Worst than the inconvenience and the noise, was knowing how easily they could expose me. If they started digging into my life, even just a little, they'd soon find out that only five months ago I was a boy named Mark. And they wouldn't just know it, they'd make it national news.

---

 

1. The Patron Saint Of Tea
 

The sun was setting on the last day of 2007, and I was feeling a whole lot better.

For one thing, I was hungry, and that meant that I was done being sick from food poisoning. I'd gone from sucking ice cubes to drinking only water to eating plain, unbuttered toast... and now my stomach was growling for real food. Thank goodness!

The second bit of good news was that all the reporters had disappeared from my front lawn. They had descended on us like a swarm of locusts. Dad couldn't go outside without them crowding all around him, jostling him, and shouting questions at him. One morning one of them accidentally hit him in the head with a camera, but he kept his anger and slowly eased his car through the crowd.

"You don't know what it took to not just plow them all down," he told my mother that night.

You couldn't peek out a window without every light and camera swivelling directly at you. Just knowing they were outside was nerve-wracking. Even with the windows closed, we could hear the buzz of their vans and their talking. They never stopped. All night long their intensely bright lights shone through our curtains.

Worst than the inconvenience and the noise, was knowing how easily they could expose me. If they started digging into my life, even just a little, they'd soon find out that only five months ago I was a boy named Mark. And they wouldn't just know it, they'd make it national news.

But yesterday brought a sea change. Just as suddenly as the reporters had appeared, they were gone. They all got on their cell phones and turned their backs to my house, and group by group they packed up their tripods, cameras and lights and drove off. The swarm had moved, and the silence was stunning.

I breathed a contented sigh and looked out the front window. It was so nice to have the curtains open again.

But were they all gone? I thought I saw some movement down past the slope of our front lawn, on the sidewalk, near the street.

I got up on my knees on the couch to see better, and yes, there was one reporter left. She looked kind of familiar... probably from a New Jersey cable station. She held a microphone in one hand and a clipboard in the other. The light was dimming, but I could see her lips moving as she read.

My stomach growled again.

"Hey, Mom," I called. "Can I have a mug of hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate?" she repeated, wiping her hands on a towel as she emerged from the kitchen. "Are you sure, honey? Do you know how much fat hot chocolate has?"

"I'm not worried about my weight," I replied, laughing.

"It's not your weight, it's your digestion," she countered. "You haven't eaten anything for days but toast. I'm not sure your stomach is ready for something that rich."

"It's what I want, though," I said.

"Mmm. Well! I understand cravings," Mom replied with a smile. "Alright, one mug of hot chocolate coming up."

An idea hit me. After a quick glance over my shoulder, I said, "Mom, can you make it two mugs?"

Her eyebrows went up as she followed my gaze outside. "Now, Marcie, I'm sure that's a bad idea. Talk about walking into a lion's den!"

 

---

 

In the end we compromised. Mom made me two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream, but I had to bundle up as if we lived at the South Pole.

Down the walk I went, in my slippery-soled fur-trimmed boots, Mom's extremely puffy down-filled coat, and her day-glo magenta scarf. Of course it all was topped off with an idiotic patchwork knit hat.

Maybe Mom's idea was that if I dressed like a clown, I'd be sure not to let myself get caught on camera.

The worst part of the hat was the top: it didn't have a pom-pom; that would have been bad enough. Instead, it had a weird flappy thing that looked like a knitted fish tail.

And the gloves made it hard to hold the mugs upright. The mugs kept wanting to tip forward, so I had to hold my hands at a precarious backward angle.

I swear, sometimes it seems that mothers live to make life difficult.

When I got to the top of the stairs, the reporter looked up in surprise.

"Hey! Are you Marcie Donner?" she called.

"Yes, I'm in here somewhere," I replied. "Uh, you want a mug of hot chocolate?"

"Oooh, I'd love one!" she cried. "I'm freezing out here!"

I stopped and looked down at her. "Would you mind coming up here to get it? The mugs keep slipping and I'm afraid I'll drop them both."

She set down her clipboard and mike and ran up the stairs. She took both mugs from me so I could sit down, and the two of us perched side by side at the top of the stairs. Before taking the mug back from her, I said, "Wait a minute... don't tell my mother this, but..." and pulled off both my gloves.

I was surprised by how strikingly beautiful the newswoman was. And her hair and makeup were perfect. Even more striking was seeing how tiny she was! She had to be at least four inches shorter than me. You wouldn't have known when you saw her on TV... and I saw why: she had a box to stand on while on camera!

I pretended to not notice it.

After I took a few sips and licked the whipped cream from my lips, I said to her, "Can I ask you something? Where did all the other reporters go?"

She laughed and said, "Do you miss them? Do you want me to call them back?"

"No! No way! No offense, but I'm glad they're gone. Look what they did to our front yard!" In fact, our yard was the only one on our street that wasn't covered in snow. Our yard had been trampled into mud, with an occasional tuft of grass showing here and there. I wondered whether the grass would come back in the spring.

"No," I continued, "I don't miss them. It's just so weird that they all disappeared like that."

"Welcome to the world of short news cycles," she laughed. "You've been bumped by bigger stories. Do you watch the news? Don't you know what's happening?" When I shrugged she told me, "Gerald Ford died; his funeral was yesterday. And Saddam Hussein was hanged yesterday."

"Yuck!" I reacted with distaste. "But they aren't all running off to cover those stories, are they?"

"No," she said, "but when a big story hits, it kind of clears the deck. All the smaller stories get swept away."

"When those big stories are over, will the reporters come back?"

