When copies of my books arrived from Flux, my two boys ran out to the door. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Only Philip was hoping for a new amp in time for his birthday party and Christopher was hoping for a new video game console, or maybe just a box of cash.
"It's books?" they asked, their voices sinking.
"But they're my books. Copies of what I wrote."
(Worried glances) "Do we have to read it?"
"Only if you want to continue eating."
They politely told me they liked the cover, then began backing away from me slowly.
"I was thinking of giving them out as party favors," I said to Philip.
"Mom. No. Just pizza and soda and cake."
"I could give a writers workshop in your English class," I suggested to Christopher.
"No. Mom, don't. And Mom -"
"Did you like say anything about me or Philip in this book? Anything personal?"
"It's about a girl. She's a little crazy, and she sets fires. I think that's pretty removed from you
"But nothing about us, right?" Christopher asked.
"Just about some of your funnier potty training episodes." (I couldn't resist).
"No. I'm kidding. It has nothing to do with you. You're mentioned in the dedication and nowhere else."
They grinned. "You know what's the best thing about you writing YA, Mom?" Philip asked.
The best thing. I waited, believing for a magical second that my boys had escaped the complete self obsession of adolescence. Here was proof.
"What's the best thing?"
"You never changed your name so we have different last names. So even if you did write anything about us, no one would figure out it was us. We're actually safe."