Howie, Ira, and I got together the next Saturday morning to detonate Manny. I had told the Schwa about it the day before, but in a way I was hoping he wouldn’t show—almost as much as I hoped he would. I call it the “film-at-eleven factor.” You know, on the news, how they say, “Horrible train wreck. Graphic footage. Film at eleven.” And then for the rest of the night you’re disgusted by how much you actually want to see it, and you’re relieved if you fall asleep before it comes on.

The thing is, I can’t get past the feeling that there’s something . . . unnatural about the Schwa. I don’t do well with unnatural things. Take spiders, for instance. I mean, sorry, I don’t care what anyone says—there can’t be anything natural about spinning a web out of your butt. And then there’s those Hindu coal walkers. The way I see it, if God meant us to walk on hot coals, He would have given us asbestos hooves instead of feet—but first He probably would have smashed us in the head a couple of times to knock some sense into us, because why would we want to walk on coals in the first place? And don’t even get me started on my aunt Rose’s Christmas tree. First of all, it’s aluminum. Second of all, it’s pink. I mean, like the color of Pepto-Bismol, which makes sense, because I get sick to my stomach just looking at it.

Not that the Schwa is anything like a spider, or a coal walker, or a pink tree, but he is unnatural in his own disturbing Schwalike way.

So anyway, it’s seven on Saturday morning as we prepare Manny Bullpucky for detonation. I’m busy taping an M-80 firecracker to his forehead, but my mind’s obviously not on my work because I bury the whole fuse beneath the duct tape.

“You’re a real pyrotechnic wizard, Antsy,” says Ira as he pulls off the tape and redoes it.

Behind me, Howie’s upturning lawn furniture, building a barricade for us to hide behind when Manny blows.

“I’ve been thinking about the Schwa,” I said, loud enough for both Howie and Ira to hear.

“Yeah, so?” said Ira.

“I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with him.”

“Like he’s retarded, you mean?”

Howie’s disgusted by this. “The proper term is ‘mentally handicapped,’” he says. “Otherwise retards get offended.”

“No,” I tell them. “The Schwa’s not mentally handicapped—it’s something else—and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Hey, didn’t I say there was something weird about him?” Ira said. “I mean, like the way he always just appears, like he’s spying on you. He’s sneaky. Weaselly . . .”