Bully Dogs Series

Our sixth-grade girls’ volleyball team had a practice match with the seventh-grade boys. I saw Dean on the sidelines, but he didn’t get to play that game. He saw me, too, and waved. I said “Hi” as I walked by him to get into my position. I stayed in the whole game and managed to score eleven points in the three sets, which I thought was pretty good.

Apparently, Marcy didn’t. She made it plain, loud and clear in front of everyone, that I wasn’t in the right place at the right time. “Hey, Fanny, why don’t you try hitting the ball over the net, not under it?” she yelled, then stomped to the server’s square. She smacked the volleyball so far out of bounds she could have scored two points if we’d been playing basketball.

But no one said anything to her, at least nothing nasty. “Good shot!” cried Sue, clapping, and everyone laughed. Except me. It seemed if Ursala, Sue, Annie, or Marcy goofed up, it was all one big joke and “too bad,” but if anyone else made a mistake, it was a crime against the team. Not only at volleyball, but in all the other sports, too.

Sometimes being around them made me so mad I wanted to explode, but tonight I felt deflated, like all the air in me had been let out at once, and I couldn’t find the energy to speak up. We played for two games out of three, and Marcy kept up a running commentary on my mistakes the whole time.

We won one, lost two to the boys. Dean got to play, and I was secretly glad that he was better than anyone would have thought. He didn’t say much to any of the guys, or to anyone for that matter, but went about his business as if he didn’t care what others were doing or thinking. He managed to get the ball over the net on his serves and when it came to him. The last game, we lost by one point. Most of the seventh-grade boys stayed long enough afterwards to tell us that we were pretty good and they hoped we would win our game against St. John’s. Marcy and Sue said they would stay after our game to watch the boys play and root for them. I wasn’t sure I could make a promise like that without checking it out with my mom first. And I’m sure that’s why the rest of the girls didn’t say anything, either, to the boys before they left.

Miss Ford said we had a good chance at winning, especially if we played as a team, not as individuals. I wished she would have looked right at Marcy when she spoke to us.

“Lots of teamwork, girls. Remember, front row helps out back, and middle moves in on the other side’s serve. You did an excellent job tonight—those boys have been together as a team since fourth grade, and you saw how it makes a difference. Teamwork!” She slapped her clipboard so loud that it startled all of us.

Then she laughed, waving us good-bye. “Good night, and see you Thursday at seven. On time!”

Seemed to me, she had meant every girl had done a good job, at least the best she could tonight.

Of course, not everyone would’ve agreed with me. Marcy, Sue, and Ursala were standing out on the sidewalk waiting for their ride. “Wouldn’t it be nice if Fran found another hobby, like basket weaving?” Marcy said as I passed by.

“Just ignore her,” Annie advised. “What does she know?”

I swallowed hard before I found my voice. “I wish she weren’t so good at sports.”

“Yeah,” Annie sympathized, “but she makes mistakes, too. We all do, Fran. And aren’t you always saying ‘it’s just a game’?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem like just a game when someone’s yelling at you in front of everyone.”

“I don’t know why she thinks she can tell everyone what to do. Maybe it’s because she’s so good that Miss Ford lets her.” Annie shrugged.

Even though I felt better talking to her, I didn’t think I could explain to Annie so she’d really know how I felt. Marcy never yelled at her and made snide remarks to her as she walked by.

“See you tomorrow, Annie.”

“How’d practice go, Frances?” Mom handed me a book that had come in the mail from the library.

“Uh, great.” I snatched the book out of her hand as we pulled away from the curb. “We played the seventh-grade boys, but lost two out of three games.”

“I think it says a lot for your team that you could win one game against a stronger team. The boys start a month earlier, and haven’t they played a year longer than you girls?”

“Uh, yeah,” I answered, burying my nose between the cover of The Wind in the Willows. For at least the rest of tonight, I’d have better things to think about than volleyball.

What I like best about reading good books is getting away from “real” life. Even though whatever happens in a story couldn’t happen in my life, I know how the character feels going through the good and bad stuff. I sometimes wished I could have the opportunity to face the same challenges, and hopefully, win. And I’d like to make the good things in the stories real in my world here and let all the bad things in the world just be ideas on pages of a book. Then the heroes and heroines could take care of all the evil in the books, and we would have all the good right here in our world.

I wondered, though, was it possible to be good all the time? I’d try, but Mom would always find something wrong, at least once a day. Like that evening.

“Frances,” she’d began to scold, “please pick up your towel and hang it up. And let the water out of the tub and dry your hair.”

“At least I took out the garbage,” I muttered, doing all the tasks she’d asked me to do.

“But you forgot to put in the liner.” My mom always had to have the last remark to anything I’d say.

“But I took it out without you having to ask, didn’t I? And I hung up my clothes before you said to. And put extra paper towels under the sink and swept the porch a little.” She shook her head and was about to interrupt me so I headed her off, “I know; I said ‘a little.’”

“I was just going to say that you’re right. I’m guilty of not telling you how much I appreciate the things you do. I guess it doesn’t hurt to remind me.” Before I could say anything, she added, “Once in a while.”

I at least got to sleep with a smile, having won that round with my mom. I only wished that I had spoken up and pointed out to Marcy the good things I’d done for the team.

Or I could have so easily avoided the bully dogs on my way to school the next morning. Like torpedoes, they came at me from the bushes I hadn’t ever noticed growing in the Delong’s front yard. I made a mad dash for the short cut across the corner-store parking lot and ditched all three dogs. I heard the screech of brakes but didn’t turn around. If one of them got hit, please, I prayed, let it be the big, black Lab, although I immediately revised that prayer. I didn’t want those creatures of my nightmares to be killed, particularly chasing me, but it did occur to me there would be an element of justice in it.