"No," she smiled. "You've had your moment. You'll be old news... unless you shoot another bad guy."

"I don't plan on doing that again soon," I replied. "Or ever!"

We slurped some more chocolate. "So how come you're still here?"

"Oh," she replied with a sigh, "I managed to convince my boss that you're still a story. But I can only post one more piece and then I'm gone, too. In fact, I was just setting up to do it. Hey— would you mind, um..."

And so we clinked our chocolate mugs for the camera, pretending it was midnight. She asked me about my New Years resolutions. Without a moment's thought, with all my heart, I immediately replied, "I'm going to keep a low profile this year."

She laughed and said, "Good luck with that!"

Then she turned off the camera and the light. She packed up her gear, gave me a hug, and drove away.

Now the street was perfectly quiet and clear.

 

---

 

That night, New Years Eve, I slept through the fireworks and the horns and the cheering, but at 7:30 the next morning, the first morning of 2008, my eyes snapped open and I was wide awake. The house was quiet, but I heard a soft sound from somewhere downstairs. It sounded like someone crying.

I sat up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. I wrapped myself in my robe, stepped into my slippers, and padded down the stairs.

Even though I walked as quietly as I could, whoever was crying must have heard me, because they abruptly stopped sobbing and quickly began sniffing, blowing their nose, and clearing their throat.

Mom and Ida were sitting at the kitchen table. Neither was saying a word — which was very unusual — and both of them were smiling at me. Ida's smile was the brave smile that says I wasn't crying, but her red nose and eyes told me that she had.

Mom was smiling, too: the kind of smile that tells a child that everything's fine when it clearly isn't.

"Ida, what's wrong?" I asked.

She sniffed and opened her eyes wide, trying to keep the tears in. "Maisie's dad..." she began to say, then abruptly stopped. She swallowed hard and started blinking. Whatever it was, it was just too hard to say.

Mom stepped in and quietly told me, "Maisie's father won't let her come home. He's keeping her in California. Indefinitely."

I frowned. "Why not?"

Mom continued to speak in an undertone, as if Ida couldn't hear. "He says it's too dangerous."

"What!?"

"The kidnapping," Mom explained. "Maisie was the target. So he says she's safer out there. He lives in a gated community, remember?"

"But he can't do that!" I blurted out angrily. "Can he?"

"Not legally," Mom admitted. "Ida's taken it to family court, but..."

Ida took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back and tried to give her an encouraging smile.

"But the kidnapper is in jail," I protested.

"I know," Mom said. "It's just a matter of time before Maisie comes back, but she might not be here when school starts."

Ida me asked in a croaking voice if I could call Maisie and to see how she's doing, "... and if you could get any news."

"I'll call her later," I promised. "It's still early out there. It's like 4:30 in the morning for them."

Ida nodded mutely and sighed. Then she looked at my mother, then looked at me, and smiling shyly asked, "Does Marcie know the news yet?"

"What news?" I asked.

Mom grinned and replied, "I want to get some breakfast in her first." She stood up. "Do you want anything, Ida?"

"Just more tea."

After cooking some bacon, Mom cracked an egg into the pan and exclaimed in surprise. "Will you look at that! It's a double yolk!"

She showed it to Ida first, and the two women got this goofy Mommish isn't that significant! look on their faces. Then Mom turned the pan my way, to show me. They looked expectantly, as if it was a divine revelation.

"What?" I said, utterly bewildered. "Is that bad? Is it safe to eat?"

They both laughed. "Of course it's safe to eat!" Mom replied. "It's just... interesting."

"Does this have something to do with the news you have to tell me?" I asked. It was too early in the morning for guessing games.

"Maybe it does... and maybe it doesn't," Mom said in a mysterious tone, and the two women burst into laughter.

"Oh, just tell me!"

"After you eat, honey."

Ida smiled, and looking to change the subject asked, "When *does* school start? I don't remember offhand."

"It's next Monday," I told her.

"Why so late?"

"They can't start until after the Epiphany."

"Mmm," Mom said, licking some butter off her finger, "And what is the Epiphany?"

"Who the hell knows?" I joked.

"Marcie!" Mom scolded.

"Oh, it's some religious holiday."

"And what exactly does it celebrate?"

"Um..."

"Sounds like you should look it up today."

I didn't want to do that, so I told her, "Oh, I just remembered: it's for Saint Epiphany. It's her day."

Mom looked skeptical. "And what is she famous for?"

"Oh," I said, and casting around the kitchen for an answer. "She's the patron saint of tea."

"Hmmph," Mom replied, as she set my plate in front of me. "Well, I don't know what the right answer is, but I'm sure that what you said is wrong."

I shrugged and popped some bacon in my mouth. Bacon! It never tasted so good.

"So what will you do this week?" Ida asked me.

"I dunno," I sighed. "Maybe I'll get a job."

Ida brightened at that. "Oh, you know what? Tea! The Tea Shop on the Corner is looking for help. It's a cute place, you could go there. It's in the town center; you can walk from here."

"And what is it called?"

"The Tea Shop on the Corner."

"Yes, but what is its name?"

Ida laughed. "That *is* the name, Marcie: The Tea Shop on the Corner."

I set my fork down and wiped my plate with my toast. "Okay, Mom: *now* can you tell me the news? We're not moving again, are we? I'm not changing schools?"

"No, no, nothing like that. This is good news, happy news." She and Ida beamed at me. It made me pretty nervous.

"So?" I prompted her.

"I'm pregnant, Marcie."

My jaw fell open and hit the table.

"And I'm going to have twins."

My jaw hit the floor.

I sat there staring and didn't say a word. I couldn't comprehend it. At last, I managed to say, "But you can't! You're... you're not supposed to!"

