After church, I walked the dogs, hoping I’d see Dean. But he’d of course already done his paper route and I don’t think he’d come out just to see me. I spent extra time with the Three Musketeers, rehearsing in my mind what and how I would say to Dean. Finally, checking my celly for the time (1:25pm) and messages (none), I felt confident that I had it right and set out for his house.
His father answered my knocks. “Fran! How are you?” Mr. Frazier is a tall man who fills the doorway; he wears a plaid shirt and dark jeans, a much older version of Dean with stubbly face and black-rimmed glasses.

“Um, hi, can I talk to Dean?” came out all in breath as one long word.

“No, sorry he’s not home. He and Dusty Connor went to the movie. Should be back about four or so. I’ll tell him you were by, though.”

My throat tightened up so painfully I thought I’d choke, but at least I didn’t trip over my feet. I must have nodded as I backed away. The echoes of the door shutting followed me as I retraced my steps to the Wessenfeld’s house.

I sat on the porch with the big lab’s head in my lap. Tears plopped on Aramis’ ears as I smoothed them into his fur. Porthos, on my left, nudged my elbow, and I reached over to pet him, then Athos on my right side. I buried my face into Armis’ nape and bawled until I got the hiccups. Finally, I was able to stop, and wipe my eyes clear of the last of my tears.

“You’re really great friends, you guys,” I sniffled. “Not like someone I thought was my friend.”
Each of the dogs licked me, on the face, hands, arms and Porthos managed to jump into lap and get his licks on my ear.

“Enough!” I pushed them away, gently, grateful for their loyalty. “I’ll see you guys later. Go inside now.” I ducked into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face before I eased out the door and locked it.

How was I going to act tomorrow at school around Dusty? Like nothing had happened to change my feelings about our friendship? Hah! What friendship?!

I couldn’t get images of Dean holding her hand, or maybe kissing her. Crap! I still had to ask Dean if he wanted to mow the Wessenfeld’s lawn weekly. He could do it all by himself. I wish I could hand him the edger. Here, buddy, take that and shove it!

I spent a long afternoon doing homework and holed up in my bedroom with Wizard’s Holiday by Diane Duane, about a perfect world that isn’t. It suited my mood.

It also suited my life. The next day at school, I avoided Dusty, pretending I hadn’t seen her when she waved to me going down the hall. I stayed longer than necessary at my locker, getting to class as the bell blared.

Mrs. Hammershaw came in the door with a pinched face and pink slips. “Annie, and,” she looked pained, “Fran. Principal’s office.”

Me? I look to Annie, who has gone pale. She shuffles papers into a pile, then stands up, smoothes her skirt and fluffs her hair. Marcy is focused on her math book, and Steve stares at me for a long moment, as if to telepathically convey a message. Without a word, Annie and I pair up and walk the long hall to the principal’s office.

I have an awful feeling this is about the Facebook picture.

In the outer office of the principal, Brian, Justin, Timothy and Collin sit in a row of chairs. They are very quiet.

Before I can sit in a chair, Mrs. Aster motions to me to come into her office. I have this stupid nervous habit of wadding and twisting my skirt at the hip and I make myself stop. I try to iron the wrinkles out with my sweaty palm.

“Fran, sit down, please.” Mrs. Aster scoots her chair close to her desk and leans on her elbows the time it takes me to sit down in the chair to face her.

“Not a very flattering picture of you on the internet, Fran.”

I shake my head. I wish I could shake away the cobwebs in my brain, shake away Mrs. Aster, this school and everyone in it.

“Well, I know that there were cigarettes, Fran. Was there alcohol?”

She just cuts to the bone, doesn’t she?

“I don’t know,” I blurt out this lie.

“But you were there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I know who posted the picture.”

I want to ask her who? “I didn’t,” I reply stupidly. She just told me she knew.

“Fran, do you realize the seriousness of this?”

Oh, yeah. “Yes, ma’am.” But I didn’t do anything!

I look her straight in the eye, “I don’t smoke or drink.”

“Have you heard of the old saying ‘guilt by association’?”

“No,” I say almost in a whisper. Where is she going with this?

She sits back into her chair, never taking her eyes off mine. “You’re judged by the company you keep. If you are with others who are doing illegal activity, then you are guilty by association. I’ve talked with the others, Brian, Justin, Collin and Timothy; they thought it was just a joke. It is not. This is a serious offense. This state has anti-bullying laws, and that makes posting pictures and rumors on the web illegal. They will be doing in-school community service hours for their part in this.” She pauses, placing her hands palm down on her desk. “I want you to consider who your friends really are, Fran. Do you think you can just delete that picture on Facebook and have it go away?”

Well, yeah, I really did. “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Aster.”

“Fran, that picture is on there forever. It could crop up on your employer’s computer screen ten years from now!”

“I don’t even know who took that picture, Mrs. Aster! I wasn’t smoking!” My whole body is quaking, and I’m not sure if I’m really scared or really mad.

“I believe you. Just think about what I said to you. I’ve talked with the others about the Golden Rule and bullying behavior.” She rises out of her chair and leans across the desk. “This will not be tolerated at my school!”

My mouth drops open at her vehement outcry. All I can do is nod my head in agreement.

“Send Annie in here on your way back to class.”

My wobbly knees manage to get me out of there, but barely. I whisper to Annie, why I’m not sure, but it seems like I should be kind of quiet about it, “Annie, she wants to see you.”

Annie reminds me of a contrite Porthos with her big, round, brown eyes. She twists her hair furiously and also is a little shaky on her legs as she goes into the black hole. But if I know Annie, and I do, she’ll come out of this looking like a martyred saint.

I didn’t want to ask Mrs. Aster, but I wonder if my parents know about this meeting. I’ll probably have to sit down and discuss this with both Mom and Dad. I wonder if I could get the flu between now and dinnertime.

Lucky for me, I slipped into second period without fanfare. I avoided Dusty, Dean and Annie at lunch by going to the library to do my homework. The rest of the day is a blur until after I have walked the dogs and know that I must face my parents.

My Dad is reading the newspaper and my Mom is paying bills on the computer when I come home. Annie has left five text messages for me, but I don’t answer. Dusty called and left a message to call her back, but I don’t. What I do is email Dean that Mrs. W would like him to mow her lawn weekly. Contact her if you are interested.

I stay in my room and read until my Mom calls me for dinner.

“How’d it go today?” My Dad runs his hand over my head, just like petting a dog.

My Mom gives me a significant look, which I interpret as she knows about the meeting with Mrs. Aster.

I look from one to the other and shrug. “I’ve had better days. For sure.”

“You had a talk with Mrs. Aster, did you?” asks my Mother, so sweetly.

“Yeah, and she even managed to get the Golden Rule into the conversation about, you know, Facebook.”

For some reason it made me feel good to see my Mom smile at that.

No more was said about Facebook. My Dad and I had a nice chat about world events and history. We try to find threads from the past to the present in politics and world events. We were so involved in our discussion, that it was past my bedtime. I was even too tired to cop a chapter or two before falling asleep.

For two days I avoided talking with anyone, even Marcy didn’t have an opportunity to catch me off guard with a snide remark. I didn’t see Dean on his paper route, either, so I guess I was being avoided, too.

Dusty cornered me Friday in the library.

“Fran, we have got to talk,” she blocked my exit, putting her backpack down on the table between us.
“You can do the presentation, I’ll just be the background,” I said with wave of my hand, like I really don’t care about any of this!

“Oh, Fran, don’t be like that!” she pleaded. “We need to talk about Dean.”

Oh, please, do I want to hear about your date with Dean? Are you going to tell me all the details, like how he kisses?

“What’s to talk about?” I cross my arms and glare at her.

She sighs and sits back hard against the back of the chair. “He thinks you’re mad at him about the other day. You know,” she hastens to add when I roll my eyes, “he likes you. He thinks you think there’s something wrong with him. You need to talk to him.”

I lean in close and whisper, “Yeah, he likes me so much he takes you to a movie. Hmmm.”

“Get over it, Fran! Dean and I have been friends for a long time. I’m someone he can talk to.”

Suddenly, all the anger deflates and all the bad stuff from that day sickens me. I look directly at Dusty and realize that I want to be mad at her so that I don’t have to think about what I didn’t do, what I did do.

“I don’t know, I just don’t understand.”

“His mother,” Dusty hesitates, looks around, then leans closer to me and says softly, “is in rehab. She’s done some horrible things to Dean when she was drunk. His Dad kicked her out and won’t let her even call Dean.”

“He told you all this?” I blurt. “Just spilled his guts to you?”

“I’ve known him for a lot longer than you have, Fran.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Walk up to him and say…what?”

There is a puddle of silence between us. Dusty throws the first stony word in. “The truth? How you feel?”