All that running made me early that morning, and Annie wasn’t waiting by the doors. Marcy and Sue were there, so I stood by the railing on the top stair and took out my book to begin another chapter.

“Hello, Fran,” Ursala said to me as she passed by to join Marcy and Sue.

“Hi,” I replied but saw no reason to stop reading to chat. Besides, she probably wouldn’t have stopped to talk with me with Marcy and Sue right there to see her.

“Good luck in the spelling bee today,” Ursala said to me as we filed down the hall to the classroom.

I was too stunned to say anything but, “Thanks.” It was funny, but until then I hadn’t thought of anyone wishing for me to win. I just didn’t know if she meant it for real or if she and Marcy would get a good laugh out of it if I didn’t win.

There’s Mass before first recess, and we all have to attend. Today Father Gavin reminded us that the Apostles didn’t come by their faith easily and that we should look deep into our hearts and make a commitment to God. Sometimes just getting to school was commitment enough for me, let alone worrying about whether I had any faith or not; but other times, like today, I wondered if I had enough faith. I didn’t think I would have wanted the life of an Apostle, that’s for sure, although it would have been neat to have known Jesus Christ.

I wondered if Christ ever sweated out a spelling test when he was just a kid learning in the temple. Maybe he didn’t have to learn how to spell with twelve Apostles to write it all down for him. Maybe, instead, he had to learn how to speak in front of a crowd, which would have been a thousand times harder for me to do.

Tina and I got picked to be hall monitors for the morning. We made sure everyone who left the classroom had a pass and that there wasn’t a mess of books or papers left anywhere outside in the hall. If someone needed to go to the office or the nurse, one of us had to be an escort. I didn’t mind being a monitor because then I didn’t have to go out to recess and play in the barnyard. And sure enough, Steve got a ball kicked in his face and had a bloody nose, so I told Tina she had better walk him to the nurse’s office. I sure the heck didn’t want to be the one walking beside him with all that blood streaming from his nose and splattering his jacket. He would have found some excuse to get mad at me about it, I was sure.

Steve was still in the nurse’s office ten minutes before the spelling bee. I got a little nervous, wondering if he was going to make it back when Mrs. Hammershaw called me over to her desk.

“Fran, would you go check on Steve and ask him if he feels well enough to be in the spelling bee?” She handed me a pass, and I hurried down the hall.

Steve was sitting up on the cot, a washcloth pressed over his nose and his head thrown back, just touching the window sill.

“Mrs. Hammershaw wants to know if you’re well enough to go to the spelling bee. We have to be there in five minutes.” I watched the traffic zipping by the window above his head, trying to think of all the places the people might have been going.

Steve tossed the washcloth onto the little stainless steel table and got up. “I’m all right, now. It was just a little nosebleed.”

I pointed out the obvious to him. “That’s an awful lot of blood all over your jacket. Why don’t you take it off?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Franny?” But he took off the jacket as we came to the auditorium and stuffed it behind a trash can by the door.

It seemed a thousand eyes followed us as we climbed the stairs upstage. Conversations rippled through the building, and you could hear bursts of laughter and groans as the lower grades came in to be seated. The room seemed hotter than it should have been and got louder as the shuffling of feet mixed with squeaky voices and deep-throated whispers.

I saw Timothy load spit balls in his mouth and aim at Annie’s neck. Sue turned around and gave him a dirty look when one hit her on the ear. I almost cracked up when I saw Marcy’s ponytail turning white. But it was a sure thing that Timothy was going to get caught once Marcy reached back to fluff her hair.

“Gross!” she wailed, her voice lifting over all the other noise. “Gross!!” she screamed again, as the pellets rained down like huge hunks of dandruff.

No one ratted on Timothy, though. Mrs. Aster tapped the microphone until everyone quieted. Before she could say anything, a piercing wahhhaahhhhh echoed from the mike, and it took five minutes to get the cord fixed to that the awful sound stopped.

By then, we were all trying to stifle yawns and stretch without seeming to move. We all could have died of terminal boredom before anyone would have learned how to spell it.

Mrs. Aster raised her hands and asked for God’s blessing. “And children,” she began with an attempt at humor, “only angels may whisper the answers to the contestants. Let’s all be real quiet and listen, perhaps learn, too. Good luck to our two sixth graders and to all of our seventh graders. Let’s begin.”

“Fran,” Mrs. Morety’s clear voice demanded my attention, for sure, “you’ll start us off with ‘possibilities’”.

I wiped my sweaty palms down the smooth corduroy of my pants and stood up, thinking if I could only find my voice, I might yet get it right.

It rained most of the morning, until around one o’clock. Although the sky was overcast, there was no wind, and it wasn’t too cold for the ten of us that showed up. Uncle Ryan let us wash his car first, and then came over with his wallet open.

“How much?” he asked.

I hadn’t thought of the price, yet. “Two dollars?”

He looked over his car where Tina was still wiping off the headlights. “Fair enough. Do you guys…er…girls have a sign made up?”

I hadn’t thought of that, either. “No,” I said, looking helplessly at Annie. Marcy groaned. I turned around and blasted her. “Well, you didn’t think of it, either!”

Before a real honest-to-goodness fight got under way, Uncle Ryan spoke up. “Look, I’ve got some white cardboard boxes you could break down and black felt markers to write with—just make your sign bold and clever. One or two of you should stand on the sidewalk and wave customers in.”