She smiled and said, "What do you mean, I'm not supposed to? How old do you think I am, Marcie?"

"It's not that... it's just that..." I was at a loss for words. It didn't compute. "I mean... there's you, and me, and Dad. We're the Donner family. We're a family already. We don't need more."

"Well, now there will be two more." Mom was still smiling. It seemed like my shock and disbelief amused her a little.

"And when are you due?" Ida asked.

"June 3rd," Mom said. "They're going to be summer babies."

"Where will they go?" I asked. "Where are you going to put them?"

Mom laughed as if I'd said the funniest thing. "The room across from yours will be the nursery."

"Just think, Marcie," Ida said, giving my hand another squeeze, "You can have so much fun babysitting!"

I was speechless. What did we need a pair of babies for? Who ordered twins? For sure it wasn't me!

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

There was still one more shot I had to fire. "Maze," I ventured, "Do you think this Chrissie might be a gold digger?"

"I dunno," she replied, and I could almost see her shrug. "I guess she'd *have* to be to put up with my dad. But anyway, she's good for him. He's not as much of an asshole when she's around. I think they might get married."

I sure wasn't going to tell Ida that last bit of news!

---

 

2. Testing The Water
 

My mother told me that I looked pale before I left the house, and as I walked to Flickerbridge's town center, I felt pale. Being sick had taken a lot out of me.

I shook off the feeling of weakness, squared my shoulders, and walked a little taller. I was done feeling sick. I was fine, I just had to get my energy back. And though it was a colder than I would have liked, it was good to be outside and walking... especially after hearing my mother's news.

I huffed loudly in exasperation, and my breath floated up like a cloud in the icy air. Twins!

My mood lightened a little when I got to Flickerbridge center. It aimed at being quaint, but it was more cute in an old-timey way, with its faux gaslamps and dated architecture. All the buildings were only one or two stories. Most were in the Tudor style, with dark brown exposed beams and light cream stucco. The rest were brick, with decorative concrete elements, like arches and window frames.

The Tea Shop on the Corner was well named, for it stood on its own little corner, surrounded by grass, and dwarfed by an elm tree. In fact, it was because of the elm tree that I'd never noticed the store before. It hid half of the building. More than that, the building was nestled into the trees surrounding it that it simply blended in, and became part of the background. The path to the front door curved gently around the tree, and led to the arched doorway. It wasn't until you got around the tree that you could see the terra-cotta tile roof, which reminded me a little of home. You see that sort of roof more often in California than in New Jersey. To the right of the doorway was a large picture window, emblazoned with the shop's logo: the image showed a gigantic teapot sitting on the corner of two streets. The corner itself pointed straight at you, and the teapot's steaming spout pointed left, to the door. On the front of the teapot was the image of the elm tree. It was clever and nicely done, but I wondered how much business they had, since it was all so easy to miss.

A bell jangled as I went inside, and a girl looked up at me from behind the counter. There was no one else in the place except for a man who sat in the far left corner: a sandy-haired, good-looking man. He was talking very intently with a woman who sat with her back to me.

Clearly I couldn't interrupt that conversation, so I walked over to the girl. She seemed to be suspicious of me, and twice she shot sour looks at the people talking in the corner.

Still, there was no one else to ask, so when I reached the counter I said, "Hi, My name is Marcie Donner, and I'm looking for a job. I heard that you need help here."

She looked at me a moment without smiling, then said in a flat tone, "Oh yeah, we need help here all right."

I frowned and asked her, "What does that mean? Someone told me you need another person here. Are you saying you don't?" I looked over my shoulder at the empty shop.

"No," the girl said, "We really need help. Nobody's here right now—" she looked pointedly at the people at the table in the corner, as if to say that they were nobody "—but you just missed the crowd. You couldn't have got in the door if you came a little earlier."

"Oh!" I said, quite surprised. "Well, who can I talk to?"

"Aren't you talking to me?"

"I mean about the job."

"You can talk to my father." She nodded toward the corner. "That is, as soon as that woman is finished picking his bones."

She said it in voice just loud enough to be heard by the woman at the table, who turned her head slightly to look. Then she saw me, and did one of those foot-to-head sweeps, taking me in, and making me feel like a piece of merchandise.

I shifted uncomfortably and turned back to the girl. "So, I'm Marcie," I repeated. "What's your name?"

"I know who you are," she said. "We go to the same school. I'm Jordan." Then she turned her head to look at something and I saw her face in full profile.

That's when it clicked. I knew who she was. "I remember you!" I told her. "We had detention together last year. I didn't recognize you until I saw you in profile." Sounds stupid, I know, but we weren't allowed to speak or sit near each other, so I only saw her from the side.

Jordan laughed. It was such a relief to see that sullen face break into a smile, but it immediately vanished when the woman in the corner stood up. She held out her left hand, and Jordan's father nervously took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. Jordan reacted with with a scoff of disgust.

The two shook hands and the woman went to the door. She opened it, stopped and turned. "Goodbye, Jordan," she said, looking directly in the girl's eyes with an air of superiority. Jordan held the woman's gaze, unblinking, but didn't answer. The woman smiled and left.

"Jordan, you need to be polite with our customers," her father gently scolded.

"She's not a customer," Jordan countered. "She's a vulture."

He glanced at me and pressed his lips into a tight flat line. "Now is not the time for this, Jordan," he told her, and turned to me. "What can I do for you, Miss?"

 

---

 

"Sounds pretty weird," Maisie commented.

"It was very weird," I replied. "Do you know that Jordan girl? She's a sophmore."