I pick at a hangnail. “How easy it is in Dusty’s world.”

“All right, then come over to my house and I’ll leave you and Dean alone to talk things out.” She popped up and grabbed her backpack as the bell rang. “This afternoon?”

Oh not today, dear. I have other plans with my real friends. But when I look at Dusty, look into her eyes, I see she’s sincere. Maybe she is right.

“All right.”

The hours dragged, the hours flew by, all the while I rehearsed what I should say to Dean. By the end of the hour of walking the dogs, I had thought out a little speech.

Dusty let me in front door and waved me to the tv room where Dean sat on the couch playing a computer game on Dusty’s Mac. He looked up and with that half-smile simply said, “Hey.”

I stood about mile away from him. “Hey.” I amazed myself by actually going over to the couch and sitting next to him.

He closed the game and shut the lid on the computer. Still we said nothing.

“Did you get my email about Mrs. Wessenfeld wanting you to mow her lawn?”

“Yeah.” He looked at me. “Very businesslike, your email.”

“Well, it was about business.”

We sat there. Silently. All those great words I have thought of saying didn’t get out of my mouth. I turned to look at him. He looked at me.

“I miss you on my walks. The Three Musketeers miss you, too.”

“I g-g-got a new route. Longer. I leave earlier and come back later.”

“Oh.”

I’m done, this isn’t going to work out. Stupid, Dusty, stupid!

“Fran,” Dean leans close enough I can smell him, “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Why are you sorry? I’m the one that did nothing!!”

He touches my hand, ever so softly, too briefly. “You stood beside me. You can’t fight my battles for me, but you were there beside me.”

“I was scared. Not just for you. For me, too.”

“Yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “You and me both.”

“So, we’re friends again?” I mean, how can I ask him if he’ll ever kiss me again?

He slips his arm around my shoulder and hugs me tight, without saying anything for a few minutes.

“I have to go.”

“Me, too.”

“Bye, Dusty! We’re leaving!”

She comes to the door as Dean and I walk side by side towards my house. Dean and I walk without touching but I feel we are closer than ever. He stops at the steps leading to the front door of my house and leans over to peck my cheek. I blush.

He laughs and turns to walk home, singing to himself. Funny, I thought, he doesn’t stutter when he sings.

And for this moment, my world is perfect.

I have a routine with the dogs now that Mrs. W is spending her days at the hospital with Mr. W. I no longer take piano lessons, so I have an hour in the afternoon during the week to walk the dogs after school, but on the weekends, I take them in the mornings. On Saturday morning, I unlock the door, step aside as the Three Musketeers bolt out, Porthos running in circles, and the two others trotting around the yard sniffing and checking out the inventory. I have something for Mrs. W’s dinner made by my Mom that I put into the refrigerator. I find a note from Mrs. W with a smiley face at the end of the last sentence thanking me for the two sci-fi anthologies I’ve left for her to take to Mr. W.

I grab the leashes and round up the Jedi-wannabes. “You guys can be so tiresome!” I scold, but when they lick me, nuzzle me and do their little yip-yip-yip, I have to smile at them. Even Porthos, the little miscreant, is mellow today.

The one thing I notice is the yard. The grass is overgrown and the edges of the lawn are scraggly. I bet Mr. W., probably even Mrs. W, doesn’t like that. Maybe, I think about this for a minute, I could get my Dad to mow the lawn. I know he would.

My three charges are trotting along today like well-mannered dogs, which is not like them. It occurs to me maybe they are missing Mr. W., too.

Dean is beside me and I haven’t even a clue where he came from!

“Hey!”

“Hey!”

Oh, we are really conversant, aren’t we?

“I’m going to ask my Dad if he’ll cut,” I gesture behind me, “the Wessenfeld’s lawn. It shouldn’t take too long, huh?”

I bounce along ahead of Dean, being towed by the three turbo-charged dogs.

Dean pedals ahead, pointing at the park. In one great surge, we all converge at the entrance. I do an obligatory lap, while Dean parks his bike. We go through the same old routine of yip-yip-pat-pat, scratch-scratch, ahhh, and Three Musketeers settle down. Dean looks me straight in the eyes and says, “We could do the lawn.”

We? “Huh?” Sometimes I amaze myself how bright I am.

“Yeah, Fran. You…and m-me. We could mow, edge. All of it.”

Me? I’d like to point out that I’m somewhat challenged, but when I look at Dean, he’s got this funny little half-smile, all I can say is, “Yeah, okay.”

I look at the dogs, so contented as we both pet them and think, oh, geez, cleaning up after them will be so romantic.

Dean is staring at me full bore, making me a little uncomfortable. “Fra—an, I like you without makeup.”

I don’t say anything, just scrunch my face at him as I yank at the leashes to get the dogs up and going back along our route.

Well, Fran, I think, you’ve gotten yourself into a fine mess. What will Dean think about you when he sees that you haven’t a clue about how to run a lawn mower? Oh, and an edger, now that will be a good one!

Dean disappears. I look around but he is nowhere in sight as I unlatch the gate, carefully re-latch it, and let the dogs off leash. I refill water dishes at the outside faucet, then let myself into the house, and into the garage to scoop dry dog food into the plastic bucket to distribute into the dog dishes.

Suddenly, Dean is at the gate. Dean and a lawn mower. Dean with a lawn mower and an edger. Oh, boy this is gonna be good.

“Fr-ran! Get the dogs!”

“Hey! Come and get it!” Porthos, Aramis and Athos come running for the food, giving Dean his break. He scoots through the gate pushing the lawn mower with one hand and holding aloft the edger with his other hand.

I point at the outside electrical outlet as he plugs the long, orange cord into the edger and hands it to me.

“I’ll mow, you edge.”

I stand there holding the handle, wagging it back and forth, until he notices. “Never used one before.”

Without a word, he shows me how to turn it on and takes it to make a swift, clean line along edge of the lawn. I am dogging his footsteps until he turns and hands the buzzing thing to me, waving at the remaining edge. The edger vibrates and I think I might drop it, and it digs out a hole before I get a grip and get it to do what I want. Dean revs the lawn mower into high gear and makes neat, parallel lines across the green grass.

The Three Musketeers stay on the porch watching us. Their little heads turn right, left, right, left, as Dean and I go about our business. We break long enough collect all our gear, including the dogs, to go to the back yard and begin the whole process again. I’m pretty good at this, I’ve only left behind four divots in the grass. Dean is seriously busy with mowing and emptying the bag into the compost bin. When he is through with the mowing, he asks me if there is a broom he can use, and we search the garage until we find one obviously used for the outdoors, not the inside. Even I know that much.

I’m sweaty, but so is Dean. I wonder, though, do I smell like freshly mown grass, or just gross?

“Tha-that didn’t take as long as I thought,” Dean smacks the grass bag smartly spewing grass clippings into the compost bin. “Looks good.”

I nod and shrug. “Think anyone’ll notice the little potholes?”

He does his little half-smile and hooks the bag onto the mower.

“No.”

He unplugs the orange cord and winds it around his forearm in a figure eight, until he is nose to nose with me still holding the edger. He just smiles and rubs noses. The dogs come alive and start barking, and dancing around us. Some much for another kiss.

I distract the three dogs as Dean wheels the mower out the gate. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on you guys. Be good!” I command them, latching the gate. As I turn around, I see Brian, Justin, and Collin across the street.

Dean sees them, too. I take two steps to be beside Dean.

“Hey! Look!” Brian stops mid-block and points at us. “Fanny and her Fag!”

I am frozen, I can’t speak or move. I do nothing. Nothing.

Dean straightens up, staring Brian down. No one makes a move.

“Hey, fag! Where’s your mother?” Brian shouts, then laughs like a hyena.

I can’t feel or think anything.

Then I look at them, over there, and see Justin. I want to put my hand on Dean’s arm, reach out, but I do nothing. Except stare at Justin. Then I take one, little, step away from Dean.

An eternity goes by. The sun shines still, the earth does not open up and swallow me. Dean slowly pushes the mower in a straight line down the driveway, makes a left turn and heads home.

Brian high fives Collin and their jeering laughter fills the air. Then, like it didn’t happen, I am alone. I look right over my shoulder and Dean is plodding down the sidewalk; I look left and the badgers are swaggering up the street. I suddenly hear the dogs barking, lunging against the fence, fierce voices echoing their judgment.

“Stop it!” I shout, but really not at them.

My feet feel like lead as I go home. God, I cry out, thoughts so jumbled I can’t get it straight, where are You?

I try reading for a while, but my thoughts are on Dean. Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I do something? And worst of all, I don’t know why I stepped away from Dean when I wanted so badly to grab him and hold onto to him.

My Mom pops her head into the door way. “Fran, would you like to go to the library for a half an hour?”

“No.” Leave me alone.