Marcy and Sue volunteered, which suited the rest of us just fine. They certainly had the mouths for it. To be honest, they also had the spunk to wave and shout and kid around with people.

We worked like dogs all day until six that night, but made only fifty dollars. We needed at least seventy. We were all standing around, down in the dumps, when my mom drove up.

“Can I get my car washed?” She looked all happy and excited. “Nice weather for a car wash, huh?”

I threw down my rag and started collecting our stuff. “Yeah, only not enough people wanted their cars washed today. We didn’t make enough money.” The others were getting ready to go, too.

Uncle Ryan walked over, tossing my mom a package with windshield wipers in it. “Not a bad turnout, don’t you think?”

“They didn’t make their quota,” my mom said softly, tapping the box against the dashboard.

“Well,” Uncle Ryan turned around and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, addressed us, “why don’t you do it again tomorrow? The weatherman says it’s going to be a sunny day. I don’t mind if you guys…er…girls come back.”

Half of us were willing; half not. So six of us agreed to come Sunday at noon and hustle ten cars to wash.

Things went a lot smoother without Marcy and Sue. Ursala took the duty of walking the sign up and down the sidewalk, like an old-time town crier proclaiming a big event. We had twelve cars in four hours, mostly parents that hadn’t come yesterday.

“We did it!” I shouted as I handed my mom the seventy-four dollars. “With four dollars to spare.”

The six of us gave each other the high-five victory hand-slap and cheered, “Four, six, eight. Aren’t WE great!” It even felt like we were a team.

“What are you going to do with the extra four dollars?” my mom asked in her most motherly, practical voice.

“Buy an extra-large pizza at the end of the season party!” chimed Rachel, which we all agreed to with enthusiasm.

“Umm,” my mom stalled in her ‘let’s be reasonable’ way, “maybe add it to the money collected at the end of the season for the coach’s present?”

It was hard to argue with her logic, so I said, “Okay, keep it and buy Miss Ford something really neat.”

So everything started off pretty good. Practices were set up for Tuesday and Thursday evenings, but only ten girls made it for the team. That left us with four substitutes per game, if every girl showed.

Miss Ford made us run two laps around the court before we even got started, then had us volley the ball to one another to get down the correct way to return the ball over the net. We had a practice session with the parents one night, and boy, did they have some bad habits! My mom was the worst of the lot, too, stepping out of the server’s box every time. Miss Ford said she’d have to take one whole practice time to correct our return serves. Probably the next time we played our parents, if Miss Ford lets us, we would wax them if they played by the rules.

The week went by fast, and things were looking good, for a change. The bully dogs were out only one morning, and I was far enough down the street that they missed seeing me, so I made it to school without being hassled. Once at school, though, it was a different matter.

As I said, the playground is like a barnyard, and the sixth-grade boys were just like pigs. They grabbed the soccer balls before any of us girls could get to them, and the only game they let us in on was kickball, always their rules, of course, which meant they won all the time. Usually I didn’t play because the rules changed in mid-game, especially if it looked as if the girls were going to score.

Marcy, Sue, Ursala, Tina, Rachel, and Annie liked to get out there and run up and down, squealing as if they were having all the fun in the world losing at the boys’ game. Most times I stood by the gate and watched, not saying much, if anything.

“Hey, Marcy, why don’t ya get Franny to play on your team? She could stand in front of the goal and block the ball with her big head!” Brian yelled loud enough so everyone for miles could hear.

He should talk; he was so overweight. I sneered at him in disgust, thinking that he looked just like a big hog out there, rooting in the field. “Brian, you’re a porker,” I muttered, not caring that he couldn’t hear me.

The new kid in seventh grade, Dean, came over. He was nice but stuttered a bit, and the guys gave him a bad time about it. “Hey, Fr…Fran, want… to shoot some baskets?”

“Sure, but just a couple, okay, Dean?” I liked Dean’s quiet way of asking me, and he didn’t go on and on, boring me with a lot of talk about himself or stuff I could’ve cared less about.

As I walked over to the basketball court with him, Brian the Porker snorted, then bellowed, “Hey, lookit! Fanny and D-D-Dean! A match made in heaven!”

I got the ball on the rebound but missed the basket. Dean’s face was all flushed, but neither one of us said anything. I didn’t know what Dean was thinking, but I wished I’d had a good comeback. Instead, I just kept trying to get the darn ball in the basket.

“Want to practice again tomorrow, Fran?” Dean bounced the ball from hand to hand.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I glanced back at the playfield and caught the last play, just as the bell rang to go in. Steve’s kick went wild, shooting out the gate, right towards the parking lot. “Stop it, Franny!” he ordered, running towards me.

Maybe he could just stop it with his mouth; I wasn’t going to move a muscle. He pushed me, hard, and I fell down, my pants all muddy along the side.

Back in class, Mrs. Hammershaw asked me why I was crying. “I’m not, something’s in my eye,” I mumbled.

“Steve pushed Fran down on the playground, Mrs. Hammershaw.” Tina pointed to Steve who looked madder than ever.

“It’s all right, really,” I said, trying to get to my seat without another big scene.

“No, it is not!” exclaimed Mrs. Hammershaw. “Steve, I wish to have a conference with you.”

The room got real quiet, except you could almost hear everyone’s thoughts about Steve, who never got into trouble, the one-and-only hotshot in soccer, basketball, and baseball and an A student, and my putting him on the bad side of the teacher. I wished it had been the bully dogs after me, instead.

Steve had to write me a note of apology, only he made sure to add a part about it being my fault that he had to shove me out of his way to get to the ball that I wouldn’t stop. I jammed the note inside my trapper-keeper with all the other papers and left it at that.

