The first thought—and it is a thought that I believe will run through my head quite often, sadly enough—was, “Holy mother of sporks!”

I believe that the only thing to do in this situation—past purposefully rolling my eyes back into my head and hoping they hit me up with some Thorazine—is to cringe at my sympathetic system. And maybe run as far away from any cafeterias or delis as possible—because quite honestly, the almighty mother of all sporks sounds like a fearsome thing to behold. And, from experience, we all know that my courage is equal to the bacteria that lives in chickenshit. Nay, the bacteria that lives in the colon that chickenshit comes out of. You’re welcome for those diverting mental images.

Okay. Okay. I’m going to stop with the chickenshitting and try for some facing-of-reality. Deep breath, Lacy. Ahh, God, not that deep, bra…too…tight… Oh, that would explain the deep red gouges in my chestal region—must’ve slipped on Chloe’s by accident. Don’tcha just love A-cups? Aren’t they cute? In a completely undisturbing, unpsychot—

Ahem. Monumental life changes. Right.

I love my grandfather. Moments like this—moments when his personality just come bursting out of words, events, and objects (for instance, our cuckoo clock, which has a cut-out of Dick Cheney’s head taped on it)—make me miss him so much it hurts. And no, it’s not just the goddamn bra. First glance, to a stranger, that letter—a letter saying that his son is not his son might seem…too casual. Insensitive. But you have to understand—that’s just how Clement was. Imagine this great big walrus of a man—not fat, really, but definitely red and positively mustachey, whose true love (fifth-ed only by his wife, two boys, and scotch) was cigars (and yes, if you were possibly wondering, his rear was rather impressive). There was no way he’d have a heart-to-heart over something as inconsequential as birthrights. I’m sure that he thought that yeah, maybe Ian would go running off with his birth certificate in one hand and a bandana-on-a-stick in the other, and demand that his real mother explain her actions—was she, like him, a teenage parent? Whywhywhywhywhy? Blah de blah, Clement would say. It’ll all blow over soon. And it would have—if my grandfather had stayed alive, had been there to explain himself, to guide and love Ian—and Scott.

Scott. Nope. Getting ahead of my chickenshittiness. Dad’s in the more immediate vicinity. Let’s deal with him first.

My dad is really not a funny guy. Maybe you were thinking I came from a whole family of misfit circus mutants—truly, that would make more sense even to me—but, no. My mom and dad are hardworking, honest, normal, everyday-issue people. Hideously boring, right? I swear the cup-in-the-briefcase thing is the most spectacularly juicy thing my father’s ever done. Clement was the one who gave me the crazy gene; he taught Scott and me to laugh, laugh hard, and never stop laughing if we could help it.

‘Course, we couldn’t. Not after he left us. And now—it’s been less and less frequently lately, but today it seemed in some Heath-Ledger-killing high doses—he has come back. Lacy, you’ve got some Elmer-gluing to do.

“Dad?” I come up behind him, put my arm on his hunched over shoulder. They aren’t shaking, so I know he’s not crying. But, like Eeyore, he’s got a gloomy cloud over his head. And it’s not nearly as endearing.

He runs a hand over his aging, tired face, and gives me a smile. I hadn’t realized he’d gotten this old. Well, I mean, he’s thirty-seven, but he looks…wrung out. Poor guy. “Well, that was….”

“One hell of an electroshock therapy session?” I’m not entirely sure what my subconscious is trying to tell me with all of these mental-asylum cracks. I’m not entirely sure I want to know, come to think of it. Moving on—entering scary waters.

Another smile. “Exactly.”

“Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I just…miss him, is all.”

“I miss him too. You’re not going to go on a meaning-of-life quest, are you?” I mean, the guy’s never here, but he’s never not here, either. There’s a fine line.

“No, no. Who wants to meet their nearly-forty-year-old son, anyway?”

I’m not sure what to say to this, so I just pat his shoulder a little.

“I—um—I’m not sure Scott’s quite as…okay as I am. Would you mind—?”

“Sure Dad.” I bite my lower lip, and head for the den, where Scott disappeared.

Scott. Is not. My uncle.

There, I said the words. They feel foreign on my tongue. Instead of feeling heavy and plummeting, they just drift away, leaving no taste behind, like they’re not real—but that’s the thing. They are. The statement is reality, something, for all my jokes, inside and out, I’ve never really lost sight of or left behind. This, I think, is not a situation where I can just wish the pain away, deny anything has changed until the consequences are piled on me—this is something I need to face gradually, and come to terms with. Like my dad. I won’t break down, and eventually my gloom cloud will dissipate.

Now if only I can communicate my musings to Scott without snapping my own neck like a plastic spoon with the effort. Goddamn sporks. They’ve infiltrated my inner-workings—I’m making pickle-frying kitchen utensil cracks! Well, it’s now or never. Pretty soon I’m going to be wearing a hairnet and picking up toenail clippings to use in a special sauce. Glory hallelujah, I need to get moving—before it’s too late.

