“Charlie is a chicken!”
“No, I’m not!” I say, but really I am.
Sam, my older brother by exactly twelve months, is eleven and thinks he’s so cool. It’s bad enough we have to share the same birth date, but we also have to share our birthday celebrations.
Every year, we are each allowed to invite two friends to our shared party. Mom says taking six boys on an outing is all she can handle. After last year’s camping fiasco, I kinda see her point. This year, Sam got to pick. He picked the fair.
“You have to do what I say, Charlie,” says Sam. “So we are all going into the Fun House.”
“All right,” I grumble. “Better not be any clowns in there,” I add under my breath.
“I hope there’ll be clowns,” Sam says.
I take a deep breath and barrel though the mouth-shaped door. I figure I better go first because if Sam’s in front, he’ll cook up a scheme to scare me.
I know it’s not supposed to be scary— hence the Fun House name— but I got lost in one when I was five and I still have nightmares.
“Oooh! Aaaah!” Sam and his cohorts howl from behind me.
“Just ignore them,” says friend number one.
“Yeah, they're just trying to scare you,” says friend number two.
And doing a pretty good job, I think. “Come on,” I say. “This place is boring.”
We go past the mirrors that make you look weird. And the shifting walkway—I trip. We make it through the barrel-rolling tunnel, the shooting blasts of air, the stupid clowns, and last, but not least, the ball pit.
I heave a sigh of relief as I clamor across the gauntlet of colorful, slippery balls. “Help me out,” I say to my friends, but they are looking at something behind me and gesturing wildly.
“Look out!” they manage to sputter. But it’s too late.
“Got ’cha!” Sam grabs my legs and yanks me back into the pit.
“Aaargh!” I screech.
He smirks, “Can’t outsmart me, little brother.”
I don’t say anything as I scramble out because my oh-you-think-you’re-so–clever older brother forgot one important detail . . . next year, I get to pick.