"Never saw her that I know of," Maisie replied. "I don't know any sophmores. So did you get the job?"

"No," I said. "Or not yet. Her father said he had to wait and see how an investment turned out."

"When will that be?"

"He didn't say."

I heard Maisie bite into an apple on the other end of the line.

"So, Maze..." I began, gingerly dipping my toe in the water, "Is your father going to let you come back?"

"I dunno," she said, her mouth full of food.

I grimaced, and tried to ignore her crunching and eating noises.

"Do you care? Do you want to come back?"

"I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't know," she repeated. "I miss you, but we talk on the phone. I kind of miss my mother, but don't tell her that. I don't miss Blessed Yvette and the nuns and the stupid uniforms."

"Oh, Maze!"

"It's nice out here! For one thing, it isn't cold. If you want to be cold, you have to go somewhere cold on purpose. My father is an ass, and I hate him, but I don't see him very much."

"So what do you do?"

"I told you about his girlfriend Chrissie, remember? She is so cool! She's with me all day... well, most days... until my father gets home. Then she's with him. I have some friends out here, but they're all still on vacation, until school starts."

"So... you go shopping with her? Is that what you do?"

"We did at first. We do sometimes. But you can only do so much shopping. Now we go on hikes, camping, stuff like that."

"You do?" It was hard to picture Maisie hiking.

"Yeah! It's great. I even put on some weight! Not a lot. I'm not a fatty like... well, I'm still my usual svelte self, but now I have some muscle."

I shook my head in disbelief. I didn't know what to say.

"Oh! and I quit smoking!" she announced.

"Really? That's great! How did you do it?"

"Oh, it just kind of happened. I guess being outdoors so much, and... oh, did I tell you I'm a vegan now?"

"A vegan? Is that like a vegetarian?"

"Yeah, kinda. Chrissie's vegan, so she got me into it. I'm even cooking!"

"Wow!"

"Yeah! I'm like a whole different person now."

"I was just gonna say that, Maze."

"Yeah. The only bad thing is that Chrissie is looking at schools for me. I was hoping to just stay home."

Aha! "You mean like boarding schools? Is she trying to get rid of you?"

"No!" Maisie scoffed. "You gotta quit watching those Lifetime for Women movies. She says it's gotta be somewhere close, so she can drive me. We go together, talk to teachers. She even talks to me about college, and what I want to be!"

Maisie crunched into her apple and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments.

"You know what? She is, like, the only adult who talks to me like a person, and actually listens to what I say!"

"Yeah..." I said vaguely. "I think you told me that..." I felt like I was losing ground. It sure didn't sound like Maisie was coming back, and it sure didn't sound like she wanted to come back! I pictured Ida and wondered what I'd be able to tell her.

And not only Ida... what about me? I could feel myself sinking in dismay. As difficult as she was, Maisie was the best friend I had since moving to New Jersey. Was I going to lose her so soon?

But I roused myself. There was still one more shot I had to fire. "Maze," I ventured, "Do you think this Chrissie might be a gold digger?"

"I dunno," she replied, and I could almost see her shrug. "I guess she'd have to be to like my father. But anyway, she's good for him. He's not as much of an asshole when she's around. I think they might get married."

I sure wasn't going to tell Ida that last bit of news!

And that was all I had to say, really... I felt pretty blown out by Maisie's breezy tone, and the big difference in her. She seemed healthy and happy. She seemed better out there. Could I really be selfish enough to want her to come back?

"So hey!" Maisie countered. "Enough about me! You gotta tell me what crazy stuff you've been up to! Taken out any more bad guys?"

"No, no bad guys, Maze. No nothing," I replied. "Aside from the job, and — oh!" I groaned, remembering that I hadn't told her: "My mother is pregnant."

Maisie replied with an expletive.

"With twins," I added.

Maisie doubled down on the expletives.

"My God, Marcie!" she said. "That is so messed up!"

"I know," I said.

"That is so wrong!" she went on. "You know what? I have seen this, and it is a raw deal. You should seriously consider running away from home."

"Oh, Maze, I wouldn't do that."

"I was only kidding. But seriously: You go from being an only child, which is fine, to being the oldest. Do you know what that means? It means that your parents expect you to work. Your life becomes a job."

I sighed heavily.

"It's not just babysitting. You have to be like a parent to the little monsters. It's just not fair."

I made a whining noise.

Maisie said, "Listen, next summer when the rug rats pop out, you should come out here. I can get my dad to fly you."

"Really?" I said, brightening.

"Oh yeah!" she said. "He'd do it. If Chrissie asked him, he would. And I can ask her to ask him."

"Wow, that would be great!" I said. A sense of relief and escape spread over me. I relaxed and smiled.

We chatted for a little while after that, and just before we hung up, Maisie asked me a question.

"Hey, Marce. I wanted to ask you... Have you, um, did you tell your... secret to anybody else?"

"My secret?"

"Yes, you know, your ex-Marky-ness?"

I blushed. "No. You're the only one who knows. I mean, aside from—"

She interrupted, "—aside from adults? 'Cause they don't count."

"Aside from adults, you're the only one who knows."

"Oh, cool! You didn't tell Susan?"

"No."

She was silent for a moment. "Listen, if you tell anyone else, will you let me know?"

I heard the longing in her voice, that need to feel an exclusive kind of friendship, and I wanted that too.

"I'll tell you. If I ever do, I'll let you know, but I doubt that it will happen."

"Good," she said, and I said, "Good," too.

Then we hung up, both of us in a much better mood than before.

I did a happy dance around the phone, laughing to myself. The summer of babies would turn into a summer of sun for me and Maisie. I'd escape from the crying and the diapers and the aren't they cute stuff.