Our den slopes. The green, plaid couch is on the wall next to the door, and the TV is as far back away from the couch as it can get without touching the sloping wall above it. There are a few feet of cramped space behind it—and that’s where I find Scott. I’m so quiet coming in, so hesitant that at first he doesn’t notice me. His hands are clasped, dangling between his knees, and his eyes are closed. At first, I think he’s silent, but then I hear pathetic, sad, whimpering sounds—like a wounded puppy. I feel like crying, and gulp to try and swallow the lump of pain building in my throat. Scott looks up, startled. His eyes are red, and his nose is running; he wipes on the back of his sleeve, moans, and looks towards the low ceiling, as if trying to make the tears stay in his eyes. I crouch beside him, leaning against the wall. No mental asylum, spork jokes, or otherwise pop into my head. It’s just as well.

I scoot closer, and rest my head on his chest, liking the feel of him beneath me, warm, shaking; the feel of his breath whooshing in and out of his mouth as, I imagine, his nose is still stopped up from crying.

When he speaks, his voice cracks. “I thought I’d be okay.”

Still, words fail to come to me. No jokes to make the pressing sadness go away, nothing wise to guide us through. In lieu of spoken comfort, I wrap my arms around him, and match my breathing—and try my darndest with my heartbeat, as well—to his.

It feels like hours later that Scott turns his head to mine, leans down, and kisses my forehead, gently. I close my eyes, relishing the feel of his soft lips before I register what my mind’s up to. He stands up, his long, springy legs looking cramped, and leaves me in the den.

I let out my breath, feeling like I’ve been holding it for all this time. Well, maybe it’s because it is the first breath in a long while that has been my own. Co-lunging is fine and dandy until you’ve got to fill ‘em by yourself. I hear the front door open and close softly, practically feel the obtrusive rumbling of Scott’s faulty engine vibrating my Skechers. I imagine he’s going home; it’s a good thing. I can’t take care of his heart all on my own. Wish I could, but—well, for today anyway, I’ve decided to give up on my trademark delusions.

Which, of course, means I have to make a phone call ASAIFTWTSU. (As Soon As I Find The Will To Stand Up.)

“Chloe?”

“Hello.” Her voice is icy. Surprise, surprise.

“Can you just shut up with the misplaced anger for a second? I’s gots some newses for youses…”

I tell her the newses, yes, including the bra thing, and an indulgent crack at the difference in our…ahem…circumferences (hey, I deserve it once in a while). But when I get to the colossal, mind-boggling news, all the humor drips out of me again. Well, actually, it wasn’t gradual—more like a sudden depravity of all things singing-elf-like. Not that I was sending gloom clouds through the phone cords (though that’s a beyond-awesome thought, now that I mention it), in fact, I managed to be emotionless. My voice may have cracked a few times when I spoke about my grandfather and his giant butt, but beyond that, my tone was flat. And I felt flat, too. Deflated, in the best way possible.

Chloe, however, apparently forgetting all rotten feelings she’d nursed for me overnight, squealed so loud that all of the singing elves came screaming back into my head, begging to be let back into their gigantic, steel cages. (They turn the cogs of my cognitive process, yes? Mush, little elves, mush! MWAHAHAHAHA!)

“I KNEW FATE WOULDN’T BE SO CRUEL!” Chloe shrieks, leaving me completely nonplussed.

“Fate? Cruel? To me? Currently? I’d say so,” I deadpan.

“No, don’t you see? This is how it’s supposed to work.”

“I’m honestly not following you.” Ramble, ramble, ramble. I hope it’s just oxygen-deprivation from the A-cup that’s making me irritated.

“Now your children won’t be mutated!” Chloe cries with glee. “I’ve been so worried that I’d be godmother to a bunch of fourteen-fingered freaks!”

Flabbergasted, while being the god of all words awesome, doesn’t quite cover it.

“What the hell have you been thinking about, Chloe? Are you on something? For once I’m saying this in complete seriousness—do you need help?”

“Don’t be stupid. All is finally right with the world, and you’re referring me to a shrink. I expected better of you, Lacy.”

“Are you a closet romantic masochist, or something? He’s your boyfriend. He’s my uncle. Stop being weird!” And truly, she was scaring me. Her jokes about incest before—those were awkward, but fine. But this? This felt humorless…tasted, again, of that reality I can’t escape. It is my summer home, after all.

“You don’t see it now—but I know. I understand. It was never about me, never about Janet—it was always about him. Aww, Lacy, how can I be mad at you when it’s so right?”

“Shut up!” I almost yell.

“No, listen, here’s what you have to—”

“Oh, why don’t you just make like Edith Piaf and die at 47?!” I slam the phone receiver down, breathing heavily. Then, in a final act of viciousness, I reach behind me and practically rip the goddamn metal clasps off—A-cups are not cute.

I plug my retractable cord into the wall and sigh as my rechargable batteries give off that adorable Ping! sound that makes me feel everything is right with the world. Little known fact: Lacy is a robot. Author’s note: That’s why this story is written in present tense. In the near future, after the story’s conclusion, Lacy is apprehended for questioning and spends the rest of her days eating prunes and having tests performed by those adorable little bald guys with bug-glasses. Just so you know. Well, the ping is lying. It ain’t all right. But, and this is the great part, I just switch off my ON button and tell my software I’ll deal with…well, Scott, tomorrow. Just because we’re not related doesn’t mean anything has to change, right? And it certainly doesn’t mean we have to jump on each other and start reproducing. I shudder. Chloe is—well, actually, once again, I’ll deal with the whole ‘my friend needs mental help’ thing in the morning…

Okay. We are so past due on some clarification.

