Willie and Dick wonder, what do you do when an important part of your anatomy doesn't answer roll call in the morning?

 
1. Philomena

Dick Williams and Willie Richards approached the door as if it were a hibernating bear the two boys had determined to tickle into wakefulness. It didn't even seem like a good idea at the time. Dick held back, despite Willie's urgings to keep up. They'd done this reluctant hero act all the way over, taking turns being scared and brave.

"C'mon," said Willie. "I'm not doing this alone." He pushed his wavy brown-blond hair out of his blue-gray eyes with one hand while reaching for Dick with the other.

Dick dodged. "What if we're wrong? What if she's not the one who -- who did this?"

"Yeah? But what if we're right?"

"That's even scarier!" Dick licked his lips, his mouth as dry as diet crackers. His own straight black hair fell into his hazel eyes but he didn't seem to notice. He dodged Willie's grasp several times then relented and let the other boy grab his wrist. Only, they ended up holding hands. They let go at the same time, trading horrified glances.

It wasn't as if they didn't know each other, of course. They'd lived on the same block and gone to the same schools in Lakewood almost forever. Maybe they knew each other too well.

Dick had recently turned fifteen and Willie had a birthday coming up, right after Halloween. Willie had a sort of unfinished appearance and his clothes looked comfortably lived in, denim jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt over a tee. Dick looked much neater in almost preppy, gray slacks, business-style wingtips, a black windbreaker and a pale blue shirt with a button down collar. They looked different but both liked computer games, science fiction, comic books and anime, and both had trouble getting dates and keeping girlfriends.

Which may or may not have had something to do with their predicament.

The door to the private entrance of the old Victorian apartment conversion opened suddenly, before either boy had summoned the nerve to touch the brass knocker. Philomena Duvalle stood there in all her fifteen-year-old pulchritude.

She wore turquoise hip-hugger capris, a raspberry bandeau top, orange-and-vanilla high heel sandals and matching neck scarf. Her slightly-tipped green eyes, chin-length, ginger-red curls and galaxy of freckles should have clashed with such a color combo but somehow, she just looked more vivid.

In her heels, she stood taller than either boy, who were in any case, a step lower than she on the stoop. They had to look up at her. She had hot rod curves where most girls her age still needed training wheels. And she had attitude.

"What are you two doing here?" she asked with an upward snap of her head that sent her bright curls bouncing.

"We're sorry," babbled Willie.

"Whatever we did," agreed Dick.

"We didn't mean to..."

"And we won't do it again..."

"Whatever it was!"

Phil, as her friends called her, frowned down at them.

"We must have done something..."

"...to someone..."

"...and you told everyone you were a witch!"

"So we thought..."

"Stop!" Phil interrupted, raising both hands. "Come inside," she ordered. Turning, she disappeared into the interior of the ground floor apartment, leaving the door open for them to follow.

* * *

[next: "They're Gone!"]