“Is anything wrong, honey?”

“No.” Nothing is right. Go away.

My celly rings, making me jump. I pick up, hoping it’s Dean. It isn’t. But it’s Dusty.

“Hi! Can you work on the project this afternoon?”

“Yeah, great! Let me ask my Mom. Call you right back.”

“Mom!” I’ve startled her into looking up from doing the crossword puzzle in the Saturday newspaper. “Can I go to Dusty’s house to work on our class project?”

“Be home by five.” She continues filling in the blanks as I call Dusty.

“Be there in fifteen.”

A beep tells me I have a text and it is from Annie.

“mt me @ nordys 1pm”

I am confused. I text her, “restrictions?”

“prts gone tday”

Oh, Annie, I wish you wouldn’t, is what I want to say. But instead, I text her, “cant. class prj”
“ok ttfn”

I have to look that up on my computer to find out she has said “ta-ta for now”.

I gather my laptop, backpack and head out the door. I am relieved beyond reason to be going over Dusty’s house for the afternoon. I get another text message from Annie just as I am about to ring the doorbell.

“justin here wnts to know whre ur”

Dusty answers the door before I can reply, so I don’t.

“C’mon in. We can sit in the TV room and work.”

She is taller than I am and is so much more graceful when she walks, as if she belongs on this earth. I feel like I’m always supposed to be somewhere else or someone else. I envy her confidence.

“Fran, that was such a great idea! No one else is going to do this travel brochure of ancient Rome. Gads, look at all the research you’ve done!”

She sorts and I gather the snippets into the Pages app on her Mac laptop. It looks good, but lacks something indefinable.

Dusty scowls at the computer screen. “My Mom is an artist. I’ll ask her what she thinks.”

“Mom!” Dusty bawls out over her shoulder. “Can you come see?”

Mrs. Conner is taller than my mother, and prettier. She glides when she walks, just like Dusty. Her long hair is piled in a messy twist on top of her head, but it looks good on her.

“Hmm.” She studies the outlay for a minute, then taps the screen. “Put headlines here and here. Maybe magenta?”

Dusty’s fingers fly over the keyboard making the changes. “Yes! That’s it!”

And it is. It is really good. We both sit back and laugh, giving each other a high five.

“Let’s have some snacks.”

We forage for crackers in the pantry and cheese in the fridge. “Want Coke™, Snapple™ or cranberry juice?”

I take the bottle of juice. We sit outside on the back deck and munch and talk. I am surprised to find out that she and I have lots in common. She likes sci-fi, ELO Nightrider and Queen Bohemian Rhapsody.

“Beatles, too.” Dusty flings crumbs over the rail.

I shake my head. “Way over done. Ya know, they’re too hyped.”

Dusty waggles an eyebrow. “Well, we agree we don’t like the Jonas Brothers.”

“Yeah, we agree.”

“Fran, you want to watch a video?”

We discard ‘Ever After’, one of my faves. “I own this one, too! Like a million and one viewings!”
Dusty tosses aside ‘Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood’ and we both say at the same time, “Too mother-y!”

“This is the one,” she plunks in ‘Save the Last Dance’ and we sit through it, not acknowledging our little tears during the poignant scenes.

“Ah, that was good,” Dusty hits the rewind button.

“Yeah, it was.” I gather up my stuff. “I’m going to walk the Wessenfeld’s dogs. My job and I actually get paid for it!”

“That’s cool. I’ll see you later.”

It had been such a wonderful afternoon that I almost forgot about this morning. I looked for Dean on the walk with the Three Musketeers, but I didn’t see him on our route.

Mrs. W was standing on the porch when I got back with the dogs. They are so much better behaved around her, trotting up to her and all three just sit, stare up at her and wag their tails until she addresses each one by name and gives them a treat.

“How’s Mr. Wessenfeld?” I ask as I put up the leashes and begin refilling water dishes.

“George will be fine, Dusty.” She swept her arm, indicating the lawn. “Did you have anything to do with this yard?”

I smile. “Dean did most of the hard work. I just put the divots in, for artistic effect.”

“I’d like to pay you both for this. It was so thoughtful!”

I shake my head, hard, though it occurs to me I’d have an excuse to go see Dean. “No, we wanted to do it.”

“Well, I’d like to make arrangements to have it done weekly. Do you think Dean would do that?”

Perfect! “I’ll ask him and let you know. Bye!” I wave as I leave. All the way home, I think how perfect this is, a way to get back together with Dean. Tomorrow, I’ll go see him. I envision myself walking up to the door, a few awkward moments, but then this offer, this way of letting him know I’m sorry and yet we could get back to being like we were.

Perfect ending for a movie. But not in real life.

The two big dogs, Aramis and Athos, sit patiently with their tandem leashes clipped on, panting and all but rolling their eyes as Porthos runs in circles until I snatch his halter and leash him, too. We’re off and running as Mr. W comes to the front door. I wave but have no time or breath to say anything more than, “See ya!”

At the end of the block, as I turn the corner, I can see Dean pedaling along, tossing newspapers. He’s wearing a navy and black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark blue jeans.

I pull hard at the leashes, making the dogs slow down, somewhat. I take a deep breath, smile, as Dean rolls along side of us.

“Fr..Fran!” he blurts out. I just smile at him and wait as the dogs check out some scented bush. “You, um, got your hair cut.”

“Yeah,” Athos lunges forward and I stumble along behind the dogs as Dean follows. We go another block without saying anything, and all I can think about is how to have a conversation with Dean.

There is a park up ahead and all of us sail through the entrance. I trot a lap around the joggers’ path as Dean parks his bike next to a tree. Porthos veers sharply, right to Dean, with Aramis and Athos, yipping and scrambling to get at him. Amid all the chaos, Dean roughs ears, pats heads and scratches dogs’ bellies. After a few minutes of this, the leashes are tangled and the dogs are one lumpy mess. Dean looks at me, I look at him. For a moment, the dogs are quiet.

Dean leans over and kisses me on the lips. Softly. I take a deep breath and smell him, clean, like shampoo, and a faint sweaty odor that isn’t unpleasant at all. My lips tingle. I want to reach over and touch his cheek, but of course, I can’t, I have three leashes in my hands.

The dogs and leashes are tangled up into one big, squirming mess. Dean picks up Porthos and weaves him under and over and through the leashes, until we have them all straightened out.

“Thanks.” I’m not sure if I mean for the help or the kiss. I can still feel the impression of his lips on mine, and I smile, looking into his eyes. The dogs bolt, and I manage to stay on my feet behind them. Dean catches up to us on his bike and we zip along until we reach the hedges at the intersection when the dogs must read and post messages.

Breathless, I just shrug at Dean when the dogs take off again. Dean waves at me as I turn into the Wessenfeld’s driveway.

“Bye!” I can’t wave but toss my head, in what I hope is a sexy way.

Fortunately, my head did not fly off my shoulders and I remember to latch the gate before letting the dogs off their leashes. Porthos, of course, runs amok, but Aramis, the ever-lasting optimist, who always checks the dog dish for food, stops abruptly and cocks his head to one side. Athos has also perked his ears and stares at the front door.

I expect Mr. W to open it and come out, but he doesn’t, and there is a strange silence about the house. I refill the water dishes and hang the leashes on the nails on the fence. I guess Mr. and Mrs. W went somewhere, and there’s nothing wrong with that, except, like the dogs, I feel something isn’t right. I mean, it’s unusual, but I don’t have time to think about it as I hurry home. I want to have a few minutes to myself to think about Dean.

“I’m back!” I scoot through the door, hoping to make it to my room without being trapped into a chore by my mother.

“Sweetheart, come here!” Granny’s voice comes from the kitchen. “I have something special for you!”

Oh, Grandma. Shoot. It’ll be a forever chit chat about my new hairdo, make-up and what’s happening in my life. As if I could tell her.

“Hey! Granny! Whatsup?” I give my little grandmother a big bear hug.

She pulls away and with a dramatic gesture that would get her an Oscar, she flings her arms wide and then slaps her hands on her cheeks. “My goodness! Aren’t you a hot item!”

I spin full circle, strike a pose and fluff my hair. “Ya like the look?”

“Yes, I do indeed! Except,” she pouts, “you don’t look like a little girl any more. Promise me, you’ll always be Granny’s girl?”

“Oh, yeah, Gran, I’ll always be your favorite.” We laugh at this, our little secret joke; Gran is absolutely fair about gifts and everything among all of us cousins, but when I was very young, four or five, I made her tell me I was her favorite. Of course, she probably said that to all of us at one time or another.

“What did your Mother say about your hair,” and with a wink, like it wasn’t obvious, “your make-up?”

“Oh, she likes it, and I can’t wear make-up to school. Annie got highlights—-dark hair with super light streaks—looks good on her, but I don’t know what she’ll do about school.”

