My son’s reading Catherine, Called Birdy for his 7th grade Language Arts class. The book is set in medieval England and written in the form of a 14-year-old girl’s diary.
“It’s got no theme, no plot, no flow, no fun, no nothing!” the boy says. “It’s gay!”
I sympathize with him — it reads like a 13th century MySpace blog — but that doesn’t change the fact that he has to read it.
“I refuse to read this book!” he says.
“You can’t,” his mom replies.
“I have a restraining order! Catherine has to stay 10 feet away from me.” And he tosses the book into the middle of the living room.
I look over at my wife . . . her eyes are now closed and she’s biting on her lower lip, accompanied by a slow, dramatic intake of breath, all of which suggests that clowntime is just about over . . .