"I never thought I'd complain about this, but Mom, the skirt's too short."

"No it's not," she replied. "It looks fine."

---

 
5. Another Use For Lampposts
 

Maisie and I talked and talked. We found some chairs against the wall, far from everybody, where we sat down next to each other.

We traded stories. We got the lowdown on each other.

She told me about her parents' divorce, and how she was always going "from one hell to the other" as she put it.

We talked about school. She told me about my classmates, the teachers, and the principal. What she said about Sister Honororia, the principal, pretty much confirmed the warning Mr. Bryant had given me.

"Your old principal warned you about Honororia?" Maisie asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, he was pretty cool," I said.

"With everybody? Or just with you?"

I blushed, and that made her press the issue, so I ended up telling her about my first day of school, when I got into trouble for wearing too short a skirt.

"Oh, yeah, the nuns are crazy about that at BYHS, too," Maisie told me. "They actually take a ruler and measure the height of your skirt."

"Oh, that reminds me!" I said. "If I bring a camera on Monday, will you take a picture of me in my uniform?"

"Sure," she laughed. "For your boyfriend in California?"

I nodded, my cheeks slightly red. "Do you think that's weird?" I asked, "That he wants to see me in the uniform?"

She shook her head. "Guys are weird. For some reason, the uniform is a big turn-on for them. Go figure."

We laughed together.

---

All in all, the day was a big success. A boy had asked for my phone number and I'd made a new friend.

Mom was all excited about meeting Dad's boss and Maisie's mom, whose name is Ida. The two mothers made a date to meet for coffee on Monday "after the girls are in school."

Dad was glad and relieved to have the family together again. Once we got home, the sleep that comes after eating turkey swept over the three of us.

When we woke from our naps, Mom insisted that I get ready for tomorrow, which meant I had to try on the Blessed Yvette uniform for the first time. I have to admit, it wasn't too bad. I hadn't seen a blue plaid before. Probably after wearing it every day I'd get sick of it, but right now I didn't mind.

Tomorrow we had an appointment with the principal, Sister Honororia, at the ungodly hour of nine AM.

It would have been bad enough to make an early appointment on a day off, but what made it truly insane was the fact that Mom and I were still on California time. Meaning: it was going to be like six in the morning for us.

Plus, the nun insisted that I wear the school uniform to the appointment.

Mom thought it was a "fine idea."

"I never thought I'd complain about this, but Mom, the skirt's too short."

"No it's not," she replied. "It looks fine."

"It has to be at most two inches above the knee. This is at least three."

"I don't think that's important, Marcie. No one is going to take a ruler and measure."

"Yes, they do! Maisie told me they do!"

"She was just pulling your leg, I'm sure," Mom said.

"No, Mom. Listen, I have some experience with this: I was in trouble for two weeks in Tierson for wearing a short skirt."

"That was a tennis skirt," Mom countered. "This skirt is fine."

I tried to tug it down, but it didn't go.

Dad was getting antsy. He was hungry (we all were!) and I had to quickly change so we could go out for supper.

This time, he explained, the restaurant would be more intimate. No one from work would be there.

We were going to walk there and back. The sidewalks were (fairly) clear of snow, and my father wanted to celebrate: the new job, the new house, the family back together. He and Mom were going to drink champagne, and he didn't want to worry about driving home after.

So we walked. Or they walked. I slipped and slid and wiggled and waggled. I was unsteady, but determined to do my damnedest to keep from falling down.

Mom and Dad were arm-in-arm ahead of me, and they kept stopping as they talked. I understood that they wanted to get all lovey-dovey — parents can get weird that way. But it was driving me crazy, because they were breaking my momentum! All the stop-and-start was throwing me off balance. When we reached a corner, I scurried around to get ahead of them.

It was easier to negotiate the slippage if I could just keep moving.

After a long, slow ten minutes of walking, we reached the town center. This time, *I* was the one to stop dead in my tracks. I didn't expect it to be so nice.

It was only a few blocks long, maybe five blocks, that rose up a gentle hill. The main street was very wide, which was — I don't know, kind of relaxing in a funny way. It was as if the town was saying, Let's just spread out and have a nice little spot here. The buildings were all in the Tudor style, with dark brown beams and light cream stucco. Nothing was higher than two stories, and it was all clean and sparkly and quiet.

The most striking feature was the streetlights. I had liked the streelights in the train-station/restaurant earlier, but these were much nicer. They were taller and more elegant. They really had class. They were old iron, but they looked almost delicate, like a lovely lantern sitting at the top of a narrow tree.

