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You know what I hate? I mean really hate? “Teen movies”. They are the absolute worst thing
in this world. They are so fake. Everyone’s blond, the head cheerleader dates the football quarterback and
everything always works out perfect in the end. Somebody hand me the nearest trashcan so that I can
throw up.
Want to know what I hate even more than “teen movies”? My family. Know why? It’s because
they are straight from one of those pathetic excuses for movies.
My mother loves to bake. Now normally that might not be so bad; homemade cookies, cakes
and pies. And she isn’t a bad baker, but she also has to cook. Everything. The only thing in the house are
ingredients and unless you’re willing to make something yourself, then you have to wait for her to make
your breakfast, lunch and dinner. That might not sound too bad, but just wait until you’re running late
in the morning and there is nothing for you to grab quickly. We don’t even have a microwave or a toaster.
Actually, we had a microwave once, but my brother threw it out the window.
You know how in those “movies” there is always the sibling that is just a little bit off? Logically
thinking, that would be me, right? Wrong. The correct answer for those of you playing at home is
my brother, Jake. He thinks aliens are coming to get him. And he’s sixteen. If you’re sixteen, wouldn’t you
already know that aliens don’t exist? Nope, not Jake. I’ve tried to explain to him that aliens aren’t real and
that they aren’t coming to suck out his brain, but he doesn’t listen to me. One time, last summer, I passed
a crack that I was surprised that he wasn’t afraid of the microwave because of the micro-waves that are
coming from it. He freaked out. Completely over-reacted. He ran up to his room and hid in his closet for
a month. He spent a month in a 4 foot by 3 foot room. He never left, not even to go to the bathroom. He
had a container that someone, usually me, had to empty for him. All because he was afraid that the aliens
were going to send messages to his brain through the microwave. My parents even condoned his behavior.
They didn’t care that their younger son was now a hermit living in a closet. My mother even cooked his
meals and put them in tinfoil because that, according to Jake, is the only thing that blocks the aliens’
signal.
One day, he came downstairs and didn’t say a word to anybody. He just grabbed the tinfoil
and went back up to his room. He was up there for another half an hour and then came down looking like
Tin Man, the new superhero who is made of tin and coming to toy stores near you. Head to toe covered
in tin foil. There was just a little slit for him to see out of. He walked over to the microwave, pulled it out
of the wall and walked back upstairs. I was so fascinated that I followed him. No one else cared that he just
stole the microwave. He went up to his room and walked over to the window. I yelled that he was going
to toss it out the window, but my mother, who doesn’t work by the way, just said to leave him alone. The
next thing I know, Jake did exactly as I predicted. He threw the microwave out the window, while it was
still closed. There was broken glass everywhere, mostly because he had to throw it at the window a couple
of times. You see, Jake’s windows are thicker than normal windows, because back when his alien obsession
was in its infancy, I dressed up like an alien for Halloween, just to freak him out, and he went and jumped
out the window. Needless to say, Halloween doesn’t exist in our house anymore and Jake has three window
panes to keep him from jumping again. So it took a couple of tries before the microwave got all the way
through. There was glass all over his floor, and once it got through, all over the grass. There were microwave
guts all over the grass, too. I ran back down stairs and told my mother that he really did throw it out
the window and you know what she tells me? “That’s nice, dear.” That’s nice?! My father didn’t care either.
When he got home from work, he just cleaned up the mess and had my brother’s window fixed. When my
brother came for dinner, nobody said anything. Nothing. It was as if he had never lived in his closet and
had never destroyed our microwave.
My father has “the perfect job,” according to my mother. I don’t exactly know what it is that
he does. Every time I try to ask him he either completely ignores me or just tells me that it pays the bills.
Trust me, it does more than that. It also pays for the huge flat-screen TV, the three game consoles hooked
up to it and all of the games made for each console (and I do mean all). It pays for the clothes at the
expensive stores (we’re only allowed to go to stores where a pair of jeans costs at least twenty bucks and a
regular shirt costs at least twenty-five bucks). Even if you find the exact same shirt in a cheaper store, my
parents make you buy the more expensive one. Try to figure that one out.
My sister, Jennifer doesn’t mind it, though. She spends more money than anyone I’ve ever
met. She’s a cheerleader and sees it as her duty to spend ridiculous amounts of money. She spends it on
clothes (pants, shirts, skirts, sweaters, coats), jewelry (necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings), shoes (high
heels, boots, sneakers, sandals, flip flops) and bags (I don’t even know the different kinds of these, but I
do know that she has at least 100 of them), hair accessories (headbands, fancy ponytails, hair clips). She
also wastes money on hair appointments (haircuts; trims; washes; hair dye, from strawberry blond to
honey blond), nail appointments (manicures and pedicures), her stupid red car (she keeps the outside
neat, but the inside has her clothes strewn about, like a second closet) and make-up (lipstick, eye shadow,
eyeliner, and whatever else). You should see her room. Our parents have been thinking about building an
addition onto the house, a new room for her that would give her a way bigger closet than she has now. It’s
ridiculous.