Granny has made me chocolate chip cookies. I take two, then reconsider and put one back. Granny looks at me funny.

“Um, del-ic-ous, Gran. Where’s Mom?”

Granny suddenly gets all serious. “She took Mrs. Wessenfeld to the hospital. George had another heart attack and had to go to the hospital in an ambulance.”

The sugary aftertaste of the cookie went sour in my mouth and my stomach clinched. Please, God, I prayed, let him be okay.

Granny comes beside me and gives me a hug. “Don’t you worry about it, Fran. I have a feeling that Mr. Wessenfeld will be all right.”

Granny can make me feel that it is all right just by the way she says it’s so. “I hope so, Gram, really I do.”

The phone rings and Granny lets me go as she answers it. I’m pretty sure it’s my mother and by Gram’s smile, I think maybe it’s good news, after all.

She hangs up and turns to me. “Mr. Wessenfeld will be in the hospital for a while, but he’s going to be all right. Your mother will be home in a little bit.”

“Oh, great! Gram, I have a few things to do on the computer.” I snatch a cookie on my way to my room.

In my room, I dial Annie on my new celly. “Annie, hi! I’ve got so much to tell you!”

“Fran, tell me about Justin! Isn’t he so cute!”

“Annie, I am talking to you on my new celly!”

She squeals with delight. “Oh, this is the best day of our lives! Fran, you text me!”

Before I can reply, the line is dead, and the phone beeps that I have a text message. The number ‘9’ pops up. I search on line for a list of text message shorthand and find that ‘9’ means ‘parent is watching’.

I go on line to my Facebook (and on Annie’s site) there is a picture posted of me holding a smoking can, and in the background is the bratty bunch laughing, with the porker sneering at me. My whole body chills. Great, just great! Now I’ll have to figure out how to delete it.

The garage door whirrs, my Mom is home. I quickly close the window and go out to the kitchen where she is talking with Gram.

Mom turns to me. “I’m going to make a casserole tonight, Fran. I want you to take some over to the Wessenfeld’s house. I’ve got a key so that you can take care of feeding the dogs and letting them inside for the night.”

I want to stop the world from spinning for just a few minutes and catch my breath, think about things, think about Dean, not think about the bad things. I don’t think it would be in my best interest to tell my mother about the Facebook, so I just nod.

“Can I help with anything?”

Both Mom and Gram give me a look that says, Surprise!’

Really, does she have to act like I never do anything nice? And Gram. Can she, like, be on my side?

“Yes, please, put away the dishes and set the table. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

Gram has already emptied the dishwasher and she pulls knives, forks and spoons from a drawer and hands them to me. “Here, Fran, you do that and I’ll put the glasses on.”

When we are done, Gram goes into the kitchen, pours a freshly brewed cup of coffee and sits at the island to chat with Mom. I slip away to my room and sit at my desk, cupping my chin in my hands, inhaling the memory of Dean’s kiss. It’s like his lips left the kiss on my lips and if I press my lips just slightly, I can feel the kiss again. And the warmth of his skin on mine. And his smell, the Dean-ness of him.

My phone beeps, and Annie has texted me. “Hve u seen?”

Slow, tip, tap, I’m not as fast as Annie. “yes”

“Cd9” Parents.

I am left wondering what is happening with Annie, and her parents. Do they know about the day at the park? How much do they know? About the cigarettes and the booze?

My mother is looming in the doorway, obviously not happy. “Fran, we need to talk.”

Annie’s last text message appears. “zomg, im so busted!”

So am I.

“Is Mr. Wessenfeld going to be okay?” I ask, trying to sound casual, yet concerned, hopefully deflecting her for a minute so I can think.

“Yes, he will have to have surgery and have a pacemaker put in. But I am not here to talk about Mr. Wessenfeld. I am here to talk about you. And Annie. And a matter of lying.”

She walks into my room and sits down on my bed, facing me. “Tell me what went on today. Tell me the truth.”

My stomach cramps and I can’t breathe. My Mom can stare holes through concrete and my head begins to ache. “We went to the Tukwila Park and met up with a few friends from school.” I want to add they are not my friends, but then, why would I?

“Annie’s mother called me. I saw the picture,” my Mom lets her little tidbit dangle in the air.

“Well, I didn’t exactly want to be there. I went with Annie to meet up with Marcy.”

“And the boys?”

“Yeah, they were there, too.”

“And the cigarettes?” My Mom leans closer to me. “Look at me, Fran, and tell me why you lied to me about Annie going to the movies.”

Come on! I want to scream. Just what was I supposed to tell her? Ah, by the way, Annie is smokin’ hot and has this thing for Timothy and wants to spend all her time with them.

I pick at a nub on my jeans, working it back and forth. My Mom takes my arm, holding it gently, but looks intently at the bruise. “Who did this?”

I brush her away. Like I’m going to say, ‘Brian the porker’. “No one. I smacked it on the trash can when I threw away the Coke™ can.” I’m knee deep in the muddy half-truths and sinking.

I can at least look her straight in the eye and say, “I wasn’t smoking, Mom. Honest.”

After a pause, a significant pause, she says, “I believe you.” Another pause. “I want you think about this: what kind of friend would ask you to lie for her?”

I shoot her a mean look. Annie and I are friends. Friends don’t betray each other.

“Who posted the picture on the web, Fran?”

I shrug. “Dunno.” I don’t know, but I think Marcy or even Justin might have. Could have been anyone else but me or porker.

“Fran, listen to me. I can understand how you might have gotten into a situation that you didn’t know how to handle, but lying about it, and omitting facts is lying, too. I’m your mother, I love you and I will protect you. Even if you hate me for it.”

I wonder if she’s going to take away my celly and computer. Which is so unfair! I didn’t do anything wrong, really!

“You can’t hang out with Annie anymore.”

“Mom! Annie’s my best friend!”

“Annie can come over here, you’ll see her at school, but you will not be allowed to go to the mall or movies or any unsupervised activity with her.” She stands up but doesn’t go away.

“You’re not a child, but a young woman and you will have to make some hard choices, about friends, boys, booze, alcohol and drugs. Now that you have a cell phone, you can call me if you ever find yourself some place, somewhere, you shouldn’t be. I promise I will come and get you, no questions asked.” She adds with a little twisted smile, “You might want to think about how it would feel to call me from the police station, though.”

She sweeps her hands across my forehead and kisses me. “I trust you, Fran.” She starts to leave, pivots at the doorway. “You’ll find true friends are the ones who stand by you, but stand up for the truth and what is right. Don’t confuse loyalty with friendship, Fran. They are not the same thing.”

Aesop-mother. Always the moralist.

I should feel relieved, I mean I’ve still got my celly, computer and no restriction.

But I’ve lost my best friend. And I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.

I have to practice a solo trumpet piece for my final. I gave up the piano when my teacher retired, and this I have never admitted to my mother, I am glad I had had piano lessons. It has made it a lot easier to read music, and I think, has made it easier for me to master the trumpet. I have to choose between Black Horse and Cherry Tree or Call Me When You’re Sober.

My Dad pokes his head into the door. “Nice, Fran. What’s the tune?”

“Thanks, Dad. It’s getting there. Call Me When You’re Sober.”

“I hope I don’t have to,” he says and ducks out.

I get no text messages or email from Annie and I haven’t sent any to her. I dread Monday morning when I have to face her at school and tell her what my Mom has mandated. And Monday comes a little to soon.

I don’t recognize her at first, even though it has to be her, the brown-haired girl, sans the dark hair with platinum streaks, with Marcy and Sue. She waves me over.

“Your celly is not on, Fran.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I stop and take another breath, “but can I talk to you?”

We walk a ways toward the classroom. “I don’t know exactly how to tell you, but…”

She grabs my arm. “I got busted, good! I can’t do anything for the rest of the term. God, can you believe it? I can’t go to the mall, I can’t go anywhere after school, I mean, like for what? Smoking? My parents are such hypocrites! And look at my hair!” her voice pitches an octave. “My Mom made me dye it!” Annie rolls her eyes. “Oh, like that’ll make a big diff to me and change my ways!”

I want to tell her that maybe it was a warning, that maybe we should consider ourselves lucky we weren’t really busted by the police, but the first bell rang and Annie broke away to join Marcy and Sue. Dusty came down the hall and waved at me.

“I like your hair! Nice!”

“Dusty! Look!” I hold up my celly and laugh. “The real deal.”

She took out hers from her backpack and waggled it. “Yeah, we’re good to go, huh?”

“Hey, Fran! Are you hooked up with anyone for the last class project due next week?” Dusty slid her celly into her cubby as I had just done.

“No, I’m not with any group. You?”

“Want to do a something on ancient Rome?”