And then the phone rang. I grabbed it, thinking it was Maisie calling back again. "Hallooo?" I said. "The Donner rezzy-dence."

"Marcie?" a man's voice asked. "This is Mr. Fisby, Jordan's dad. From the Tea Shop. Listen, I've gotten some... well, some unexpected funding. If you want to start work tomorrow, I'd be glad to have you. Can you come some time mid-morning so we can fill out your working papers?"

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

She gave me a suspicious look. "You're not going to enter that goofy pageant, are you?"

I blushed. "Um, sure. Why not?"

Susan huffed loudly. "Why not? In the first place, it's degrading. I can't believe the school even does such a thing, in this day and age. In the second place, you can't win. And in the third place, you are not that kind of girl."

---

[OTHER STORIES]

 

3. No Beating The Classics
 

I worked every day until school started, four hours a day. Jordan was right: the place was incredibly busy. The hardest part was learning to describe all the teas. Mr Fisby made me taste them all, but they all seemed pretty much the same.

It was a good job. I was making money. Jordan worked hard and didn't complain, but she rarely spoke or smiled. I caught her staring at me a lot, but her face was so closed I couldn't read her expression. Was she mad at me for some reason? Did she not like me?

I felt a little less uncomfortable when I saw that she treated her father much the same way. It didn't seem to affect him, though. Her father pretty much ignored Jordan's sullen nature. He was all business, all about the customers and the shop, and when he spoke to her it was more like a boss speaking to an employee than a father speaking to his daughter.

Of course I didn't like seeing that... it kind of hurt, actually. It made me think of Maisie and her parents.

Then again, maybe Jordan just didn't like working in the tea shop. You're kind of stuck when you're born into a family business.

Aside from that, I liked the situation. Mr Fisby was nice to me. He wasn't exactly friendly... I guess you could say he was professionally kind.

The really big surprise was how much energy the job required. You wouldn't think that waiting tables could be physically taxing, but honestly all the running, the cleaning, the paying attention and being nice to everyone... it wore me out!

At the same time, I could feel my strength and endurance coming back. The first night I was exhausted, but less so the second and third. And each morning I woke up with more energy!

By Sunday, I almost felt like my old self again.

Still, after a week at the tea shop, I was ready for a break, so school almost seemed like a vacation.

The first day, Monday, began with an assembly. Susan and I sat next to each other, whispering our news to each other, mainly about Maisie. Susan didn't seem surprised that Maisie wasn't back, but Susan was a hard person to surprise.

In fact, Susan and I already knew the biggest news, the one that caught every other girl unawares: I'm talking about our new principal. The whole auditorium was abuzz when Miss Overmore announced that Sister Honoraria had retired, but the murmuring really kicked into high gear when she said that *she* was taking the old nun's place.

That the principal had changed was news enough. Then add to that the fact that Miss Overmore was the first principal at BYHS who wasn't a nun. And not only was she not a nun, she was also the first black woman to ever hold the post.

Everyone liked Miss Overmore, but we also knew that she brooked no nonsense. She was beautiful, graceful, and lovely, but she could turn to steel in a moment.

"Now that you've met your new principal — me," she was saying, "the next order of business is to introduce our new girls. When I call your name, please stand up and say hello, so we can see who you are."

Two of the new students were freshmen. The first girl, Mallory, leaped to her feet when called and let out a loud, "Howwww-deeee!" like Minnie Pearl. Everyone laughed, and Mallory bowed in several directions before sitting down. Miss Overmore ignored the disruption and kept a serious face.

The second girl, Blair, didn't respond. Miss Overmore called her name twice with no result. Heads were swivelling left and right, back and forth, wondering where she might be. Finally, when Miss Overmore called her name the third time, the girl let out a high-pitched squeal and leaped to her feet, crying with great indignation, "MALLORY! WHY DID YOU PINCH ME?" in voice that filled the auditorium.

Everyone tittered and giggled, and Blair, who was clutching her behind with both hands, looked around the room stupified, her mouth hanging open. It seemed to take her half a minute to come to herself, when she sat down quickly with a loud thump!

Miss Overmore had to pound on the lectern with a book to restore order. Once quiet returned, she introduced the rest of the new girls without incident.

At the end of the assembly, Miss Overmore said, "One more announcement, and then you may go to your second period classes.

"Tomorrow, we will have another assembly, same time, same location. We will have a special guest who will tell us all about the 'Madonna of the Future' project, which some of you may already know about."

There was a loud general shuffling as everyone got to their feet, gathering their things. Miss Overmore's voice called out one final announcement that was nearly lost in the din:

"Applications for the Miss BYHS pageant must be turned in by end of school Friday. Blank forms are at the office."

We had some time before our first class, so Susan and I walked slowly, chatting. Even so, we got to the classroom before the teacher arrived. The new girl Mallory was standing behind the teacher's chair, straightening it. It was odd, but we didn't make anything of it.

Mallory ran to grab a seat in the back row. Susan and I sat on the right side of the room... not in the first row, but closer to the front.

When the bell rang, the teacher, one of the older nuns, walked in quickly. She pulled out her chair and sat down heavily in it.

As soon as her took her seat, a long, loud frrrapppp! was heard — the unmistakable sound of a fart.

We all laughed at the unexpected noise, but no one as much as Mallory. She threw her head back, bared her teeth, and guffawed. Her haw! haw! haw! was so loud, it was almost alarming.

The nun jumped to her feet, face crimson, and stared at the seat of her chair. With a expression of distaste, she picked up a limp whoopie cushion with two fingers.