I love to exaggerate, even in my brain.

So, when I say guys are “in love with me,” either they have a school boy crush (that they get over once I bare my super scary, ketchup covered fangs) or they completely avoid me at all costs and I tell myuself they love me in order to retain the hard-to-achieve size of my head (i.e., Greenie—though deep down, I know it’s true—he loves me).

Let’s just say that this state of mind leaves me wholly unprepared when Monkey Man appears in a tree outside my window.

“HOLY MOTHER OF SPORKS!” I shriek, ducking under my window pane. The kid is crouched like a creepy tree man! Or—dear God—like a tailess MONKEY!!

This calls for some serious evasive action.

“SCOTT! I’M BEING STALKED AGAIN!” I yell as loud as I can (Scott returned this morning; we hadn’t said a word to each other, either, because I hadn’t planned on speaking to him unless he spoke to me, first, but this is one of those situations

where you need to get over yourself and call your older, wiser unc—um, person), aiming my rather impressive mass of volume towards the window. I hear a snap, and a frenzied yell, before I gain courage enough to peek through the window. I immediately lurch forward and collapse on the window glass in a fit of giggles. Lucky the glass was there, actually, as I can’t really feel my legs anymore.Scott comes up behind me and rests his hands on my giggle-shaking hips. At first he laughs at the sight of my face squished against the window, but then he glimpses the spectacle outside.

“Lacy,” he says weakly, “what did you do?” I, of course, just laugh harder at my second viewing of Monkey Man hanging by his ankle from a branch and swinging back and forth like a petrified, peeping Tom of a pendulum. Scott pushes me off the window (and I clatter to the floor, having lost the use of my lower body) and shoves it open, yelling, “Hang on, Mike, I’m a-comin’!”

But instead of acting like I would have (i.e., run under Monkey Man with a matress/hugemongous basket), Scott calls the fire department.

How boring.

Ho there, wait a minute—firemen giant hoses!!

Hot dog!

“Can we set the tree on fire as well?”

Scott gives me a dry stare. “They won’t let you use the hose, in any case.”

“Oh, piffle. I’ll use my womanly charms and woo them into submission.”

“Ah, but then you’ll have so many men in your tree that it’ll fall over completely.”

“We all have to make sacrifices.” We watch Monkey Man swing for a moment, observe with a distant, entirely medical interest his pudgy monkey face fill with blood.

“I wonder what he was trying to accomplish,” I muse. Scott chokes on the drink he’d just taken from the water on my nightstand.

“Must we delve into the minds of the perverted?” he asks pleadingly.

“No—no no no. Not what I mean. I understand the whole convoluted fantasy aspect—nastola. But, what, did he think he wasn’t going to get caught?”

Scott’s thoughtful for a moment. “Now, I’m not a stalker myself, but I imagine that maybe he wanted to get caught.” He purses his lips, and his eyes are amused. “Just not swinging from a tree by his ankle.”

I think about this for a minute, and then it hits me. “Scott, this is really gross and creepy. Am I supposed to press charges or something?”

Scott’s face darkens. “Maybe if he was rifling through your underwear or setting up camp under your sink. I’m not sure you can do anything. I, on the other hand…”

“Oi!” I say, snapping my fingers in front of his black-thought-ing face. “You can get busted for devious doings.”

“I’m not going to do anything illegal, per se,” he growls. “As of now, at least.” He bolts out the door, cracking his knuckles against his jaw like he does when impersonating the Fonz.

Watching from the window, I bite down on my thumbnail as Scott bursts through the front door. The firemen have just arrived, but Scott holds out a hand to them, telling them to hold on a second. He walks up to Monkey Man slowly, a cold, calculating look in his eye, and his hands clenched—I’m on the verge of jumping through the glass to save both Monkey Man’s face and Scott’s permanent record. He deliberately reaches both hands up to the poor boy’s neck, wiggles his fingers—and starts tickling him. Mercilessly. I can hear M.M.’s painful-laughter shrieks through the window, and clutch my own stomach as I fall to the ground in a fit of giggles.

Here’s the thing that’s bugging me the most, as I’m listening to my stalker being tickled by my—by Scott. How are we NOT related? I don’t share a single gene with this tickle-fiend mastermind. My relatives are workaholics, drama queens, and quitters—people who run away and duck under covers and forgot how to laugh after they quite literally screwed their lives away. So all this time my gene pool has been slowly sucked down this drain, while I’ve been wasting away in Harris Margaritaville.

The thought—the thought that all this time I’ve been masquerading, not knowing my real DNA—makes my laughter catch in my throat.

Science didn’t mean for me to laugh, didn’t mean for me to have Scott, or Clement, or Monkey Man in my tree. So who is Lacy to science?

Who is Lacy at all, without Scott?