about it, no way, no how.) It seemed hopeless.

Until my little five-year-old sister, Molly (I call her Molly the Creature, or MC, for short), started complaining that she wanted to exchange her new white socks for black ones because they'd never get dirty. “Black socks!” she sang loud enough for everyone in Mattingly's to hear. “They never get dirty, the longer you wear them, the stiffer they get. Sometimes I think of the laundry, but something inside me says, ‘Not yet, not yet!'”

Normally, Mom just ignores Molly when she acts like a creature. But today, for some reason, she couldn't. And the next thing I knew, MC was picking out a bunch of black socks.

Which gave me—aha!—an opening. I pointed out to Mom that in order to be fair, I should now be able to pick whatever kind of pants I wanted. Mom rolled her eyes but said, “Okay.” I grinned and went straight for the Imadudes to try them on.

But Mom wasn't done with me yet. I was admiring my new jeans in front of the dressing room mirror when she piped up from outside the door, “Do they fit all right?”

I looked myself over. “They fit great.” They made me look like a New Me man, a manly New Me man who knows what he wants out of life—fame and fortune, for starters—and how to get it. I struck a manly New Me man pose and flexed my manly New Me man muscles.

“But do they have room for you to grow?” Mom asked.

“Yep,” I said. “They're cool.”

“Around the waist?”

I let out a big sigh, and wondered, Just what is it with moms? Are they born this way, or do their brains fall apart when they hit middle age? “The jeans are fine,” I mumbled, “just fine. Let's get them.” And I started to take my new Imadudes off so we could buy them.

“How about length?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, Mom. I already told you.”

“Let me see.”

Jeans down to my knees, I jumped. “No, Mom, I'm not—”

But she had already opened the dressing room door. Past which, at that exact moment, a
girl
was leading a little boy toward another dressing room.

Yes, a girl, as in female-type person.

“Mom!” I screeched. But it was too late.

The
girl
had seen me.

Seen me in my underwear.

And—
poof!
—it was like I was the Old Me again, back in Portland during our fourth-grade Oregon history play,
Westward Ho!
Halfway through my entrance, my pioneer suspenders decided they'd had enough of holding up my pioneer pants. Which dropped south and got tangled around my legs. The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air like Superman. I skidded to a stop right there in front of everybody—kids, teachers, parents—my Tweety Bird underwear shining in the spotlights.

I got teased for weeks. “Hey, here comes Tweety Bird Butt!” kids would say. “Haw! Haw!” Or “Look! It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's Super-Tweety! Haw! Haw!”

I threw every pair of Looney Tunes underwear I owned in the garbage the day we moved from Portland. And I was sure I'd gotten rid of my Old Me bad-luck past along with them.

Until this afternoon, that is. The girl at Mattingly's didn't laugh at me, or say a word. In fact, she turned her head and acted like she hadn't seen a thing. Still, I've got an Old Me yucky feeling way down deep in the pit of my stomach that just won't go away.

Tuesday, September 5

Last spring I read a bumper sticker on a car that said, “Some days you eat the bear. Some days the bear eats you.” Which I figure means that you never know what life is going to dish up from one day to the next, or how it will all turn out in the end.

Like today, for example. I woke up at dawn in a cold sweat. I'd dreamed that I was at my new school in my new class, all set to start my New Life as the New Me. But then I turned around and there was the girl from Mattingly's—same brown hair and glasses. Instead of acting like she hadn't spotted me with my pants down, though, she started yelling, “See, I told you! He's in his underwear!”

It was true. There I sat on the first day of fifth grade wearing nothing but a pair of my old Tweety Birds. They'd come back from the garbage grave to haunt me. “No!” I screamed. But there was no hiding. The kids pointed and laughed. “Look, he's in his underwear! Haw! Haw!”

No way could I get back to sleep after a dream like that. I pulled my blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, but it was no use. Bear breath was hot on the back of my neck.

Still, what was I going to do, stay home under the covers? Not if Mom and Dad had anything to do with it. “Get up, Cody,” they said. “It's the first day of school!” So I did, and put on some very plain white underwear and my New Me Imadude jeans, and a T-shirt that says “Just Do It!,” and went downstairs.

As soon as I walked into the kitchen, MC peered over the top of a Cheerios box and said, “It's your turn to clean out the kitty litter.”

In as calm and controlled a voice as I could manage, I said, “No, it's
your
turn. You're just trying to get out of it because you're afraid of Emma.”

“I am not!” MC said, scowling.

“Yes, you are,” I said. “That's why you stand up on the toilet seat to brush your teeth. You're afraid Emma is going to attack you.”

“I like standing on the toilet seat!” MC insisted. “I do it all the time. It's fun! It's
your
turn to clean out the litter box!”

For a minute I gave some serious thought to beaning my little sister with a grapefruit. But then I remembered my dream, and that bad feeling in my gut, and those bumper sticker bears, and I thought, Don't push your luck, Cody. So I said, “Okay, I'll do it.”

MC grinned from ear to ear and said, “When I grow up, I'm going to be allergic to kitty litter!”

I couldn't help it: I laughed. And for a minute that weird feeling in the pit of my stomach eased off and I thought that maybe, just maybe, it would turn out to be a good day after all.

By the time Mom and Dad had driven us to Garfield Elementary School, though, I was worrying again. MC kept singing, “I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves. I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, and this is how it goes.” Over and over she sang it, and it worked. It really got on my nerves.

Then Mom insisted that we all walk MC to class. “It's her first day of kindergarten, ever!”

So much for starting my New Life by entering my new school like a real fifth grader. In I walked with my parents. I did my best to act like I didn't know them, and stay cool. Until we'd dropped MC off and Mom said, “Now we can escort Cody to his room!”

“No!” I said. “I can get there on my own!”

Mom started to argue, but Dad stopped her. “How about we just walk him as far as the big kids' hall? Then he can go the rest of the way by himself.”

Which is exactly what we did, and the next thing I knew I was standing by my New Me self outside of my classroom. On the door was a little plaque with the name of my teacher—Ms. Bitnerinski.

Aw, man. I had no idea how to pronounce a name like that. Then I saw the piece of paper taped below it: “Better known as Ms. B.”

Ah!
That
I could handle.

Another piece of paper was taped farther down.

Please try to remember:

—More learning takes place when you are awake.
—It's not helpful to yell “He's dead!” when roll is being taken.
—Hamsters, particularly Ralph, cannot fly.
—Being a fifth grader does not put you in charge of the school.
—It's best not to dissect things unless instructed.
—Ralph will not morph if you squeeze him hard enough.
—Funny noises are not funny, unless made by Ms. B.
—Ms. B does not accept bribes …

At the bottom, in print so small I had to squint to read it, was written:

… except in the form of chocolate.

“Ha!” A big laugh popped out of my mouth just as the classroom door swung open. There stood Ms. B, glaring down at me.

“You think that's funny, huh?”