That’s my family. Maybe now you can understand what I’m talking about, although I should
probably explain about myself so that it is easier to understand how much not like them I am.
Me (Insert nervous laugh here). What to say. I’m seventeen. Writing about myself seemed
like a good idea, but now I have no idea what to say. I already told you that I hate my family and I hate
teen movies. That’s not to say that I hate all movies. My favorites are horror movies. Comedy movies end
up turning out to be sappy love stories with cheesy lines. Drama movies are over-rated. Horror movies can
be scary or they can be funny. It just depends on how you look at them. I also write horror. It’s fun because
every story that I write has a family that is loosely related to mine. I enjoy thinking up different ways of
freeing myself from them. Now, don’t get me wrong. They aren’t all bad. Because they hate me so much,
they end up ignoring me a lot, which allows me to do whatever I want.
And before you start in about how my family doesn’t really hate me and that they are my
parents and they love me, let me tell you that they HATE me. My mother, since she is home all the time,
is notorious for telling me how much of a disappointment I am and how I should be more like my father.
My father tells me that I should be more like my brother and I just walk away from him when he tells me
this. I so don’t want to go there because I could go on for days about why no one should ever say I should
ever be like my brother. I have two words for you. SIXTEEN. ALIENS.
My parents were really happy when we had to move. This was because my father’s job (whatever
that is) got him transferred to a dead-end place called Green Meadows.
You know how, in cartoons, there is that character that has to be forced into the car, the
one who keeps escaping, the one who has to be bound and gagged and then tossed in the trunk, in order
to take them anywhere. That was me, after I researched Green Meadows. I nearly fell on the floor with a
heart attack. The website showed hordes of cooking mothers, blonde teenage girls and typical All-American
dads. Everything that I hate about my family was amplified there.
I pointed out the facts to my parents. I told them that there was nothing that I could do for
fun because there wasn’t a library. My mother told me to find a new hobby, like football. FOOTBALL! If I
can’t stand my sister as a cheerleader, then how am I ever supposed to be a football player?
But despite my numerous, and sometimes outlandish, protests (I once argued that we
couldn’t move because everyone’s grass in Green Meadows was the same height), we still moved to my hell
on Earth.
It was everything I’d thought it would be. Everyone was peppy and blond. Waking up there
and remembering where I was, was equivalent to hitting myself in the head with a hammer a hundred
times.
What made it worse was that everyone got exactly what they wanted. My sister got a whole
floor dedicated to her. It had three rooms and its own bathroom. Jake got a room that was completely
adorned with aluminum foil. Floor-to-ceiling aluminum foil, with aluminum foil carpeting and everything
else in the room completely wrapped in aluminum foil. My mother got this huge kitchen with state-ofthe-
art appliances (minus a microwave). I don’t know what my father got out of the house, but it must’ve
been good. Me? I got a closet. That was my room. It wasn’t the whole Harry Potter, cupboard-under-thestairs
thing, but it was close. At least mine had a window.
What I took to doing was walking around. I got exercise, fresh air and I got a chance to work
on my biting wit. Everything I saw I turned into the butt end of a horrible joke. I would repeat a few, but
I don’t want to be responsible for ruining your virgin ears. So anyway, everything, from the uniform grass
heights and the dads mowing them to the cheerleaders (my sister included) and the football players, got
turned into a joke or some snide comment.
I was doing well in school, which was easy since no one else cared and the hardest question
asked was: what were the flying things that lived in trees called? The answer was birds, just in case that was
a little too hard for you. I was, as I soon found out, the smartest person living in Green Meadows.
After about a month, I noticed some changes with my family, particularly with my father and
brother. My brother actually left the house. It’s not that he didn’t leave before, but that was because he was
forced to. Now, he was never home. I found out why by mistake. My mother made me pick up Jennifer
from cheer practice (don’t ask me why since she’s the one with the car) and the football players were still
practicing for another hour. It turns out that Jake had joined the football team and, to make matters
worse, he was quarterback. Jennifer was annoyed because she feels that she has to date the quarterback and
obviously she can’t date her own brother. Well she could, but that would just be weird.
My father quit his super secret job and stayed at home with my mother. This was weird
because we still seemed to be living off the same amount of money as before. What was really unsettling
was that he became a “lawn dad.” All he cared about was what the lawn looked like. If you even mentioned
brown spots in the grass, he freaked out and ran to his “lawn arsenal” to deflect the evil spots. His
“lawn arsenal” consisted of every fertilizer, grass seed and other chemicals known to man, in addition to
numerous rakes, shovels, hoes and land mowers. He became one of the other freaky dads who would stand
outside with a ruler and measure how tall the grass was.
