Stephen ambles into my room pre-shower this morning, hair tousled, no shirt, and states, “I’m going out to get a job.”  I give him one of those raised-eyebrow, yeah-okay-why-are-you-telling-me kind of looks before returning to what I was doing on my computer.  “Don’t tell mommy,” he says.

“What?” I begin to wonder why he’s out of bed before noon.

“Don’t tell mommy.”

“Whatever, Stephen, I don’t care.  Get out.”

“No, really, don’t tell her.”

“Where are you going to get a job?”

“I’m going to go get the graveyard shift at FoodTown from midnight to 5 a.m.”

Another raised-eyebrow look — this time of the you’re-so-stupid-and-you-don’t-even-know-it sort.

“Chris Lee is gonna do it, too.  It’s gonna be freaking awesome.”

“Right.”

“I’m not gonna tell mommy.  When she asks you where I am, you just tell her I’m out with my friends.”

“What is the point of this?”&nbsp It crosses my mind that I don’t recall FoodTown becoming a 24-hour establishment.

“She won’t know I have a job, but I’ll be out all night until 5:00, and I’ll have money in my pocket.”

I look up at him and he’s got this satisfied expression on his face like this is the most intelligent scheme he’s ever thought up.  “Stephen,” I say.

“Just promise you won’t tell her I have a job.  Shake on it.”  He extends his hand.

I start to extend mine in return and hesitate.

“Come on.  Shake my hand.”

“No.”

“Shake my hand, and promise you won’t tell her. Shake on it.”

“Fine, I won’t tell her, but I don’t want to shake your hand.”

“Just, would you just shake my hand?”

“Did you wash it?”

“Lisa.”

“I’m not shaking on this stupidity.”

He puts his hand out and I reluctantly shake it, wondering why my VT Webmail page still hasn’t popped up.  This whole wireless Internet thing baffles me.

Stephen laughs and mumbles something like, “Yesssss,” before exiting the room.