Before the class bell sounded, I nodded and whispered, “We could do, like, a travel brochure!”

“Wow! I like it! Yeah!”

So, two problems solved: I didn’t have to tell Annie I couldn’t hang with her after school, possibly losing my best friend, and I had not only a partner for the year-end school project, but it was someone I liked, and Dusty had asked me.

So I sent a little mental thank you to God. I still wanted to tell Annie all about Dean kissing me, but I figured that could wait for another time and another place when everything had gone back to being normal for us. At least, I thought our friendship could get back to being normal. But funny thing about changes, even small ones: nothing ever is what it seems.

As I pull on my blue and white cotton tee shirt over clean denims, my Mom rushes me so we can pick up Annie on time for our hair appointments. I plop down in the car seat, finish tying the lace of my red Skecher before snapping the seat belt into place. I am not fond of mornings and less fond of chit-chat. Annie, however, is ever effervescent, sliding in the front seat with a big smile and greetings. She is in a short, black skirt with a black-and-white-striped, loose-fitting, tee that falls off one shoulder that shows a black bra strap.

“This is so going to be our day!” she gushes, texting at the same time. “I’ll take our pics and send them to you…oh,” she makes a funny sucking sound on her lip. “I no can do, you have no celly.” She gives me a sly smile continues, “I’ll email them to you, Fran.”

Sometimes I think Annie would be a great social worker; she’s always trying to fix people and situations. But I must admit I’m glad that she champions my cause for a celly. Maybe a little of my peer pressure on my Mom will be what it takes to make it happen for me.

My Mom pulls into a parking spot and waves us out the car. “Have fun, you two! I’ll be back at the mall by one. In fact,” she checks her watch, “I’ll have a latte and sit outside of Nordstrom. That will give you enough time after your new hairdos to browse. You can meet me at two-forty-five. ”

Annie, with her celly on a strap around her wrist bobbing and twisting as she runs, leans in the driver’s side. “Thanks, Mrs. R. We might take the bus back if that’s all right?”

I can tell my Mom is taken aback; she knows as I do that Annie hates taking the city bus anywhere. During Christmas break, my Mom and I will take the bus from a nearby Park and Ride downtown to shop, have lunch and admire the festive lights on the trees down Fifth Avenue, and the hustle-bustle of Westlake Center. Like every time I’ve asked her, Annie didn’t want to go with us, giving me a lame excuse about coming down with a cold, when I know she just didn’t want to spend any time on the Metro.

I tug at Annie’s arm as my Mom speeds away. “Hey! What was that all about? Us taking the bus?”

She in turn, grabs my hand and tows me along at a good pace into the shop. “My little surprise!” She drops my hand once we are the front desk and waves to a nice-looking young man. “Hi! Emilio!”

He claps his hands together. “Ah, Ann! How are you? And your friend, is, Frances?”

Annie bobbles her head. “Yes, yes! Can we use the computer program? I want to show Frances the perfect hair style for her!”

Emilio has the receptionist show us to the corner room. Annie sits primly in a chair before a computer scrolling several ads for beauty products. “Fran! Fran! Look at this one—or this one—or how about this one?”

I’m thumbing through the Hair Palace brochure and gasp at the prices. “Annie! Just a haircut alone is $65.00!”

“You’ll think it’s worth it when you see your new self!”

I have a hundred and twenty dollars with me, but I did not figure on spending that much on my hair when I can get it cut at Clip and Go for fifteen.

She taps the screen. “This is it. This is the one for you.”

If only I resembled the model might it work for me. “No. It would take me all morning just to figure out how to style a cut like that. It’s too fussy.”

Annie squints and tightens her lips. “Fran, honestly!”

But before she can launch into a tirade, her celly sings. She turns her full attention to the incoming call and I take her place before the computer. On the sixth page, I stop and do a second glance at a bobbed hair cut. I think this one might work for me.

“Marcy!” Annie whispers, like there are a thousand interested people around us. “She and Steve are meeting us later.”

Oh, the reason we are taking the bus. I am sure Annie purposely left out a few details to my Mom, which makes me a little uncomfortable.

We’re beckoned into the salon where we are caped and herded to our chairs. Annie chats animatedly with Emilio about the highlights she thinks will go with her new color and cut; I hear them settle on platinum blonde highlights on dark brown. Well, I hope Annie has it figured out, because she could get suspended even though there is just one last month left of school term.

“Frances!” she croons, like we speak to one another in such syrupy tones, “have some highlights, too!”

She cracks me up, like she’s serving me tea and crumpets at the Four Seasons. I crane my neck just a bit as not to disturb Anatasia’s vigorous fluffing of my hair. “No, thank you, Anne. I’m quite satisfied at the moment!”

“Ohh, but Frances,” Anatasia cajoles, “a little here and there of two or three shades lighter than your own hair color would be subtle but-oh!-so pretty!” She points to the number seven color swatch. “It is the special of the day—twenty-five dollars.”

Annie sashays by me, snapping her cape. “Do it!”

I smile as I look Anatasia in the eye. “Subtle.” I gesture to Annie. “Let me use your celly to call my Mom.”

Annie hands it over with a roll of her eyes. “You can make some decisions for yourself, Frances.”

I think I might bop her with her own phone, but I’ve really got better manners than that.

“Mom? Hi! Calling you on Annie’s celly.” I pause, to emphasize my point. “Would it be all right if I got some subtle highlights in my hair?” I am hoping she will go off on this and then I am off the hook. But no.

“Oh, thanks, Mom.”

Well, I guess I’m just on the hook today. It’s like my Mom has adopted Annie’s agenda.

I point out the picture of the model haircut that I want to Anatasia. Annie takes a minute from her monologue with Emilio to peer at it. “Oh, Fran, how frumpy!”

Anatasia flicks Annie back to Emilio, giving me her full attention. “I will make this very becoming on you.”

I had a moment of alarm seeing long tendrils plopping onto the floor, but then I felt excited at the thought of a new do. After two magazines and an agonizing long time being foiled and washed and rinsed and towel dried, hair-producted, then blown away by the hair dryer, I emerged with a different version of the cut than pictured. My bob was severely layered short in the back, with longer tapering sides. The golden highlights made my brown hair tawny.

“Oh,” is all I could muster. I didn’t know who that person staring at me was, I looked so totally different than I had been. Perhaps, I thought fleetingly, that is a good thing.

“Oh! Wow!” Annie clearly was stunned! “Fran, you look terrific!” She clicks several pictures on her phone, carefully saving each one, then hands the celly to me.

“You do, too, thanks.” She did, too; the brassy contrast of multi white-whites on dark-almost-black brown suited her; the shaggy long hair with bangs made her look eighteen, which I think she really liked. “I just hope you don’t get into trouble at school.” I take two pictures of her.

“Frances,” she sighed dramatically, “you worry too much.” She snaps the clasp smartly on her white Stella Ann hobo bag.

I unzip my wallet purse and pull out the folded money. I feel it was worth the hundred dollars as I smooth out four twenties and four fives for the cut, color and tip.

“C’mon, let’s hurry! I have a surprise for you!” She hustles across the street on the walk light towards Nordstrom.

I catch up to her; she so reminds me of Porthos sometimes. “Annie! What kind of surprise?”

“We are going to have our make-up done.” As we enter Nordstrom she points at one chair by the counter, then goes for the other one next to it.

“No!” I skid short of the chair. “I’m not having make-up ‘done’, Annie! Not interested.” I blush when I turn face to face with the saleswoman. “Oh, ‘cuse me. It’s just my Mom would have a fit.”

The saleslady scrutinizes my face. “Hmm, maybe just a little mascara? And a touch of eye shadow.” She smoothes my eyebrows. “A quick pluck here, a pluck there, is all you need.”

Annie is ensconced with her advisor, her back pointedly turned to me. I scoot my butt into the chair and let the woman go to work. I’m not real impressed with the stinging when the woman rips out my eyebrows, but the heated eyelash curler is luxurious. When I glance into the mirror, I am stunned to see myself so different, so not-me.

Annie signs a credit card slip and I just now realize that she has her own prepaid credit card.

“C’mon, Foxy Fran,” she guides me out the doors and across the street to Target. “We’re going to get you some tools.”

She zips down one aisle and another, flinging make-up into her little hand carry basket. She stops and peers thoughtfully at the chilled sodas as she pulls open the door and takes out two diet Coca-Colas™. At the check-out, she signs the slip with a little happy face beside her name. She stuffs the plastic bag of cokes, pink cream blush, Velvet Kiss lipstick and blue nail polish into her purse, extracts a vial of mascara and an eyelash curler and hands them to me.

“Annie! I don’t have any money to buy make-up!” I stare at these alien things, wanting and not-wanting them at the same time. And I have a not so good, funny feeling that Annie didn’t pay for the eye lash curler, but I really cannot remember if she did or did not and I decide that I really can’t say anything.