Then the light itself caught my eye. The lamps were like old gaslamps. I say "like" because there was no gas. The glow came from a special bulb that seemed to move and burn like a flame. They were beautiful.

So far, I was liking Flickerbridge. I could see myself hanging out down here. The stores were definitely worth exploring. If only I had those ten thousand dollars... oh well. Still, I might find something fun for the money Mom would let me spend.

I turned to see where my parents were. They were moving slowly, about two blocks behind me. They stopped yet again. Just out of habit, I huffed in impatience, but this time I didn't really mind. It was pretty right where I was, and I felt so much like I was in the right place at the right time.

I decided to stop so my parents could catch up.

Close to where I stood was a tiny patch of sidewalk that was completely bare. No snow, no ice, no black ice. It was only six or seven inches square, but I planted myself right on it. It was great. Standing still on non-slippery ground, I felt how tense I'd gotten in all my efforts to stay upright. I moved my shoulders around and loosened up.

Just at that moment, as if by magic, it started to snow lightly. For the first time in my life, I caught snow flakes on my tongue. I tipped my head back and felt the tiny crystals fall and melt on my cheeks. They caught in my eyelashes, and danced up and down as I blinked. For a girl who'd never really seen snow, it seemed like fairyland.

Then I watched the flakes dropping steadily into the street, huge heavy flakes. It wasn't snowing hard, but it was constant.

Through the falling whiteness I saw an old lady coming down the hill toward me. She was carrying a large purse. She walked slowly, but only because she was old — she wasn't having *any* of the trouble that I had. I guess *she* had the right kind of boots!

She plodded along, sure footed, her arms bent like two angular hooks. Hmmph! If I could, I wanted to take a look at the sole of her boot, to see where I'd gone wrong.

Behind her, in the distance, somebody else clearly had the right sort of boots. At first he was only a shadow, but the shadow quickly grew, and that meant he was moving fast. In fact, he was running.

I was amazed. My boots seemed designed to make me fall. The old lady's boots let her walk normally. This man's boots actually let him run!

Soon I could tell that it was a young man, and I watched his sure-footed progress with awe. For some reason, seeing him run made me take a tiny step back, and I shimmied just a bit on his behalf. He wasn't going to slip, after all. I had to do it for him. I looked down and centered my feet on the bare spot.

He came closer and closer, never missing a footfall, and as he passed the old lady, he smoothly lifted her purse right off her arm and kept on running. There wasn't the slightest break of pace. It was a smooth, almost practiced move, and it happened oh-so fast.

Shocked by the suddenness of it, I lifted my arms and wavered unsteadily, but I couldn't speak. The old lady herself was too startled to cry out yet.

The thief's quick steps brought him directly in front of me. He growled, "Out of the way, little girl!" and gave me a rough shove.

Instead of knocking me out of the way as he intended, his blow only made me teeter more. By now, I'd had a lot of practice wobbling, and instinctively my body shifted and shook to compensate. I was practically an expert by now.

My right foot hit a patch of ice, and it slipped and shot out from under me.

Just one thought filled my mind: Don't let your butt hit the ground! Desperate to not fall, I grabbed his jacket with both hands. My hands were like tight iron claws. There was no way I was going to let go. I was NOT going down!

He cursed and twisted a little, to shake me off, which made my left foot hit the ice, and it slid away from me. In spite of my determination, it looked like I was going down. My butt was going to strike the ground after all. Worse yet, I was probably going to bring the thief down on top of me.

"Get off!" he whined, and swatted at my hands.

I scrabbled with both feet to try to stay up, still clutching his coat with both hands. It was getting ridiculous: my feet were churning like a cartoon character, and my body kept lurching up and down. A few times I accidentally kicked him while he stood still, trying to free himself from me. The way we were locked together, if he tried to get away, he was sure to fall himself.

He turned his body hard left, determined to shake me loose, but — in spite of his high-traction boots — he slipped, falling backward, and his head made a dull bonk! against the nearby iron lamppost.

Once he stopped moving, I found my little square of clear, non-icy ground, and managed to get my footing back.

By some crazy miracle, I hadn't fallen at all. The thief, on the other hand, was sitting on the ground, looking around in a daze, and he actually said, "Who hit me?"

After straightening my clothes, I reached down and took the woman's bag from his hand. I waved it at the lady, shouting, "It's safe!"

"Marcie!" my mother called anxiously.

"I'm okay!" I shouted in her direction.

A moment later, my phone was in my hand. I dialed 911 as I carefully balanced on the tiny, clean square, where I waited for the woman, my parents, and soon after, the police.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way