It is 1990.My
hair is huge; my car gets 14 miles to the gallon; and thas a remote control in the shape of the14 miles to the gallon, and t my neck.""nd the dramatic pronouncement of
his " his fhe TV, a thick-bodied, multi-dialed contraption, has a
remote control in the shape of the three-and-a-half-foot, blue-eyed,
blonde-haired child standing in front of it.
The Boy.
His right hand on the channel changer, he turns to me, a
look of willful mischief on his face.
I narrow my eyes at him, and he mirrors the expression.
“What’re you doing?”
“Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes a bit further.
“Weally!”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
He smiles.“I’m
gonna too-en the channel.”
“You are not,” I say.
He laughs.“I am!”
he says.“I’m gonna too-en it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, suddenly nonchalant in an ice-cream? what-ice-cream? kind of way.“I dunno.”
I lean forward, pull the TV Guide from the coffee
table. I flip to the day’s page.
“Stephen King's
classic novel made for a terrifying mini-series about seven childhood friends
whose lives are threatened by a demonic creature known as IT and how they try
to put a stop to the killings he commits in routine. Twenty-seven years later,
they must face him once again as they discovered that IT was not killed after
all.”
I look up.“You
gotta be kidding me.”
“Othew people ah gonna watch it.”We are in the precious phase between the
start of speech therapy just a week ago and the dramatic pronouncement of his
“r”s just two weeks from now.
“Other people, sure,” I say.“Just not other kindergartners.”
He nods at me emphatically.“They ah too,” he says.“Weally.”
“Dylan,” I reason, “Stephen King writes scary books.This is a scary movie based on his scary
book.”
He smiles the smile of a well-loved child. “I’m gonna too-en it.I’m gonna do it!”
“Don’t do it,” I say.“Don’t do it.”
“I’m gonna!”
I shake my head.“Listen to your mother,” I warn.“Don’t turn that channel.”
“I’m gonna do it!”
And so now it’s my turn to shrug, which I do.“As your mother, I’m advising against this.”
He smiles, shrugs again – and turns the channel.
And it is in that very instant that the hideous face of a
grinning, maniacal clown fills the 19” screen, lurid and horrible.
“AH!”The Boy jams
the off button; and the screen goes black.He launches his body across the room and onto mine, knocking me back in
the rocker.
I hold him tightly as he whispers into the side of my
neck.
“What’s that?” I say.
He turns his head slightly, his small, vulnerable
forehead pressed to me.“I said that you
wew wight.”
And it seems wrong, but I smile.
And I hold him tighter.