“Pfft! Early b’day!” She shrugs off my thanks as she slides on her sunglasses. “Let’s go.” She’s off again at a good clip, texting all the way.

I cram them into my wallet, slinging the strap over my shoulder, thinking how dumb it looks to have this bulging black thing banging against my hip as I keep a smart pace with Annie.

Annie and I have been friends ever since our mothers met at a gymnastics class for toddlers. We even had a secret language that only the two of us understood and we pretended we were twins separated at birth by an evil doctor. But most of this year, especially after volleyball season, Annie has been hanging out with Marcy, Sue and Ursala. And she has changed. A lot. Her Mom never let her talk on the phone until all her homework was done; now it’s like there is a cell phone umbilical cord attached to her. And the make-up, hair and clothes. Annie has spun into another planet’s orbit.

She rockets around the corner of the store, the opposite direction of the mall and heads up the street a little way, turns the corner again. I notice the sign that points to the Tukwila Pond Park behind Target. I’m confused at first where we are headed as we trot through the parking lot. Then the gravel walkway emerges as we pass through the wooden posts into the park.

Who would have thought a fair size body of water and landscaped area could be hidden behind concrete buildings? The pond sparkles with diamonds of light; a mama duck with her little ducklings floats in vee ripples from the water’s edge.

“Hey! Look at the glam girls!” shouts Timothy as Annie and I approach the group of eighth grade boys. The Boyz! they call themselves. Oh, they are so cool. Not!

Timothy is taller than the others, with thick blond hair, his wavy bangs flowing across his forehead; he looks like a surfer boy in his blue board pants and Quicksilver tee shirt.

Annie is looking at him through her eyelashes, her head cocked and with a tiny smile on her pouting lips. “You like the look?”

“I’ll say!” Timothy drapes his arm around Annie’s shoulders and hugs her tight into his side. “I like it! I like it!”

The other guys are standing off to one side of Timothy. Brian, the porker, in his baggy cargo pants and too-tight Billabong tee shirt which stretches across his bulging stomach, whoops. Collin, short, muscular and already with a shadow of dark facial hair, in his preppie polo and black jeans, high fives. Justin, medium build, brown hair, a mega-watt smile, blue jeans and a plain navy blue tee shirt, joins in as a chorus.

“Yo! Annie!” Brian holds out his soda, “I’ll trade you for a smoke.”

Annie shakes her head, as she brings out a can of cola from her purse. “Brought my own—diet, you know to cut the calories!” She pops the can open and leans away from Timothy to pour out half the contents. “Mix and I’ll match.” She hands over the can to Brian and roots around her purse, extracting a package of Marlboros.™

Brian scoots over to a table partially hidden by grasses and comes back to hand Annie her can of soda for the smokes. He takes one, fumbles for a lighter in his pocket.

Annie reaches for the pack and takes a cigarette out. “Uh, Brian,” she teases, “don’t you know, ladies first?”

Brian, frowns, looks around, flicks the flame to his cigarette. “Where, oh, where are they?” he bellows.

Timothy snatches the lighter away and lights Annie’s cigarette, then his own.

“Fran!” Justin holds out his Big Gulp.™ “Here, have some Coke™.”

“Yeah! Fran,” Brian snickers, “have some refreshment.”

I feel suddenly like I’m on a merry-go-round that’s out of control and I can’t get off. I know I can’t hesitate too long, but I really don’t want to have a drink.

“Oh, try it!” Annie gives me a look like I’m a kid she’s babysitting. “You might like it.”

Justin smiles at me and not unkindly, as I take his cup. The cola is warm and heavy in my mouth, with a faint cough-syrupy taste. I hand the cup back to him. “Thanks, but Annie has a can of diet for me.”

She smacks it into my hand. Brian, Collin, Timothy and Justin wait as I pop the tab and sip it. I salute them. “This’ll do it for me.”

Brian screws up his face and rolls his eyes. “Figures, Fan—ny!”

“Ah, leave her alone,” Justin waves me over. “Let’s walk around the park, Fran. There’s an egret’s nest over there.” He points to the far end of the walkway.

My feet move, but throat has clutched and I can’t think of anything to say as we start to walk away from the group. Just then, from a hidden bench, Marcy and Steve emerge, holding hands. Marcy looks flushed, but smug and happy as Steve pulls her to him for a resounding kiss.

“Ohhh, Fran! You got a new look!” she sings out, adding, “Think it’s really you?”

I don’t know what I think. My brain is on hold, but stomach is aflutter, like I get before a piano recital. Justin is chattering about the birds nesting high in the trees and pulls me to a deck over the water with an explanatory sign about the wildlife.

Every time he leans in close to my face, I take a sip of my soda. He smells like an ashtray. I haven’t said much but ‘uh-huh’, ‘cool’, in between his rambling discourse. I sneak a peek at my watch.

“Justin, I’ve got to go.”

He takes my free hand in his and tugs me closer. “Can I have kiss, Fran?”

I lean over and peck his cheek and slip my hand out of his as I back away. “Bye.”

Don’t run, walk, don’t run, walk, I tell myself. I see Annie at a bench and at first, relieved, I think she is alone until I get closer. Annie has a lip lock on Timothy, and I wait until they dislodge. “Annie, we’ve got to go.”

She glares at me, and her jaw tightens. I add in a reasonable voice, “I have to walk the dogs. You know, my job.”

Timothy’s eyebrows shoot up as he scrutinizes me. I have a feeling of being hooked up to an invisible lie detector machine. “Don’t worry about, Annie. We’ll take the bus.” He squeezes her, making her smile as she snuggles into his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Fran. My Mom knows I’m at the mall with Marcy and Sue and I’ll be home later. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Okay.”

As I tip the Coke™ to my lips, Brian yanks my arm, his grip hurts enough to make me yelp, as he leans close to me, blowing smoke into my face, he pops his cigarette into the can. It sizzles as it sloshes around.

“You’re a jerk, Brian,” I snap as I twist away from him and dump the can in the nearest trash can on my way out.

“Fran! I’ll call you tonight.” Annie calls after me.

“Okay!” I concentrate on the crunching of my footsteps on the gravel path and not look around or respond to Brian bawling out my name.

“Fran! Come back, little sheep, come back!”

It’s two-fifteen. I have plenty of time to meet up with my Mom. I stand in the middle of the sidewalk debating whether to go to Barnes and Noble and do some browsing, but suddenly I am just not interested. As I walk back to the mall, thoughts ping-pong inside my head and I can’t sort out what I feel or what I think about anything. A couple of months ago, my biggest problem was being bullied at school by Marcy and the Three Musketeers on my way to school. Today was a time warp, fast forward a hundred years; I no longer feel like a kid.

Cold air whooshes over me as I pull open the door to the air-conditioned mall. It feels so good as I wait in line to order a strawberry lemonade from Nordstrom eBar, and claim a spot in a sea of black tables and chairs cluttered with moms, kids, strollers and groups of women chatting, and young guys talking and gesturing earnestly and virtually everyone texting. Everyone, except me.

The lemonade goes down cold as I replay the scenes at the park in my mind’s eye. I wonder what my Mom’s reaction would be if I told her about Annie and the gang. Oh, yes, we were just hanging out at the park, sipping an afternoon cocktail. The young men, the gall-ants, lighting our cigarettes. A little kiss, kiss, here, there, you know the routine. Oh, my, such a lovely place to be, on such a lovely day!

“Fran?”

I nearly jump out of my seat at the sound of my mother’s voice and I clutch my lemonade that I almost drop, which makes the lid pop and ice cubes ping on the table and floor. I glare at her.

She’s pinching her lips tight so she won’t laugh. “Can I get you anything to eat? Or more lemonade?”

I’m hungry, I realize as my stomach rumbles. “Bagel. Cream cheese.” I finish my drink with a slurp. “Strawberry lemonade. Please.”

She stares at me a little too long and I wonder if I am going to get a blast of hot air for my new look. But she says nothing until she returns with her latte and my order.

“Where’s Annie?” She hands me a napkin, a plastic knife, and the cream cheese.

“She’s here with Marcy and Sue. Think they went to the movie,” pops out of my mouth. Did I mention how easy it is to lie?

Mom settles back into her chair and eyes me. “I really like your haircut. I almost didn’t recognize you.” She sips her latte. “It could be the make-up.”

I have to remind myself not to rub my eyes. “Uh, yeah, Annie surprised me with a make-over at Nordstrom. You should see her—she looks eighteen! She colored her hair really dark with white, I mean platinum, highlights. I have to admit, though, it looks good on her.”

My Mom sips and ponders. “I wonder how that’ll go over at Saint Mary’s. You may not wear any make-up to school.”