And wouldn’t you know it? Steve and I tied the last round of the spelling bee. I had to hand it to him, though, he got some pretty tough words—“synonym” and “self-explanatory”—but I got lucky and spelled “pseudonym” correctly. Our rematch would be the spelling bee with the seventh-graders tomorrow.

In the bathroom during the last morning recess, I overheard Sue talking to Rachel. “I hope she doesn’t make it. Steve deserves to win more than she does.”

I didn’t linger washing my hands long enough to hear what Rachel replied, but I could guess it wouldn’t have made me feel any better. I didn’t want to tell them, but they were wrong. I don’t think that you deserve to win because you’re liked but because you’ve done the best. And if you lose, no big deal; you can try again.

I did feel a lot better after acing a math test, but it seemed the day had been too long. I checked what I had written down on my homework-to-do pad and realized I’d left out some of the assignments that were up on the board. That meant I still had to do religion and science, as well as English. My day was shot, what with piano lesson and volleyball practice that night. If I stayed in for last recess, I could finish my English and I’d have at least a little reading time before lights-out.

Which worked out fine because I had the feeling I wasn’t welcomed out at the barnyard, anyway. I also wasn’t much inclined to talk to the playground supervisor, our principal, Mrs. Aster. Her favorite subject was religious principles and how they applied to each individual’s life. She used a lot of words, but it seemed she didn’t make a lot of sense.

“Now, do I have your attention?” she’d always start off a lecture. “Can anyone tell me how the Golden Rule applies to our everyday lives?”

Usually someone in the seventh or eighth grade would spout something meaningful with a straight face, and you’d get the feeling that Mrs. Aster was going to reach out and pat that person on the head. Sure, every one of us could give an example, but I’m willing to bet none of us thought twice about it when Mrs. Aster left the room. And if there were a few minutes before Mrs. Hammershaw came to lead us back to our room, you can bet there was a lot of joking about what “do unto others” really meant in our daily lives. Mrs. Aster should’ve heard some of the things the kids said at recess when no adult was around. Boy, would she have gotten an earful of “meaningful dialogue.”

The only thing I hated, no, disliked (I reserved hate only for certain people), more than recess was singing with Mr. Breen every Thursday at two o’clock. He was a fussy little man in a wrinkled suit, white shirt, and out-of-date tie, who waved his arms a lot and urged the girls to sing without breaking for a breath and yelled at the boys to pay attention. The songs were all too high for comfort, to sing or listen to, but we had to give an hour each week toward “music appreciation.” I couldn’t tell you how much I appreciated it being over at three.

I was glad my mom was waiting to take me to my piano lesson and all I had to do was walk across the parking lot to the car. One less potential run-in with the bully dogs. I liked going to Mrs. Nieman’s house for my forty-five minute lesson because it counted as practice time and she was a cheerful type of person that smiled a lot. Not that she didn’t come down on me like a ton of bricks when I hadn’t completed all my music theory or I’d skipped an assignment! But mostly we had a pleasant enough session. If there was a minute or two to spare before my mom came, Mrs. Nieman would tell me some interesting historical facts about musicians and composers that I liked. I always had a question for her, and sometimes she gave me a book I could take home to read. Mom would give me five minutes off of practice time for reading about music, so I’d try to borrow the bigger books.

“So, how’d it go today?” my mom asked for the thirteenth time already that afternoon.

“Fine, wonderful, great, good,” I replied, then looked quickly to see if I’d overdone it and annoyed her. “I aced my math test.”

“How was the spelling bee?” she said, with a little note of hope in her voice.

“Oh, it’s a draw. Our rematch will be in the next round with the seventh graders. Then all-school, inter-school, city, and regional.”

“You seem pretty confident that you can do it.” She pulled into McDonald’s drive-thru and asked, “Are you thirsty?”

“Yeah! You bet!” I laughed because it was a joke between us. She says that the first thing I say when I get into the car is “I’m thirsty,” but I hadn’t said it that day, and that made it even funnier. I figured she’d probably say “Gotcha.”

“Gotcha.” Then she laughed, and I laughed even harder.

“Can I have a medium coke?” I knew she’d be surprised I wasn’t asking for a large one. “And fries?” She was in a pretty good mood and maybe she’d go for the extra inch she always accuses me of taking.

“Oh, all right.” She gave me that ‘I’m indulging you’ look. “I guess it won’t hurt this time.”

“Hey, since we have volleyball practice at seven, can I have dinner here?” I knew I was pushing it, but I went for the off-chance she’d say yes.

She ordered fries and a medium coke. “No,” she said a bit louder than necessary, I thought, “we’re having beef stew tonight.”

“All right, my favorite! With those muffins, too?” I poked the straw into the lid, real careful so the drink didn’t squirt out.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mom smiled and pointed at a rainbow over the Nike-shoe billboard. “We should go look for the proverbial pot of gold at the rainbow’s end.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, happy enough with the way the day was turning out, after all. Little did I expect what was going to happen at volleyball later on.

The good thing I can say about Friday was that the bully dogs stayed home. I made it to school at my usual time, just at first bell, when I could blend with the herd as we all walked through the halls to our rooms and sat at our desks. Like I said, the less I had to do with Marcy and Sue, the better my day went.

Usually.

Today was the exception, as I knew it would be. The Big Day of Sixth Grade Volleyball Team Selection. During P.E. the teams got picked. The girls’ team leaders were, you might have guessed, Marcy and Sue. In front of the sixty-eight people, there seemed a 100-percent chance I would be the last and least-wanted player to be chosen.

