by David Lubar
I'm scared. Before today, I was still able to convince myself that it was just a silly
idea. But when my sister came home from school, I realized that none of it was my
imagination -- it was real. Leslie started band this morning. I prayed she'd want to
learn flute or clarinet. Lots of girls play flute. I wouldn't even have minded if
she'd brought home a french horn or an oboe.
Leslie came home with a saxophone.
That's when I knew for sure. Look at all the evidence. Last month, my dad quit the
law firm where he worked and took a new job at the power plant. He's gained a lot
of weight, too -- a whole lot of weight. All day long, he eats donuts and drinks
beer. He doesn't help me with my homework anymore. Yesterday, he tried to
choke me. Luckily, he got distracted by a commercial for fudge.
Mom changed her hair. She's got it piled up on top of her head. It's a funny color,
too. My baby sister, Mandie, decided she wouldn't go anywhere without a
There's no doubt about it. I'm sure now. My family is turning into the Simpsons.
When the thought first occurred to me, I'd laughed. We're real people. We aren't
cartoons. So what if Humbert -- I mean Dad -- had a new job? And lots of moms
change their hairstyle.
That was only the beginning. Next thing I know, I have two new aunts. I never had
aunts before. Suddenly, these two strange women who look like mom start
dropping by. The worst part is that they both smoke. Pew.
Then Leslie started getting smarter and smarter. She's my younger sister. I've
always been the smarter one. But for the last few weeks, it's seemed that she
knows a lot more than I do. Now, she plays the saxophone. And she wants me to
call her "Lisa."
She took the saxophone right up to her room. Even though she just got it today,
she's already playing music. And not beginner stuff like "Three Blind Mice."
She's playing jazz.
I don't want to be Bart. I want to be me -- Bert Stinson. Maybe it's not too late.
Maybe there's something I can do to stop it before the change is complete. That's
why I'm trying to write down everything I can remember since the changes began.
Darn. I keep dropping my pencil. My fingers are so short and stubby. Wait a
minute. Didn't I use to have five fingers on each hand? It's so hard to remember.
Hey -- why am I writing this? No idea. Weird stuff. I just read it and it makes no
sense. Well, it's nothing to have a cow over. Think I'll grab my skateboard and