“Oh, I know, I know. I don’t know how Annie’s going to get by with it.” I cram my mouth full of bagel, just in case a little truth should pop out.

My mom taps my wallet. “What’s this bulge all about?”

I swallow a chunk of bagel and choke out, “Ann-ie,” swig of lemonade, “early birthday present. Mascara and eye lash curler.”

I hurry past that. “She took a bunch of pictures of us on her celly. She can upload them onto her computer and send them in an email. I’ll show you when I get them.”

My mom is a little bit too casual, like she’s hiding something from me. Makes me nervous. I remind myself not to blather.

What I had not noticed until she picked up the red and white bag—

“Mom! You got cells?” I shriek and everyone turns around to look at the idiot with the loud mouth.

She slides a little black number to me. It’s a basic Verizon LG. “Cool! Speaker phone and camera!” I feel like doing a happy dance as I hug it to me. “Unlimited minutes?”

She laughs aloud and nods. “You, me and Dad. As the world changes, so must we.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I flip it open, turn it on and start scrolling for the menus. “Just give me a few minutes to set ring tones, wall paper…”

She sighs and slumps in her chair. “Maybe you can help me configure the other two tonight. I’d have to study the booklet for an hour just to get a clue.”

‘Clueless’ I did not utter.

“I think,” she gathers her shopping bags after she dropped her cup into the waste can, “we should head home.”

My celly reads three-twenty-five. “Can you drop me off at the Wessenfelds? I’ll walk, or should I say, be walked by, the dogs.”

We wend our way through what Mom has dubbed the ‘mommy brigade’; women with strollers walking side by side, making everyone stream around them. I catch up to Mom at the car. Mom chats about her day on our way home, not really expecting much of a response from me I’m sure. I just hope that it’s not too late. If I’m lucky, I can get the dogs leashed and on the way in time to rendezvous with Dean.

And, indeed, it turned out to be my lucky day. Or not.

The story of Fran continues in book 2 of my Bully Dogs series of middle-grade novels, YNK (You Never Know). Read on as Fran gets a new look, a first kiss and a revised perspective on her relationships with boys, girlfriends, parents, and dealing with a different kind of bullying.

Yeah, raining in Seattle, on the very day you’d hoped it wouldn’t. I tug my hood tighter, but long strands of hair are plastered across my face. Big, wet drops ping on the sidewalk as I slog the three blocks to Saint Mary’s, the same old route since second grade. Five years.

But it’s funny how your life can change from upside-down one minute, then right-side again. Just last year, it was the bully dogs that chased me almost everyday to school. Those dogs of my neighbor terrorized me. When I confronted Mr. Wessenfeld about his golden retriever, black Lab and cocker spaniel, I ended up with a job walking all ‘Three Musketeers’ after school. Athos, Porthos and Aramis are a handful, for sure, but they mind me, most of the time, and I really do like them. And to be honest, I really like the twenty-five dollars I earn each week.

I gladly would have paid for some sunshine, since it is class pictures today. I get enough grief about how I look from Marcy, always quick with the zinger. She made my life miserable, especially during volleyball season, until I phoned her and asked her if we just couldn’t call a truce and agree to dislike one another. I am so dis-like her! I can’t understand what my friend Annie finds so enthralling about Marcy and her group. When Annie is at school, she is one of ‘them’, and after school she is her other self, the one I’ve known forever.

And there she is, huddled with Marcy, Ursala and Sue, out of the rain beneath the eaves of the gym. Any other morning I would have gone to the front of the rectory and sat on the steps reading until the bell rang. But Annie has been staring at me for the last five minutes and I can hardly ignore her as she waves at me.

“Fran! Come here and see Marcy’s new charm!” Annie is careful not to step away and get wet by a raindrop. It might run her mascara.

“Oh, hi, Fran,” Marcy intones. “Got rain?” She turns her celly with the heart-shaped charm personalized with her name and embedded with a blue Swarovski crystal at my face, then whips it away and starts texting.

“Nice,” is all that I can manage.

Annie, Sue, and Ursala are intent over their cellies, fingers flying over the tiny keyboards at an impressive rate. They’re all texting each other.

“See ya,” I nod at Annie and she looks up briefly to nod back as I go on my way.

I stand before the mirror in the girls’ bathroom and sop my hair with a paper towel. I say a silent prayer to thank God I at least had a hairbrush with me today. Fat lotta good it would do.

Dusty, the new girl in our class who got promoted to sixth grade at mid-term, walks in and leans over the sink to peer in the mirror at herself. “Hmm,” she flips away a few wet strands of her long, auburn, curly hair, misting me. “Oh, sorry!” she turns and faces me. “I didn’t mean to get you wet!”

That strikes me as funny and I burst out laughing. “Please! I wouldn’t want to get any wetter!” I dramatize, flinging my own dull brown locks around, spraying the mirror with droplets.

We both are chuckling as we unzip our backpacks, pulling out our blue uniform sweaters, which are at least dry. “Hah! Great minds think alike!”

Dusty and I are about the same in our reading group, only she’s a lot smarter than I am, especially in math and science, and she’s good at sports. But she never seems to care what others think about her; she’s nice to everyone and everyone is nice to her. I’d like to know how she manages to go along her own way without ever getting stung by gossip. I snap my sweater smartly before pulling it over my head. I glance at Dusty and envy her naturally curly hair already fluffing out nicely. “At least you’ll look good for the pictures.”

“C’mon, Fran, you look fine. That’s the bell!” Dusty swings her backpack onto her shoulder, barely missing me. “Oh, sorry!”

I cram my hairbrush into my backpack. “It’s okay.”

The longest hour is first class. We file in and put away coats and slots our cellies, except me, in a box with our name on it. My empty little cubby hole is between Sue and Tina, an obvious black void.

Annie turns to me before she takes her seat. “Fran,” she whispers, although I’m not sure why she feels it is necessary to whisper, “call me later, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper back, “on your celly?”

She either pretends to ignore the sarcasm or doesn’t get it. “Yes!” She heaves a sigh. “I wish you had your own!”

Well, so do I! I shrug and take my seat, mulling over a strategy to put before my mother to convince her I need a celly, when our teacher, Mrs. Hammershaw comes bustling in the classroom with an armload of books and papers.

Just then, before she says anything, a celly is chiming the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine. Exasperated, she glares at Mike as he darts to the corner to silence his phone, but not before he checks his incoming message.

She smacks down a pile of books onto her desk. “Before we do anything else this morning,” she walks to the front of her desk and leans against it, facing us, “let’s have a discussion about etiquette. Especially,” she looks pointedly at Mike, “cell phones.”

There is a collective groan. Mike’s neck reddens as he stares at a blemish on his desk.

“What I have noticed among my students and especially the eighth graders, is groups of friends will be talking and texting at the same time. It seems to me that this is rude. I’d like to hear some discussion on this.”

It was quiet for the longest minute before Rachel raised her hand. “Mrs. Hammershaw, we don’t consider it rude. It’s just our way of communicating.”

Steve did a cursory wave before he spoke. “No one thinks anything of it, Mrs. H. It’s acceptable to us.”

Heads bob in agreement. Tina speaks when Mrs. Hammershaw nods. “It’s like a good way to keep everyone on the same page, even if one friend goes to another school, then that friend can stay informed.”

There are murmurs of ‘good point’ and ‘yeah!’

“And,” Steve pipes up again, “we’re just a ring away from our parents!”

I don’t think Mrs. Hammershaw is that dumb to think any kid is texting his Mom or Dad constantly. But still, I log that as one I can put on my list to present to my parents.

The discussion continued basically in the same vein. Mrs. H did not say much other than “Hmmm….”, with a raised eyebrow, until it was time to move onto the assignments for the week. Pushing away from the desk, she shook her head, scanning the classroom. “Let’s leave it at this: there is peer etiquette and social etiquette. Be advised that it is not acceptable to tweet, twitter or text when in company other than your peers.” She turned to the board and began writing furiously against the clock that signaled the end of the period.

Marcy, Ursala, Sue, with Annie right behind them, bolted for the bathroom to primp before the picture taking session. Dusty fell into step with me as we walked to the auditorium.

“Well! Wasn’t that enlightening this morning!” She pretended to flip open a celly and text. “Fran, you have mail!”

“Oh, darn it! I can never find the stupid thing when it rings!” I frantically search for my imaginary phone. “Oh, wait, here it is!” I mime opening it. “Oh, how sad! I haven’t a clue how to turn it on.”

Dusty bursts out laughing as she takes her place in front of the line, being a “C” for Conner, behind Mike Connelly, and I go behind Tanya Redmond, like I have for the last five years. Being ‘Reed’, I’ll never move to the front, but I’m not at the back; sometimes I wonder if my personality has been determined by something as immutable as my last name.