I wasn’t disappointed. Annie was picked second by Sue, and I kept hoping against hope that Sue’s team would be one short at the end and have to take me.

That’s the way it worked, but Sue stalled so long in doing the obvious that Mrs. Aster, the principal, finally waved me over.

“Well, now,” she clapped her hands, like she always does, “that’s settled, and we can draw for the serve.”

Everyone knew you don’t draw for the serve, but we pretty much tolerated ditzy Mrs. Aster, if only because she’s the principal. So we waited, without a sigh or snicker, until our P.E. teacher, Miss Ford, finally spoke.

“Perhaps we should flip a coin for first serve.” We all smiled at Miss Ford and nodded.

“Oh!” Mrs. Aster smacked her hands together again. “Then, team captains come forward!” Marcy and Sue were already standing in front of her, but they each took another step closer. “Call it, girls!”

The quarter pinged onto the floor and rolled, almost getting to the bleachers before Miss Ford stepped on it. “Heads. Marcy’s serve. Line up!”

I was third to serve and got two balls over the net, but only one point. I may not be liked by the team captains, but I know I’m a good player. We’re all pretty good, but Marcy and Sue are terrific at this game, fast and right there under the ball all the time, it seems.

Maybe a lot has to do with the fact they both belong to the YWCA and play on other teams after school. Ursala and Annie serve well and can return net balls. The rest of us are okay by comparison, usually botching the fab-four’s serves one way or the other. But occasionally someone else saves the game with a lucky move. The teams were pretty evenly matched, and our tournament ended in a draw.

“Nice game!” Marcy slapped Sue’s extended hands.

“Yeah,” Sue replied, “wish we could play a real game, like against St. John’s.”

We all agreed. We were the only school that didn’t have a girls’ volleyball team in the Catholic Youth Organization. To get into the CYO league, we needed a coach, uniforms, and permission from the principal.

“Why don’t we ask Miss Ford to coach us?” I suggested.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that, Fran?” Marcy quipped with a toss of her long, blonde hair.

So I went over and asked Miss Ford. “Well,” she hedged and then smiled, “why not? I’m sure Mrs. Aster will give us permission. You’ll need money for uniforms, though. And each girl will have to pay a league fee. I’ll get the necessary paperwork turned into the CYO and set up the practices at Sandalwood Junior High if you can get money for the uniforms and league fees.”

Two down and one to go. Annie came up with a brilliant idea. “Let’s have a car wash! The eighth grade earned enough money to go to camp, and they only had one car wash on a Saturday!”

“My dad might let us use three of his extra-long, heavy-duty hoses!” volunteered Tina, and then someone else added, “I’ll bring rags and soap.”

“But where are we going to have this car wash?” asked Sue. She’s not only smart, but practical. “Ritchie’s dad let them use his car lot on Main Street.”

“That’s why they got so many cars, too,” grumped Ursala. “They were right on the busiest street in
the city.”

Marcy turned to me with a sneer. “Well, Fran, where are we going to have it? Maybe you can just go up to Ritchie and ask him if his dad will let us use his lot, too.”

“I don’t even know Ritchie,” I shot back, trying hard not to let that too-familiar hot flush transform to tears. “But we can think of something!”

“Sure we can,” Marcy rolled her eyes and then tapped Sue on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Annie and I walked back to class together. “Gee, Fran, it seemed like a good idea. Too bad, huh?”

I didn’t reply, though I wished I had. It still seemed like a good idea.

Mrs. Hammershaw handed out a printed list of words as we filed through the classroom door.

“Study this list,” she announced, “for the spelling bee next week.”

I looked down the rows of words. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Maybe I could beat Steve this year, although he had taken the regionals last year. But I had been making my own lists from the books I’d been reading, and I planned on giving it my best shot this year. Even if I wasn’t a straight-A student like Steve, Marcy, Sue, Annie, and Ursala, I did better on the weekly spelling tests than anyone in class.

The dismissal bell caught us in the middle of the Spelling Round Game, just before I would have had to tackle “conceive.” I guess you could say I was saved by the bell.

When I got home, my grandmother was having coffee with my mom. “How’s Granny’s Franny?” She grabbed me as she always did in a bear hug and squeezed me for all she was worth.

“Oh, all right, I guess.” I wiggled out of her arms, which was easy because she’s shorter than I am. Mom gave me the look that said “Be nice to your grandmother.” As far as grandparents go, Granny’s okay; she spoils me, but sometimes she treats me like I’m still six years old.

“You don’t look too happy. What’s wrong?” Granny slipped two pieces of caramel candies into my hand.

After unwrapping them, I popped both in my mouth and shrugged. Mom started to say something, but I remembered to add, “Thanks, Granny,” only I had a big wad of candy in my mouth, and my teeth sort of stuck together, and the words came out muffled.

“Frances,” my mom objected, but Granny cut in, putting her hand back around me.

“That’s all right. Finish chewing it, and tell your granny what’s wrong.”

I’m taller than Granny, and when she drapes her arm around my shoulder, she reminds me of a puppet dancing on tiptoes.

I finally swallowed the huge caramel lump in one gulp. “You know, we could make the deadline for CYO if we could just find a place to hold the car wash, but Marcy said why don’t I ask Ritchie, and I don’t even know him!”

“What?!” both Mom and Granny said at the same time.

I explained the whole thing, sitting between them on the couch. I couldn’t help the tears that came, even though I tried not to cry after I had said the part about not having a place to wash cars like Ritchie’s dad’s lot.

Granny searched in her purse for a tissue, then dabbed my face. I took the tissue from her and blew my nose. She tapped my knee. “Say, I’ve got an idea!”