"Oh!" Mallory wheezed, "There's no beating the classics!"

"Girls, really!" the nun exclaimed, and dropped the offending item in the trash.

The next moment, Blair burst into the room, wide-eyed, as if she'd been lost for days. She stood by the door and looked open-mouthed around the room, unblinking.

"Come in and sit down," the teacher told her. When Blair didn't move, the nun added, "Take a seat by Susan," and gestured to an empty seat on Susan's left.

Blair scurried over and threw herself into the seat, scattering her belongings all around her. She was nearly trembling, she was so nervous. Then she gasped as if in alarm and, turning to Susan, asked, "You are Susan, aren't you?"

"Yes," Susan replied. "You're in the right place. Just calm down, take a few breaths, okay?"

Blair smiled uncertainly and looked around. Her quick head motions reminded me of a little bird.

"All right, girls," the nun began. "Please take out your Math books and turn to page seven. Page seven in your Math books."

I plopped the heavy book on my desk and turned the pages. So did everyone else...

... except Blair. She reached into her bag, and with a cry of dismay pulled out her History book. Wordlessly she showed it to the teacher, who said, "All right, Blair, look on with Susan."

Susan sighed and pulled her desk close to Blair's.

The rest of the hour passed without event, but when I passed the trash can I noticed that the whoopie cushion had gone.

When Susan and I sat down in English class, I looked at Mallory, who was squirming with excitement in the back row. "Susan, I think Mallory is going to try the whoopie cushion again."

Susan rolled her eyes, and sure enough, when the teacher sat down, we were treated to a lively frrrapppp!

Like the previous teacher, this nun, redfaced, dropped the limp bladder into the trash.

"Look at how Mallory laughs," Susan said in an irritated tone. "She looks like a donkey braying."

Then, just like before, Blair burst in, crashed next to Susan, and pulled out her Math book when it was time to read.

"For today, just look on with Susan," the teacher said, and Susan, looking daggers at Blair, pulled her desk over.

 

---

 

In the cafeteria line I asked Susan whether she knew what the "Madonna of the Future" project was.

She shrugged. "All I know is, it's something about a painting. I don't think it has anything to do with us."

We sat down at our usual table, just the two of us, and looked at each other. Susan said, "It's going to be quiet without Maisie."

Before I could reply, Mallory noisily dropped her tray next to mine, kicked her chair a little space from the table, and dropped into it with a grunt. She grabbed some french fries and shoved them into her mouth.

I looked at her in surprise. Susan eyed her with indignation.

"Sumphin wrong?" Mallory asked, her mouth full of food.

Before Susan could answer, Blair came up, wide-eyed as usual, and took the seat next to Susan. She looked around the room and at the three of us.

Mallory burst into her haw-haw-haw and shouted, "Blair! Where's your food?"

"What?" Blair asked, searching all around her.

"You did the whole lunch line and didn't take any food," Mallory crowed.

Blair sighed, looking offended, and wandered back to the end of the line.

"Blair is the original dumb blonde," she said.

Susan huffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Mallory, Blair's hair is black."

Mallory smiled. "Yeah... See? She couldn't even get *that* right!"

"Oh, boy," I groaned.

Susan and I finished eating as quickly as we could. She asked me in a low voice, "I'm going to the library. You want to come?"

"No," I said. "I need to run by the office."

She gave me a suspicious look. "You're not going to enter that goofy pageant, are you?"

I blushed. "Um, sure. Why not?"

She scoffed. "A beauty pageant?"

My blush deepened. "Yes, sure, why not?" I repeated.

Susan huffed loudly. "Why not? In the first place, it's degrading. I can't believe the school even does such a thing, in this day and age. In the second place, you can't win. And in the third place, you are not that kind of girl."

"Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence!" I said, feeling a little offended.

"Oh, Marcie! Look: you're not a girly girl. You know this. You're... an action hero. You knock out bad guys, you shoot kidnappers in the foot. That's who you are. You don't tap dance or twirl batons. You don't worry about moisturizer and eye shadow. You wear this uniform day after day and you never try to accessorize it. I mean, face it: you're practically a boy."

"What!?"

"Hey, no offense! I'm no femme fatale myself. I'm just saying—" She sighed. "Marcie, you're cute. Boys like you. Everybody likes you, but you are not the most feminine female.

"Besides," she went on, "Only a senior can win."

"What if an underclassman is prettier?"

"Oh, look," she said. "When Miss Overmore was a junior here, she entered the pageant, and she should have won. She got more votes than anybody else — a huge majority — but they fudged it and made a senior win. They didn't even let her be the runner up!"

"Really?" I asked. "How do you know this?"

"Oh, come on," she scoffed. "I've read every issue of the school newspaper, all the way back to the beginning. What do you think I do in the library? I read. And, I ask questions."

"Hmmph," I said, thinking.

"Even if a underclassman *could* win, do you think you could beat Samantha deVoss?" She gestured with her chin at one of the sophmores.

She was right. Samantha was the most beautiful girl in the school. I'd heard she actually worked as a model and had even been on TV. "Talk about a Madonna: if Rafael was alive today, he would paint Samantha."

I sighed. "Okay. So I'm not the fairest of them all. But I still can enter, can't I?"

"I guess," Susan said. "But why? Why would you ever want to? What's the point if you can't win?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I'm curious. I just want to. I want to see what it's like. I want to have that experience."

Susan relaxed and smiled. "Okay," she said. "I guess I understand. Sorry I gave you a hard time, but those contests..." she shook her head and shivered in distaste. "Anyway, I hope you have fun."

"Thanks! And Susan," I added with a laugh, "I'll try to not do anything degrading."

