Hi, I’m your preteen son’s favorite literary character. Not your daughter. Your son.
Because your daughter is only supposed to be reading books about an aspiring veterinarian scientist type who will someday be labeled “difficult” among her academic peers who receive tenure years before her despite publishing half as much. The girls who transform into fantastical creatures to solve some environmental problem. Or maybe her 23&Me would show she is part mystical animal herself hence the ability to communicate with, and heal the supernatural, magical, or anthropomorphic.
Your son likes me. I’m a loser who thinks he’s a cool kid. I’m essentially Huckleberry Finn in a hoodie. Unlike good old Huck I don’t use racial slurs. For now. Ready with the truculent quip or mean spirited jab at anyone who shows an ounce of kindness or intellect. To mask my own inferiority. Standard bully shit but without any of the physical prowess usually required. I hate girls and still think cooties are a bigger problem than COVID. You definitely don’t want to know what my Google search history looks like. I have the people skills of Elon Musk and endorse Vivek Ramaswamy in 2024. I subsist on junk food, video games, and umbrage. I’m giving off big divorce vibes as a preteen. I’m the most precocious Incel you’ll ever meet.
I have a younger brother or sister I’m jealous of because I’m no longer cute and I think they get more attention. Lets not delve into the psychology of how that jealousy empowers my worst instincts to misbehave just for the attention. Instead, enjoy my quirky hijinks. My older sibling is just a rock-n-roll moody teenager.
I have a dad probably although he is a minor character in every respect. He doesn’t even have a name. Just a job. I mean, he must have a job because he has no significant presence in my life.
My mom exists to make food I refuse to eat and do laundry I have littered as my bedroom decor. I will grumble about my mother when she asks for the absolute minimum.
Neither parent knows or cares that my ADHD is uncontrolled and cratering my academic career.
Speaking of academics, I’m flippant, defiant, and disruptive to my other students and my teacher. How dare she expect me to stay awake, pay attention, or complete homework as assigned. I hate her too. My teacher is an older woman which is good because that gives me lots of biting commentary to make about the elderly and how she lived with dinosaurs. Lol. Anytime there is a science fair or book report I won’t remember until I get to school and see everyone else prepared. At that point I’ll panic and try and get them to give me their work or do some hastily thrown together slop that takes about two paragraphs. If you care about school you’re lame. That’s my whole vibe.
Despite my grating existence I do have a small circle of friends. I will do my best to manipulate them at every turn. I have friends to help me cheat at schoolwork, involuntarily donate the best part of their snacks, and offer reasonable advice I will promptly ignore. Friendship is a one way street.
Will I ever be punished for my transgressions? No, not really. Will I learn from my mistakes and course correct in the next book. Of course not. Will your son take any redeeming value from my adventures? Oh, not a chance. But will you keep reading the entire series anyway and overpay for the next one at the Scholastic Book Fair because you want to support the Spotify-like residual for your school library? Absolutely.
After all, I’m your son’s favorite literary character and you want to encourage his reading lest he end up like me.