And when Granny gets an idea, it’s usually a beaut! “Why don’t you ask Uncle Ryan if he’d let you have your car wash at his gas station?”

“Perfect!” I whooped, jumping to my feet. “Do you really think he’d let us?”

“Call him and find out,” replied Mom. “I’ll look up his phone number.”

“Couldn’t you call him for me?” I hated the telephone, except for special calls to my best friends, Carol and Annie. Worse than answering the loud-mouthed thing when it interrupted the middle of a television program, was calling someone and going through the whole rigmarole of ”Hi, how are you? I’m fine” and then trying to come up with something to say without sounding lame. But Mom, being a mother, shook her head.

“It’s your project, dear. Just be done with it.” She gave me a slip of paper with Uncle Ryan’s number on it. “Remember to say who you are when he answers the phone.”

I had to do it right then because both of them were going to sit there staring at me until I did. Luckily, Uncle Ryan answered the phone himself.

“Um.” I was at my best on the opening line. “Uncle Ryan.” I speeded up, and the words kind of tumbled out, “This is Fran, your sister’s daughter.” He sounds like he’s laughing whenever I talk to him, but he’s nice enough. “Granny said to call you and ask if I, I mean, my class, well, it’s our volleyball team, really, can have a car wash.”

“You need a clean car to play a game with volleyballs?” he joked.

“Oh, yeah, we do. I mean, we need to raise money for our uniforms, and I thought maybe you would let us use the gas station to have a car wash. We’d bring hoses, soap, rags, and buckets. There’d be about six or eight of us there.”

“Do I get a percentage of the profits?” he asked all serious.

I hadn’t planned on anything this complicated. “Uh, I don’t know.”

He burst out laughing. “I was kidding you, Fran. Sure. You want to do it on Saturday or Sunday?”

“You mean it?” I squealed, hating the way I do that when I get an answer I don’t expect. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll have to ask the others what day.”

“Well, call me when you find out. Either day. We’ll make arrangements, okay?”

“Yeah, okay!” Then I hung up, only to see that same old look of my mom’s that reminded me too late that I hadn’t said thank you.

“I have to call him back; then I’ll thank him, okay?”

Mom didn’t say anything because Granny piped up. “You’d better call your teammates and get the ball rolling,” then laughed at her own joke. I laughed, too, but stopped when I thought about all those phone calls I had to make.

“Um, Granny,” I began, but Mom headed me off before I could finish my sentence.

“Wouldn’t it seem silly, Frances, if anyone but you called your teammates?”

“Yeah, I know.”

I saw Mom taking out the list of addresses and telephone numbers from the directory. She handed me the blue sheets. “Go to it.”

“Couldn’t I read for just an hour? It’s been a rough day, Mom.” But nothing doing, not until I had done what she wanted me to do.

Because I figured it would save me a hassle, I made the decision that Saturday, noon, would be a good time for the car wash. I called Annie first, and she got all excited about our big project. She told me not to worry about telling Marcy and Sue; she would take care of it. Boy, that was a relief!

By some miracle, everyone else was home, and I got eleven girls to promise they would be there. After making three return calls and getting only busy signals, I finally got Uncle Ryan. Then I had to wait one horrible minute while I thought he’d say no, but he must have had to check his calendar or something.

“All set, Fran. You’ve got the time and place. Now, hope for the sun and cars.”

I hung up and looked out the window. The sky was clouding up, and the wind was blowing.

“No one will want to come to the car wash if it’s raining!” I felt like howling, stamping my feet, and beating up the weatherman. “I hate Seattle!”

“Oh, Frances, calm down; it’s not the end of the world.”

“It might as well be! The car wash is my idea.” Those darn old tears came again, and my mom gave me that look that meant, “Must you cry?” but I couldn’t help it. “Just once, can’t things turn out right?” On top of it, I had the hiccups.

“Look, Franny, at the way the wind’s blowing those old clouds. Maybe it’ll just blow them away.” Granny was trying her best to cheer me up.

“It could rain tonight and clear up for tomorrow,” added my mom.

Granny pulled me down onto the couch next to her and began to rub my back. “Now, don’t cry. Granny just knows it’ll be a good day for you.” When Granny says it that way, I always have hope.

“Sure.”

“You know what they say, don’t you, Franny?” Granny paused, shook her finger, and took a big breath to answer with “Granny’s words of wisdom.”

Before she could say it, Mom and I sang out in unison, “Tomorrow’s always another day.”

————————————————————————–
Ready for more Bully Dogs? All available chapters to read online are listed here>> or buy the printed book on Amazon>>

Bully Dogs is the first in a series of middle-grade fiction stories about bullying and growing up by Jacquie Ream. Illustrations by Phyllis Emmert.

Bully Dogs by Jacquie Ream:
Faced with her neighbor’s three ferocious dogs, and a group of girls at school determined to put her down, Fran isn’t sure whether to stand up for herself or sit the tough times out. Fran’s chore-centric mother is no help! And one of her best friends, Annie, has begun hanging out with the bullies. When Fran sees that her school’s volleyball team won’t succeed unless the bullying ends, she realizes she’ll have to stand up for herself. But who should she face first: the vicious-looking dogs who chase her to school, or the girls who try to make her feel bad about being herself?

As Fran begins to discover her own strength and find her self-confidence, she sees bullies are like growling dogs who just won’t go away. And Bully Dogs proves that when it comes to bullies, their bark can be worse than their bite! Read for FREE on my blog>>

Bully Dogs Chapter 1: Dog Days for Frances Reed
My mom’s wrong. These are not my best years, and I seriously doubt I’ll look back upon my childhood as the happiest days of my life.