Of course, the first take I had my eyes shut. The photographer heaved a sigh and with a forced smile, prodded me. “Just relax, uh,” he looked at his clipboard, “Fran, and smile easy. Look at me!”

I thought fleetingly of mimicking his cheesy grin, but decided it would be fodder for the cannon mouths should the picture be really awful. I almost lost it though, when mental images of Three Musketeers popped up; fortunately for me, the photographer caught me with what my mother and Granny would gush about is a sweet, wholesome smile.

Granny always has ‘constructive criticism’ which I basically ignore. “Fran, this is such a beautiful picture of you! Only, your hair could have been combed a little neater.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes as I know it infuriates my mother and I want to get her on my good side. “Granny, I did brush my hair. But it rained on my way to school. I can’t control the weather.”

“Why don’t you take an umbrella?” Old Mother Sensible says.

“Because, mama, no one uses an umbrella.”

“A smarter some one would use an umbrella to stay drier than the others,” she retorts.

Granny, who usually, but not this time, takes my side, puts in her two cents. “You don’t have to be like everyone else. You be the smarter, trend-setter of the crowd!”

Oh, yeah! Right! But I don’t say anything and I don’t roll my eyes and I smile with what I hope is a patronizing smile I learned from my mother. “You’re absolutely, one-hundred per cent correct! And,” this I’ve learned from my father, “I’ll consider it.” Which I have no do intentions of doing.

Granny plops two caramels into my hand and I peck her on the cheek. “Thanks. Gotta go walk them puppies, Gram. See ya!”

I do a half-twist to look over my shoulder at my mom. “I’ll take the long route with the dogs and be back in an hour.” I don’t need a rain coat, as the sun is shining brightly. Springtime in Seattle.

The black Lab, Aramis, is hanging over the fence, woofing loudly, as I approach the gate. The smallest, the cocker spaniel Porthos, rushes at me and I brace myself for his impact as the mid-size golden retriever, Athos, leans on my right side, his tail swishing against my legs.

“Hey, guys, how goes it?” I yell above their whines and yips. It takes a good five minutes to do the greeting thing with them. Pat, pat, push, push, no lick, no jump, calm down, pat, pat, good boy, good boys.

Aramis and Athos are patient as I connect them to their tandem leash, but the cocker spaniel runs in circles as I attempt to corral him. “Por-thos! Sit!”

As if. This is part of our routine; Porthos runs amok and I snatch him up and clip the leash on his collar before we can leave. Often I don’t even talk with their owners, either Mr. or Mrs. Wessenfeld when I come get the dogs, but always when we return one or both will come out and we’ll exchange a few words. Mr. Wessenfeld and I are big readers and he likes some of the same books that I do, so we’ll do a trade. He’s got a collection of mysteries and classics that would make a librarian ecstatic. I’ve got dibs on a short story collection of Mark Twain’s that Mr. W promised he’d let me have this week. Hopefully, today, as I just finished the last of Philippa Pearce’s book, Tom’s Midnight Garden. I won’t get to the library until Saturday, if my mother will take me.

The dogs pull me out the gate and the race is on to the first posted message of their dog day. They sniff, circle, sniff and pee on the bush. I am not real thrilled about scooping up their deposits, but it’s part of the job. I tie each dog’s little bag onto his collar and let him haul it around.

A newspaper whizzes by, landing exactly in the middle of the Miller’s front door welcome mat. My friend, Dean, skews his bike to stop beside me. The dogs are yipping and wagging into a tangled mess trying to get Dean’s attention.

“Hey! Fran!” he yells, jumping off his bike into the fray. He rough-houses with the Three Musketeers for a few minutes before he pushes one, then another dog aside. “Wha—what’s up?” Dean stutters.

“Not much. Just walkin’ the dogs.” In only a moment, one careless moment, I didn’t hold Porthos’ leash tight enough. He shot away after a squirrel, his leash whiplashing behind him.

“Porthos! Come!”

Aramis and Athos strained to follow, but I at least had sense enough to rein them in tightly. Dean hopped on his bike and sped away, his voice trailing behind him.

“I’ll ge—ge–get him, Fran!”

I hurried as much as I could with the other two laggards. “You can do that on the way back!” I groused tugging them away from the tree. Dean was out of sight and I had a horrible thought that he might not be able to get Porthos. And then what would I do?

But as I rounded the next corner, I could see Dean with Porthos squirming in his arms, trying to hold onto dog and bike simultaneously.

I ran up to Dean and grabbed Porthos. “I’ve got him. Thanks!”

Dean bent down to pick up his bike as I crouched down to secure Porthos’ leash. Our heads butted and we both looked at each other nose to nose. Had I never noticed that Dean had azure blue eyes and incredibly long, black eyelashes? And he smelled like freshly mown grass.

“Sorry,” I whispered. I didn’t move away, nor did he.

Aramis, right beside me, woofed, knocking me off balance when he lunged between Dean and me, his tail flapping against my face and Dean’s.

“Thanks, again, I really don’t want to think about how that might have played out!” I pulled myself upright and dusted myself off. I barely had time to look back at Dean before the dogs streamed ahead, looking for another message board.

I’m not really sure what had happened, but I had a funny feeling, a tickling sensation throughout my body and it seem like I floated along with the current. I hadn’t paid much attention to the time, either, and it was way later than I should have had the dogs out.

Mr. Wessenfeld loomed over the gate as I ran up the driveway. “Franny, old girl, your mother called. She was worried about you being gone so long. Everything all right?” He opened the gate and the dogs bounded in, a cacophony of doggy chatter drowning out most of whatever else Mr. W might have had to say. He pointed to the book on the ledge of the fence.

I picked it up. Mark Twain. “THANKS!” I screamed, as I darted for my own house.

“I’m home!” I announced as the door whacked shut.

“I noticed!” barked my mother. “Fran, you’re a lot later than usual. I got a little worried.”

My hands fluttered like butterflies around my face as I desperately tried to be myself. “Porthos got away from me and ran three blocks before Dean could get a hold of him. Lucky for me, Dean was delivering papers and he could catch up to the little turd.” Oops, probably shouldn’t have said that.

But my mother just laughed. “Well, a knight on a shining bike, huh? Lucky for you.”

My Mom stood awfully close to me and I hoped she couldn’t read me too clearly. Sometimes she’s way too perceptive, but not always.

“You know, Mom,” I draped my arm around her shoulder and relished the look of her surprise, “if I had a cell phone, I would have called you.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and puckered her lips. “Hmm,” she planted a kiss on my forehead. “We’ll see.”

My Mom has the most limited vocabulary: ‘no’, ‘maybe’, ‘we’ll see’. It is most exasperating.

“Finish your homework. Practice the trumpet. And, call Annie back. She says it is important.”

“Okay.” I pick the phone up and start dialing on my way to my room. “Hey, Annie, what’s up?”

“Fran! I’m am so excited! I got a gift certificate to have my hair done at the Hair Palace. You know, where you can see how you look in whatever style on the computer!”

“Way cool, Annie!”

“And my Mom is going to let me get highlights! What do you think about red? White? Blonde is so everyday-way, ya know. But really, I want you to go with me! You and I can have a girls’ spa day!”

Oh geez, now what am I going to do? It seems Annie has been on this get-Fran-improved kick since she’s been hanging with Marcy’s club. “I dunno,” I hesitate.

“You can afford to do it, Fran. You don’t have to spend all your money on books.”

That irritates me just a little when Annie assumes so much about me and my habits. “You know, Annie, I’m trying to convince my Mom to get me a celly. She might go for it if I pay my fair share. Didn’t you just tell me this morning that you wished I had one?”

“Yes, but I bet your Mom would like you to get a nice hair cut, too,” Annie must have reconsidered how that came off because she hurried to add in a softer voice, “Fran, the guys are talking about you. Like how you’re kinda cute and all.”

Now at this point I am supposed to ask, most excitedly, ‘Who’s talking about me?’, and be all flattered and flustered to be considered. And by the guys who hang around with Marcy, like Brain, that wanksta! I don’t care what any boy at school thinks of me. Except Dean, and we’re friends. We shoot a basketball at his lopsided hoop above his garage and say very little, as a rule. He lives with his Dad; all I know is that his Mom left them and moved out of state. Dean never speaks of her and I don’t ask.

“Fran, please? Please say yes. I just know it’ll be the most fun!” There’s a pause long enough to be a statement. “Besides, we don’t spend much time with each other.”
I guess Annie misses me as much as I miss her. “All right, all right. When?”

“Yay!!” she squeals. “Oh, I just know you’re going to like the way you look! Saturday at ten.”

I might have said something about making the appointment for us before I’d said I would go for it, but I just felt too good about the day to let a little thing like an assumption get in the way.

Assume. Ass-u-me.