Changing Michael by Jeff Schilling

was made (good boy, Michael!). It was narrow and way too small for him, but there weren’t any stuffed animals propped up against the pillows, and I didn’t see any action figures engaged in mortal combat.
    There was a small poster above the desk, but was it someone cool? Of course not. It was a picture of a wrinkled old man wearing a diaper and holding a giant walking stick.
    There were a few other posters near his bed—of star clusters, galaxies, and planets. And above the stereo (which, despite looking to be about fifty years old, was the source of the classical music) was another old man, but this one, at least, appeared to be wearing pants.
    Michael finally came out of his book long enough to notice there was someone in his doorway. I stepped in and closed the door behind me. I approached the stereo, killed the classical, and fiddled with a button or two until I found a classic rock station. It didn’t take long.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he asked.
    â€œStage Two.”
    I sat down on his bed. There was a Bible on the nightstand beside me. I held it up and raised my eyebrows.
    Michael shrugged. His eyes went to the paperback in his lap. “I’m not a fundamentalist,” he said.
    â€œAnd that means?”
    â€œI don’t believe in the literal truth of the Bible.”
    â€œKeep going,” I said, rolling a hand as if trying to scoop the air closer to my chest.
    â€œI don’t believe that all the passages were divinely inspired.”
    We stared at each other.
    â€œSo it is science-fiction,” I said.
    â€œNo,” Michael said. “I think a lot of it came from God.”
    I rolled my hand again.
    â€œBut I think some passages were changed.”
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œPriests. Monks,” he said. “They were the only ones who could make copies of the Bible, back before the printing press. I’m sure they changed some of the passages or left some things out.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œTo suit the leaders of the Church. To match their agenda.”
    So Michael was a conspiracy guy.
    â€œMichael, were you abducted by aliens?” I asked, concerned.
    Michael tried to study his carpet.
    â€œOkay, relax! I’m sorry I said anything,” I said. “You really need to get used to someone giving you a hard time once in a while. It doesn’t always mean they hate you.”
    Michael brought his head back up. “I just think there have to be pieces of the Bible that were left out or changed,” he said. “Pieces the church leaders thought weren’t meant for everyone.”
    â€œSo why do you have a Bible in here?”
    â€œI didn’t say it was entirely corrupt.”
    I stared.
    â€œThere’s some beautiful writing in the Bible,” said Michael, “And some beautiful ideas.”
    â€œWho’s the naked guy?” I asked, pointing to the picture above his desk.
    â€œGandhi.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    â€œHe was a leader in India, back when they were ruled by the British.”
    â€œBelieve it or not, Michael, I’ve actually heard the name. I’m wondering why he’s on your wall.”
    â€œHe was a great man. He practiced nonviolent civil disobedience.”
    â€œWhich means . . .?”
    â€œNot fighting. Just refusing to cooperate.”
    I shrugged, which Michael interpreted as a request for more information.
    â€œNonviolent civil disobedience,” he began. “Let’s say you didn’t think it was fair that the government made you carry a driver’s license, and a police officer pulled you over for driving too fast. What would you do if he asked for your license?”
    â€œPunch him in the mouth.”
    â€œNo. And that was exactly Gandhi’s point,” he said, beginning to flush.
    â€œMichael, I was—”
    â€œGandhi taught nonviolent disobedience. So he would probably say that you should tell the cop that you don’t have