One way or the other, I wished I’d be dead by Friday, the morning of the girls’ sixth-grade volleyball team selection (that is, the Longest Hour in the Life of Frances Reed), or I knew I’d be suffering horribly after getting attacked by the bully dogs.

Maybe it would be better just to let the bully dogs eat me alive tomorrow morning. I’m getting plenty tired of running from the black Labrador, cocker spaniel, and golden retriever. Really, should I have to deal with three, big, dumb dogs that have taken a dislike to me, for what reason I have no idea? Old crotchety Mr. Wessenfeld used to walk them himself, but now he just lets them run loose.

I can’t help but wonder why things are the way they are, especially about adults and what they say or do or don’t bother to do at all. What gets me the most is all the preaching adults do about responsibility, and yet, no one has done anything about Mr. Wessenfeld, who lives four houses down across the street, letting his vicious mutts out every morning to do their number.

And boy, did they do a number on me! Snarling and yapping, they’d chase me down the end of the street, across Main Avenue, all the way to Saint Mary’s schoolyard. Some days, I just about didn’t make it to the chain-link gate that would separate me from them. And then didn’t I look just great, huffing and puffing, red-faced, and sweat running down my cheeks for the start of classes? I don’t have a lot in the looks department, not like some of the other girls in my class, and it really helped when I knew my scraggly brown bangs were plastered against my forehead. I’m sure I looked like a drowned mouse.

Annie, one of my best friends since second grade, told me I’m not ugly at all and understood how I felt, but I make her promise not to tell anyone, particularly Marcy, Sue, and Ursala. They would have had a field day if they’d known I’d run away from the bully dogs.

Not that “The Three Amigos” didn’t already give me a bad enough time and always had since kindergarten. Especially Marcy. We’d always been together in a small class. The biggest I remember was the combined fourth and fifth grades with twenty-one students, eleven boys and ten girls. Marcy and I were a bad combo, like a hyper cat and a snarling dog stuck together in the vet’s waiting room. We just didn’t mix well with each other, and the less she knew about me, the less she could telegraph all over Saint Mary’s barnyard with her mega-mouth. She was real quick with the nasty names that stuck, like calling me “Franny Fanny.” Most people, except my mom, call me Fran.

“Frances!”

“Yeah, Mom?” A quick glance at the clock and I knew that it was time to practice the piano and then the trumpet.

“Time to practice!”

“Just another five minutes, okay?”

“No!” Suddenly she was looming in my doorway. “That’s what you said at four-thirty after being on the phone twenty minutes giggling with Carol. Fifteen minutes on the trumpet, and thirty on the piano.”

“But I’m doing my math!” I pointed out reasonably enough. “And I only spoke with Carol for fifteen minutes.” I knew, because her mom has a timer by the phone. Carol is my very best friend, but she lives on the other end of town and goes to Saint Thomas, so we have to talk everyday so we know what’s happening with each other. She’s the only one that I don’t mind calling or talking to on the telephone. “I’m almost done, then I’ll go downstairs and practice. Okay?”

“No, now. You’ll have time to finish your homework before dinner. Go.” She dramatically threw her arm out, jabbing in the general direction of the stairs.

“All right, all right!” I put down my pencil and got up.

“Look,” her voice erupted like a volcano, “why don’t you just quit band and piano altogether? I hate these constant hassles with you.”

Actually, I like playing the trumpet and don’t really mind piano, though I’d been at it for five l-o-n-g years, practically half my life. Going over and over the same stuff bores me.

“So who’s hassling? I’m going right now.”

Her face was all pinched like she was mad. I didn’t know what made her so touchy, but I wished she’d relax. As she stood there glaring at me, I picked up the pencil that had bounced off the desk and rolled onto the floor and slid it in between pages of chapter six of The Sword in the Stone I’d been reading.

I always practiced the trumpet first, which I liked better, I suppose, because I was good for a first-year student. Miss Kray, our school bandmaster, said that if I kept improving as I had, I’d be first chair that year.

I was careful not to spend a lot of time cleaning my trumpet, or Mom would go nuts on me, reminding me it didn’t count for practice time. But I had to maintain my instrument, and I did what I had to do, then warmed up before “reviewing and renewing” band pieces for the week. After that I started the scales and triads on the piano.

Sometimes my dad would come downstairs to read the newspaper, and it’d make the time go faster. He thought he was giving me silent encouragement, but I knew he was only making sure I did my assignments. He’d always ask about my lessons, and I’d tell him Mrs. Nieman had given me another march or sonata that week.

“Good,” he’d say, “let me hear you play it like Sam Spade,” then laugh as he’d punch the front page in half and read on.

Sometimes I wish my older brother and sister were still at home, but most times I like being by myself with Mom and Dad. Mostly Dad. Mom and I get on each other’s nerves when we spend too much time together.

“Are you going to check my math tonight, Dad?” I asked as he settled into his chair.

He snapped the paper open and replied, “After dinner, okay?”

“Mom wouldn’t let me finish my math, and I’ve only got a couple of more problems to do. She made me come down here.”

“Play it again, Fran.” He waved his hand at me and buried his head into the financial section, but I saw him smiling when I started “When the Saints Come Marching In.”

“Can I read the comics before dinner?” I shouted above the crescendo finish.

“When you’re done!” he ended up roaring after the music had faded.

“All right, Dad, all right.”

By the time he was through with the paper, I was all done with practice and got a good start on the comics.

“What about your homework?” bellowed my mom from the top of the stairs.