 

---

 

The next class was History, and guess what. Mallory was squirming away in the back row, already stifling her laughter. But this time, when the teacher walked in, she pulled out her chair and glanced at the seat. Still standing, she put her bag on her desk, reached in, and drew out a pair of scissors.

She held up the rubber bladder and cut it neatly in half. She threw the pieces on her desk like a trophy. No one would ever make it fart again.

Susan turned to give a superior smile at Mallory, but Mallory only shrugged.

"Just wait," Mallory whispered, "Tomorrow, I'll make this look like child's play."

"Tomorrow will be too late," Susan whispered back. "It already looks like child's play."

Mallory smiled and said, "We'll see."

Susan opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Blair, who once again burst into the room, and — as Susan softly exclaimed "Damn!" — crashed into the seat next to Susan.

"Take out your History books," the teacher told us, and inevitably Blair pulled out her English text and showed it with a mournful look to the teacher.

The teacher opened her mouth, but Susan put up both hands and said, "Wait a moment, sister, I've got this." She grabbed Blair's bag, rummaged a bit, and pulled out Blair's History book, which she plopped on the girl's desk.

"Thank you, Susan," Blair said, with a breathless smile.

"Oh!" Susan groaned quietly in my ear. "Nobody can be that stupid, can they? It has to be an act."

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

"Catch this one," Mallory said, spinning the tape rapidly ahead.

"No," Susan insisted. "I don't want to hear any—"

Mallory interrupted. "Hold on there. These aren't just any old, ordinary, run-of-the-mill farts," she explained in a low, confidential tone. "You won't find these farts on the street. These are special."

Susan scoffed. "And what makes them so special?" she asked scornfully.

---

 

4. The Mallory Variations
 

As I walked home, my thoughts revolved around Maisie. She sounded so good out there in California, so healthy and so happy, too!

At the same time, I couldn't forget Ida's tears. I know that Maisie hated her mother for some of the things she'd done, but Ida regretted everything and had an enormous sense of guilt.

All the long walk home, I turned it over and over in my mind, but the more I thought about it, the more confused and upset I felt. I'd tried to talk to Susan about it, but for her the situation was cut and dried: "If Maisie is better off in California, she should stay in California!"

The problem was... I missed that mean little bony girl!

I knew her mother did, too. Much more than me.

By the time I got home, I was desperate enough to talk to my mother about it.

Unfortunately, Mom kept zeroing in on all the wrong things.

When I explained what a good influence Chrissie was having on Maisie, Mom countered, "Oh, it's just a ploy. Once she marries Maisie's father, she'll drop that girl like a dirty sock."

"Mom! Maisie really likes her!"

"That will make it all the worse."

"Mom," I sighed. "Mom! I didn't want to talk about Chrissie. I just mentioned her to show how well Maisie is doing in California. She quit smoking, she put on some weight..."

Mom looked thoughtful. "Maisie is spending all of her time with this bimbo, Chrissie? And she never sees her father?"

I gaped in offended astonishment. "Mom! Chrissie's not a bimbo!"

"Have you seen her? Have you talked to her?"

"No... but you haven't either!"

"I think it's safe to assume it," Mom asserted. "What other kind of woman could she be?"

"What does it matter?" I asked.

"It could be relevant in a custody hearing," Mom replied.

"Oh, no!" I cried. "You can't tell Ida any of this!"

Now it was Mom's turn to look astonished. "Marcie Donner, I am shocked at you! Do you *understand* how Ida is suffering? That poor woman can hardly get through the day! But why I am asking if you understand? I know that you don't. You can't! You have no idea! You can't imagine how a mother feels when her daughter is..." she stopped, waving her hands, inarticulate for a few moments. "When you were in California with your aunt, I was in agony. I had trouble sleeping at night! And I knew you were coming home. Ida has no idea when she'll ever see her daughter again."

I softly suggested, "She could move to California."

Mom's face went red with indignation. "No, Marcie, no. I'm sorry, but you're seeing all of this from the wrong end of the stick."

"I'm not! I'm just talking about where Maisie is better off!"

"She is better off with her mother." Mom was really hot. I don't know when I've seen her so angry and upset. "Do you think her father cares about what's good for Maisie? Do you?"

I hesitated, but there was only one answer: "No."

"Do you think Ida does?"

"Yes."

Mom waved her hands as if to say See? Then she said, "Why do you think Maisie's father is keeping her in California? Why?"

I swallowed hard. "To hurt Ida," I said in a low voice.

"What did you say?" Mom asked. "I didn't hear you."

"TO HURT IDA," I said, more loudly.

"Exactly," Mom concluded. "The girl belongs with her mother. That's all there is to say. End of discussion."

This whole discussion had gone terribly wrong. It wasn't what I wanted to talk about at all. I actually started trembling, I was so upset.

"Mom," I said, as quiet and as steady as I could manage, "could you please just listen to me for just a moment? This is a real problem for me."

She looked at me in silence for a moment, so I added, "Please? Please, Mom?"

She gave a quick nod, but I could see the fire smoldering inside her.

"The thing is... that — for me... I'm just talking about me, now — I wonder if it's right for me to try to get her back here because I miss her, even if I think she's better off out there."

Mom was silent for a while, until at last she said, "I'm sorry, Marcie, but I don't see how this is about you at all. You can't bring her back. This is something between her mother and her father." I opened my mouth to speak, but she gently put up her hand. "I understand that you're upset. You miss your friend. But even if this Chrissie is as wonderful as Maisie paints her, she still needs to spend time with Ida, because Ida is her mother. You don't get to choose your mother, and you don't get to change.

