When I first heard the rumors that I left Michael Roman’s sleepover early last week not because I had a stomachache, as I claimed, but because I was scared of the movie we were watching, I thought they were ludicrous. So ludicrous that I declined to dignify them with a comment. I naively assumed that my classmates would find the claims as preposterous as I did.

That is why I was shocked by the degree to which these allegations poisoned the minds of my peers.

The first indication that this tabloid gossip had taken roots in my friends’ impressionable psyches was in math class, when Justin Hendricks mumbled, “Do you need your mommy to walk you there?” when I asked to be excused to the restroom. Though his retort was fairly quiet, it was loud enough to elicit a laugh from the entire class.

Some delusional conspiracy theorists have concluded that I only wanted to watch Superbad because I was too afraid of Nightmare, which is simply not true.

This came as a surprise to me; it’s no secret that I’m one of the most popular 6th grade boys at Brian Doyle-Murray Middle School, and as such I am quite accustomed to dishing out zingers for the general amusement of my classmates. Yet such disrespect had never before been levied against me. For that reason, I was a bit taken aback by this assault on my character.

However, I tried to forget the incident; I have, after all, dated Jamie Adams, the most popular girl in our class. Surely, someone who was once worthy of an eight-week relationship with Jamie Adams cannot be consistently mocked.

Or so I thought.

Then came the day my social circle neglected to inform me of a group outing to our local cinema. When I overheard Crystal and Miguel discussing the plan, I told them to count me in. They promptly informed me that I would be “too busy being scared and kissing mommy” to come to the movies.


I finally realized that my silence on the issue was doing me no favors when I got on the bus and the driver said, “I’m surprised your mommy isn’t picking you up, you little bitch,” to the delight of all the other passengers.

Not even clever.

Allegedly, at the sleepover in question, while we were watching A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors, Dan saw me texting my mom moments before the now infamous phone call, in which my mother informed me she was coming to pick me up due to my troublesome case of functional dyspepsia (also known as an upset stomach).

Dan claims that it was during this text exchange that I asked my mom to call me to tell me I had to come home as a cover because I was too scared by the movie and didn’t want to admit it. But then why would I have loudly exclaimed, “Boy, my stomach sure does hurt!” immediately before getting the phone call?

Also, why, if I supposedly love my mom so much, did I tell everyone, “My mom is making me come home because I have a stomachache, I hate her so much”? My critics seem to conveniently omit these factors from the story.

Furthermore, there is no evidence of me texting my mom to tell her I was scared of the movie, as my phone’s memory filled up and to free up space, I had to delete all text messages from 10:20pm – 10:50pm on the night of the sleepover. If I had known the malicious falsities that would circulate in the aftermath of this night, I never would have deleted them. I wish I still had them to set the record straight. Unfortunately, those texts are lost forever and that’s the end of that, so stop asking for them.

I also want to address the suspicion around the fact that I didn’t want to watch A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warrior, and was lobbying for Superbad instead, even though it’s a well-known fact that I’ve seen Superbad six times. Some delusional conspiracy theorists have concluded that I only wanted to watch Superbad because I was too afraid of Nightmare, which is simply not true. I just really like Superbad, so it makes sense I’d rather watch that over some old movie.

And even though my stomach hurt, I was really enjoying the film. So much so that the next day, I looked up how it ended on Wikipedia, and I happen to know that Mary Helena is revealed to be Amanda Kruger, Freddy’s mother. If I were as cowardly as some claim, where would I muster the bravery to read this plot synopsis?

It is my sincerest hope that these words will help my peers resist believing fabrications based around hearsay. I should hope that this is the end of the matter and that I can reclaim my seat at the cool table, which I couldn’t help but notice is filled by Oscar O’Connor, whom we all know does not deserve that seat.

This piece will be the last time I address this matter, as I feel I have said everything I need to say.