“In a minute; almost done.” I had half a page to go, but it was no good telling her that it’d take me only another two minutes, max.

“Now, Frances.” With her hands on her hips and a mean scowl, she looked just like Henry the VIII, the old head-chopper.

“Just do it,” my father sighed, and I got up, finished with the last strip. My dad rattled the newspapers real loud as he collected the comics, loud enough so that I’d know he was the one picking them up, not me.

“Where’s the mail?” I heard Dad ask Mom.

“Frances brought it in for me,” Mom replied, then had to add, “If she put it down somewhere in her room, it’ll be lost in the black hole.”

I looked around my room. I knew where everything was. My shoes were beneath my uniform skirt and shirt, my science book was under my lunch sack in the corner where my stuffed animals kept watch over the defeated Redcoats, all lying dead from the last battle with the United States Army. Everything in its place, and a place for everything. Honestly, I can’t figure out why Mom kept on and on about what a mess the place was. Did it really matter? After all, I could find whatever I needed.

Dad walked in, making a big show of stepping over some books I had to return to the library, and frowned. “Franny, couldn’t you just throw out some of these papers?”

“Dad! Not that one. That’s my English, and it’s due tomorrow.” I snatched it away from him and handed him three letters and the junk mail with flyers that left a trail on my desk, across my bed, and on the floor. “I’ll pick those up later.”

But he’d already swooped down to gather them up. “No, it’s the least I can do for the cause,” he said then tweaked my nose before he left.

“Dinner! Wash up!” Mom’s voice echoed throughout the house. Just another three minutes and I’d be done with the last of the forty-two multiplication problems.

“Frances, please!”I finished the last sentence of the seventh chapter of The Sword in the Stone, dropped a book marker in it, and quickly did the last set . “Just one more minute,” I said. “One more and I’m done.”

As I sat down to the dinner table, Mom looked at me and said, “You didn’t wash up.”

“Oops, sorry. I didn’t have time.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

“So how did school go today?” Dad asked as I mashed butter into the baked potato, the only good thing on my plate.

“It was okay,” I replied with a shrug, just to let them know that there is nothing worth telling about the sixth grade.

“No trouble with the gruesome-twosome?” He meant Marcy and Sue, who always gave me grief. Ursala just sort of hung out with them without ever really saying or doing much.

“Nah.” I looked up, and Mom was shooting daggers at me, so I took a bite of fish. “What’s for dessert?”

“Spinach soufflé.”

Sometimes I think my mom’s serious when she’s not. “Yuck!” That made her laugh, so I knew she was kidding. “That’s as bad as halibut.”

Wrong thing to say to her. “Eat it,” she snapped.

When I grow up, I don’t think Mom will ever come to my house and have dinner because I am not going to cook anything I don’t like to eat and that doesn’t leave much that she’ll want to eat.

“Bring me your math, and I’ll look it over while I’m having my strawberry shortcake.” Dad winked at me.

I choked down the last bit of fish and broccoli, washed the bad taste away with milk, then ran, and got my homework. All that exercise made me hungry. “Can I have lots of strawberries and whipping cream?”

“No, Frances,” of course, my mom said, “but I do have some more broccoli and fish if you want.”

“No, thanks, Mom.” But she brought in the beaters and bowl that she whipped the cream in and gave them to me. “All right! I’ll lick ‘em clean!”

“Franny.” Only my dad says Franny, and I knew he wasn’t pleased. “How is it you get the right answers on the hard ones and miss the easy problems?”

That’s how I am, I guess. “How many, Dad?” I hoped I could call it a day and get back to my book.
“Seven silly mistakes, my girl.” He handed me a pencil, eraser, and the paper. “I’ll recheck them after you’re done.”

I worked while Mom cleared the table and started the dishes. She was almost done loading the dishwasher when Dad went over the last set.

“Could you try being a littler neater, Fran?” he asked me for the umpteenth time.“I thought it looked pretty good.” And I looked again at the seven rows of six problems.

“You might erase instead of crossing out,” is all he said as he gave me back my paper.

“Sure, Dad.” I kissed him on the cheek and headed for my room.

“Frances!” Mothers have fantastic timing. I put down my book and waited. “Take out the garbage.”

“Right.” My mother the chore-master. I slid the empty wastebasket next to her as she swept the floor. I was almost out of there when she nabbed me again.

“Honey,” she leaned on the broom, “please put a liner in it for me.”

“Then can I read for a while?” I inquired sweetly.

“No, dear, it’s bath time.” She waited with exaggerated patience for me to punch down the plastic bag into the garbage can. “And please, no books in the bath tub.”

“Ah, Mom!” But I could see she wasn’t going to give an inch. Shower people do not understand the necessity of relaxing in the tub with a good book after a long day. I am not going to have even one shower in my house when I grow up.

“And wash your hair.”

“Anything else?”

“Brush and floss your teeth,” she said with a smile the Devil would have appreciated.

Well, she sure made short work of my favorite pastime. If I was lucky, she’d be doing the crossword puzzle and forget to watch the clock, and I’d get another chapter in before lights out.

I heard her footsteps coming down the hall, nine-o-five. Just this last half of a page and…

“Mark it, Frances.” Mom stood beside my bed, waiting.

But I was done before she plucked the book away from me and laid it on my desk. “Good night,” she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes up in a look of mock despair as she brushed the drippy hair from my eyes. “Sweet dreams and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

I gave her a kiss for a kiss, a hug for a hug. “Love you,” she whispered as she turned out the lights. “Aren’t you glad tomorrow’s Friday?” She closed the door, probably smiling to herself.

My heart sank.

Friday.