Our house became like every other house in Green Meadows. They were all three-story
houses with one inch grass heights. In short, conventional and boring as hell.
This started to bug me. I mean really annoy me. I wanted to know why our house looked like
everyone else’s and why my family was becoming even stranger than normal. I asked my parents about it,
but they told me that I was out of my mind and shouldn’t worry myself about such things. This only made
me more determined to find the answer.
As punishment for “asking such nonsense questions” (as my mother put it), I had to walk
(gasp!) to the butcher’s for some kidley meat. I didn’t know what it was but my mother assured me that it
was “quite good.”
When I got there, I found out that the butcher was exactly like the butchers in the movies.
He was this great, big, fat man with teeth that were rotting out of his head. He barely had any hair and his
apron looked like it had to be stretched to fit around his mountain of a middle. He had huge meaty hands
and small beady eyes that followed me from the second I entered the shop.
“What do you want, boy?” he growled.
There was no way I was going to be intimidated by this brute, so I answered back, fearlessly,
“I want some kidley meat. The best you’ve got.”
“What kind of a shop do you think I’m running? All the meat I have is top-quality. Kidley
meat?” He stopped and scratched his many chins. “I just got in new stock yesterday.” He went into the
back of the shop and came back with something wrapped in a ton of butcher paper.
Since I knew that there was no way that he lived anywhere near Green Meadows, I decided
to ask him if he knew why everything was so conformed.
“Conformed, huh? You know, you got a lot of nerve asking questions like that. Those are the
sorts of questions that could get you into a whole lot of trouble. Now, here,” he said, thrusting the paperwrapped
package at me, “take this and get out of here.” He followed me with his beetle-like eyes until I
shut the door behind me.
When I got home, I slammed the package down on the counter and told them to never
make me go back there. I have to say though, dinner that night was surprisingly good, especially for a
meat that I had never heard of before.
The next day at school, I asked my teachers the same questions I had asked my parents and
the butcher. They gave me the same dirty look and told me not to worry about it. I didn’t understand it.
Why was no one answering me? It didn’t seem like that much of a complicated question.
When I got home, I told my parents that no one was answering me and demanded someone
to tell me. I was sick of people giving me dirty looks and telling me that I didn’t need to worry. My
mother exchanged a glance with my father and then she told me that all the answers I wanted were at the
butcher’s. All I had to do was go there and tell him that I wanted some youthberry pie. I didn’t know what
kind of pie it was or what it was doing at a butcher’s, but if it was going to help me get these stupid questions
out of my head, then I would have some.
Just like yesterday when I was there, his eyes followed me from the moment that I walked
in. I walked right up to the counter, asked him my questions again and then told him that I wanted some
youthberry pie. The butcher then, get this, smiled. I felt that my eyes must have melted out of my skull
because it was the most horrific thing I have ever seen and I have seen some pretty whacked out stuff. I
swear, that smile will haunt me to the day I die.
“Well, sir, come this way,” he said, lifting up the counter. “The answers you seek are right
behind here. Just go in the back and take a seat in the big wooden chair. I’ll be along in a second.”
I walked into the back room and saw three things; a large table stacked with meat, the biggest
freezer I have ever seen and a huge wooden chair. I sat down in the chair and almost immediately metal
cuffs came out of nowhere and secured my wrists and ankles. I writhed around, trying to free myself.
When I realized that I wasn’t getting anywhere, I stopped and looked around. That was when
I noticed the dark spots on the wood. They were splattered all over it and I was almost certain that I was
sitting on some more.
Suddenly, the door slammed open and there stood the butcher with the biggest cleaver I had
ever seen. (I know that it seems like everything here is “bigger than I had ever seen” but I told you that this
town wasn’t normal).
“Everyone has told me how annoying your stupid questions are. What to know what we do
with nosy bodies around here?” he said, growling.
“My questions aren’t stupid. Besides, if someone had just answered me, I wouldn’t have to
keep asking them,” I answered back, boldly, despite the gnawing feeling in my stomach that told me this
wasn’t going to end well.
“You want answers? Fine. Why is everything the way it is? Because that’s the way I want it. I
control everything. The people who move here are vulnerable enough that I am able to have control over
them, not to mention their complete fear of me.” He flashed that hideous smile again. “You’re not the first
to ask questions either. Haven’t you ever wondered why it’s called kid-ley meat and youth-berry pie.”
It took me all of three seconds to put it together. I leaned over as much as I could and threw
up. I wiped my mouth on the shoulder of my shirt and asked, “Why isn’t there any adult meat?”
“That’s easy. By the time you are an adult your mind turns to mush and questions like yours
never cross their minds.”
“Well, then why can’t you just let me go? I’ll be an adult soon enough. Besides, my parents
will come looking for me soon.”
“LET YOU GO!” he roared. “Why? So you can go and tell everyone that you see what is
going on here in Green Meadows. No, thank you. Anyway, your parents are the ones who sent you here in

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