Changing Michael by Jeff Schilling Page A

one because you don’t think it’s a just law. And when the cop tries to arrest you . . .”
    â€œI don’t think they’d arrest you for—”
    â€œ. . . you should just go with him. You should let him arrest you and not put up a struggle. And if everybody did that, without fighting, then they wouldn’t be able to hold everyone. The prisons would fill up, and they’d run out of room. Then they’d have to change the law.”
    I almost told him it wouldn’t work. I figured Michael was getting carried away and starting to exaggerate, but decided against it. If he wanted to believe in this sort of thing, fine. Besides, watching him get all worked up was kind of entertaining.
    â€œSo it worked for No Pants there?” I asked, pointing at Gandhi.
    â€œHe changed a whole country. He beat one of the strongest armies in the world by not fighting back.”
    Unfortunately, it was like playing with a little kid—I’d gotten him overexcited, and now I needed to bring him back or I was in for an extended lecture.
    â€œAmazing,” I said. “Let’s talk about Stage Two. You need to start listening to classic rock.”
    Michael frowned.
    â€œLoud enough so Gut can hear it in the living room.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œDoes Gut listen to classic rock?” I asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you think he’d like it if you did too?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat if he had to come down the hall and tell you to turn it down?”
    Michael wasn’t following.
    â€œDon’t you think he’d be a little conflicted?” I said. “Telling you to turn down music he likes?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Something outside the window caught my attention—a woman picking her way up the driveway. She was small and thin and immediately reminded me of some kind of rodent. That’s another theory of mine, by the way. Physically, everyone in the world looks like one of six animals: fish, bird, rat, pig, bear, or horse. Try it sometime.
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œMy mom,” he muttered.
    Wow.
    Michael and Mom definitely looked like they both belonged to the rat family. Something about the nose and mouth. They weren’t so startling on Michael, but on Mom they were disturbing.
    â€œLet’s go meet her,” I said, slipping out of his room and down the hall. Michael tried to say something, but I ignored him. On my way past Gut, I said, “They get to that story yet?”
    â€œWhat story?”
    â€œThe weird one I was telling you about,” I said. “The one I couldn’t remember.”
    â€œAin’t no story,” he said, scowling at the TV. He sounded like a toddler: I’m not gonna take a nap!
    I let him sulk and found my way to the kitchen. Michael’s mom was unloading groceries.
    â€œMrs. . . .?” I almost said “Mrs. Rat,” but stopped myself just in time.
    She looked at me as if I’d threatened to kick her. “Yes?”
    â€œI’m Michael’s friend Matthew,” I said, just as Michael rounded the corner.
    â€œOh . . . hello,” she said.
    â€œDid you get waffles?” Gut asked from the couch.
    â€œWould you like some help putting those away?” I asked.
    She stopped for a second, as if trying to remember something. “No. Thank you.”
    â€œMichael wanted me to meet you,” I said, smiling.
    â€œDid you get waffles?” Gut asked again, louder this time.
    â€œYes!” she called.
    â€œLikes his waffles, doesn’t he?” I said.
    â€œYes,” Mom said.
    â€œOkay, well, you probably need to go,” Michael said, trying to shoo me out the door.
    â€œNo, I’m fine,” I said. I wasn’t about to let Michael chase me away. When would I get another chance to experience the whole family together? “Are you just getting home from work?”
    â€œYes,” she said, busy putting cans into