The father-son picnic wasn’t going as planned. Archery and canoeing were near disasters, and the forecast for the evening’s marshmallow roast was partly awkward with a chance of forest fire. “I should have stayed in frickin’ Florence,” Pinocchio muttered to himself as he desperately tried to “chow down” his burger and prepare for the upcoming bobbing-for-apples ceremony.

“Pardon me, host-Padre.” The wooden exchange student finally mustered up the courage to confront his temporary father figure in a not-so-rare moment of alienation from his peers. “I don’t mean to be a spoilsport, but this is entirely ‘not my scene,’ as you say in this country. It’s quite evident that I’m not like the other boys. I can’t throw a football worth a damn, I literally can’t ‘take that demure smirk off my face,’ I don’t need a life jacket to float in the lake, I don’t have any joints and I’m permanently dressed in women’s short shorts and a three-pronged, be-feathered hat. I didn’t ask to be born/carved out of wood this way, but I was. Personally, I’ve had my share of beatings for the day and I’m sure the other boys have had their share of splinters. So can we please just pack up the ‘beans and wieners’ and hit the road?”

But Host Father Gus Jones would have none of it. “Listen, Nancy boy,” he said. “I’ve raised three sons of my own, and if there’s one thing I know about good parenting, it’s that you never compromise with children. My home, my rules. You’re in America now, sonny, so get your apple-bobbing face on. Because I didn’t raise a loser . . . even if it was vicariously through your biological freak-show of a family.”

And so, determined to physically portray that he was indeed crestfallen, Pinocchio picked up the meat fork from the afternoon’s barbeque and chiseled away at the sides of his mouth. Finally, satisfied with a look that screamed, “I’m frowning,” Pinocchio took his position at the base of the novelty-sized metal pail and attempted to engage in the fruit-foraging competition.

Yet in his effort to catch an apple, Pinocchio caught only grief instead. His head was too buoyant for a game like this, after all. His noggin drifted afloat like a buoy in the Atlantic. His anger, so long at bay, came charging to shore. “WTF, host-dad!” he heaved his face out of the water sharply. “I hate you! You’re not my real father!” But before Host Father Gus could so much as open his mouth in response, he was struck with silence—the same quiet awe that befell all those present.

“OMG. Look at his face. He looks totally angst ridden,” one of the boys finally said what all were thinking.

“Maybe, beyond that bashful smile and those womanly clothes, beats the heart—or wooden prosthesis—of a real angry teen,” said another.

“Maybe he is a real boy, like he says.”

“Maybe our external differences are trivial. So he’s made of timber, who cares? After all, it’s the deep brooding anger on the inside that counts.”

“You guys are totally metro,” said the token bully.

But Pinocchio had heard enough to let an obviously-projecting-his-own-insecurities bully get him down. He was overcome with genuine emotion and empathy for his contemporaries. He was positively relieved, however, that he was free from having to non-verbally communicate such feelings. “I agree, this is totally metro,” Pinocchio attempted to take advantage of his new-found torment-ridden status. Yet, young Pinocchio had forgotten one key difference that separated him from the other boys. He couldn’t tell a lie. Sensing his nose elongating, the young piece of lumber put a marshmallow on it and stuck his face in the campfire.

“Wow, that’s totally badass,” said one boy whilst holding a fire extinguisher to a mildly sautÈed Pinocchio.

“And just a touch disturbing,” chimed the token bully.

“Who’s totally metro now?” the other boys retorted.