Free The End of FUN by Sean McGinty Page B

“
You’re
not on, are you? But then why do I see a faint flicker around the retina?”
    Oops.
    â€œYou’re on FUN ® ?!” said Evie.
    â€œWell, they say ‘having FUN ® .’”
    â€œSince when? Who said it was OK? How exactly are you
paying
for it?!”
    What was there to say? I could feel my forehead breaking out into a sweat. I sat there wishing I had some SweatBlok ® Clinical Strength Forehead Wipes as seen on Classic Rachael Ray (YAY!), or better yet, a way to tell her everything and just get it off my chest—but I knew that if I told my sister everything, my life as I knew it was over. So instead I just told her a little bit. I told her I’d started having FUN ® , yes, but that it was totally manageable. I was earning my way, even making some extra money on the side.
    She wasn’t convinced.
    â€œWhat about school? What does Mom have to say about all this?”
    BOO! for those questions, and YAY! again for good old Sam, who leapt courageously to my defense.
    â€œWell, but Aaron appears to have control over it. My Canadian friend most certainly does
not
. There’s a difference. You don’t play games, do you, Aaron? Mr. International spends all day playing
games
. What’s that one everyone’s always talking about?”
    â€œ
Murder Driver
?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œ
Flower Stomper
?”
    â€œNo…the one with the exploding panda baby.”
    â€œ
Tickle, Tickle, Boom!
That’s a great game.”
    â€œGreat? It’s like a
drug
. He’s on it
all
the time. He wants me to have FUN ® , too, but there’s no way I’m ever letting anyone mess with
my
eyes. They’re the only ones I’ve got.”
    â€œMe either,” said Evie. “FUN ® is dangerous!”
    The tide had turned. Now it was my turn to take some abuse. Sam and Evie lectured me on the corroding forces of modernity and the value of everyday reality, and I gave them both the finger and told them they’d be having FUN ® within a year. There was no way around it. In the same way that people used to swear they’d never get a television, or a cell phone, or a wristphone, or goggles, or whatever. It was only a matter of time.
    We blabbed for a while, and then it got late, and everyone was tired. Out of pride I’d decided not to ask if I could crash that night on their couch—I would wait for them to ask me. But they didn’t, and it got later, and finally I decided to leave. Before I left I got up and rifled through the drawers in my grandpa’s cabinet, just to see what was there. There wasn’t much. But in the bottom drawer, I did find something kind of cool. Two things, actually. A pair of old-timey snowshoes—the leather ones that look like tennis rackets—and this little silver harmonica.
    â€œI’m taking this harmonica. And these snowshoes.”
    â€œGo ahead!” said Evie. “Take it all! Drag the cabinet back to Sacramento if you want.”
    â€œI just want the harmonica and snowshoes.”
    â€œTake some cookies with you, too. I’m sick to death of snickerdoodles.”
    Sam wrapped me up a plate, and Evie reminded me to return the plate, and I ate almost all of them on the way home and fed the last two to Bones, who was curled up on my bed with my shoe. She ate the cookies, but she wouldn’t trade me a snowshoe for my Osmos ™ IV—she growled every time I went to make the swap. She did let me sleep on the bed with her, though, so that was good.
    â€œSweet dreams, Bones,” I said.

When I woke in the morning Bones was gone, and so was my shoe, and so was my dad.
    There was a note in the kitchen:
    Went on errand. Be back soon.
    Shovel the drive if you want.
    Do NOT touch the thermostat.
    I was kind of hungry, so I tried scrounging up some breakfast, but it was a pretty bleak scene. No toast, no orange juice, no eggs. Nothing.
    > how about yay! for