"And there is one more thing: Maisie's father is breaking the law by keeping her out there. He thinks he has an excellent excuse, but we both know he's only doing it to hurt Ida. You said so yourself, and it's the truth."

I twisted my lips into what I hoped passed for a brave look, or at least a look of resignation, but it didn't fool my mother. "Come here, Marcie," she said, and gave me a long, gentle hug.

Then she had to go and spoil it by saying, "We have to make the most of these days together, while you're still my only child."

 

---

 

Susan and I walked to school together the next morning. Mallory was outside the school, leaning against the wall.

"My god," Susan said. "Look at him." And she shook her head.

"Susan, you called him a him," I pointed out.

"So did you!" she countered.

I sighed.

"She's like a boy," Susan said, and I had to admit that Mallory did look very masculine, with her big shoulders and head. Her body didn't have any curves, and the way she hunched her shoulders, it was hard to tell whether she had any breasts.

"Maybe she's just a geeky girl," I offered.

Obviously, it wasn't a subject I wanted to talk about. For one thing, I wasn't so far from being a boy myself in some respects... and putting Mallory in a bad light would put me in a bad light as well — at least in my mind. Besides that, I was still upset from my conversation with my mother.

"Hey!" Mallory called to us, "Just the people I wanted to see!"

"Why?" Susan asked suspiciously.

"Just listen," Mallory said, pulling a tiny tape recorder from her bag. She began chortling even before she hit the PLAY button. A high, squealing fart came from the machine. She threw her head back, baring her teeth, and brayed out her loud haw-haw-haw!

"Stop that!" Susan commanded. "That isn't funny! It's gross! Nobody wants to hear fart noises."

"Catch this one," Mallory said, spinning the tape rapidly ahead.

"No," Susan insisted. "I don't want to hear any—"

Mallory interrupted. "Hold on there. These aren't just any old, ordinary, run-of-the-mill farts," she explained in a low, confidential tone. "You won't find these farts on the street. These are special."

Susan scoffed. "And what makes them so special?" she asked scornfully.

"These are the Principal's farts," Mallory said. "Miss Overmore's. I sneaked into her private bathroom yesterday before school and hid this behind the john. It's sound-activated, so it picked up every little toot," and so saying, she clicked it on. More disgusting noises emerged until I grabbed her hands and pushed the OFF button.

"Let's go, Susan," I said. "Mallory, don't do this stuff. It's gross and it's wrong."

Susan and I entered the building and headed for the auditorium. The assembly was for the whole school, so there was a traffic jam in the halls. Over my shoulder I saw Mallory trying to push her way through the crowd to us.

"Why did she play that for us?" Susan asked. "Why is she latching on to us?"

"I think it's because you react so much," I offered, and Susan sighed.

"I can't help it," she replied. "It's disgusting. And I don't like her. She's the first person in this whole school that I really don't like. Maisie had her... her issues, but she was still our friend. She was still likeable. Most of the time, anyway."

"Yeah," I agreed, and my spirit fell. Seeing that, Susan said, "I miss her, too, you know. I wish she was here. We had a lot of fun last year, the three of us, and I never had friends like you two before. I do want her to come back."

I smiled and at that moment the logjam of girls in front of us let loose and we were swept inside, where we took seats not too close to the front. Mallory bustled in, but ended up at the opposite end of our row. She waved to me and Susan and showed another small gadget in her hand.

"What is that supposed to be?" Susan wondered aloud. As if in answer, Mallory mouthed the words remote control.

"wee-woh-woh-woh?" Susan scoffed. "What is she trying to say?"

"Remote control?" I said, just as Miss Overmore took to the stage and tapped on the microphone. A light went on in my head.

"Oh, no, Susan... I hope she didn't hook up her fart tape to the PA system."

Susan fell silent, weighing the possibility. Mallory was looking our way, chortling silently.

"I don't want to know," Susan declared with finality. "I refuse to be her audience." With that, she sat back in her chair, eyes forward.

Miss Overmore called us all to order, and began, "Good morning, girls. I'm going to very briefly introduce our speaker and let him take the floor. We have as our guest this morning a local artist of high repute, Mr. Theo Grenadilla. One of his paintings actually hangs in the Vatican's Collection of Modern Religious Art, and he has been commissioned to paint a madonna for the cathedral in this diocese. He will be here in the days ahead to look for a model for this painting..."

The room erupted in a buzz of talk. Miss Overmore rapped her knuckles on the podium to restore quiet.

"A letter has been sent home to inform your parents about this project. A student will be appointed to accompany Mr. Grenadilla on his visits."

Miss Overmore had to quiet the buzz of conversation a second time, and then she said, "The only thing that remains to be said is that if your parents... or you, for that matter... do not wish to be considered for this... honor, you can register your preference at the office.

"Now, please give a warm welcome to Mr. Grenadilla."

As we applauded, a small man climbed the stairs to the stage. He wore an old-fashioned suit and wire-rimmed glasses. His full, dark, wavy hair was visibly graying. He was fairly thin, and had a thin smile. He looked at the sea of female faces and blinked two or three times.

Then he clapped his hands and began to speak. "Good morning, girls! I would like to show you some images while I speak, to help you see and understand." He said the words see and understand with heavy emphasis, as if he was grinding them up and forcing them out. The lights went down, and in the darkness a brief, tiny squeal was heard. "Oh, no," I whispered, "I hope that wasn't—" but Susan cut me off with a sharp shhh! I wasn't quite sure about that sound until I heard Mallory's stifled snigger from the end of the row. Susan glanced at me, sat up a little straighter, and whispered back, "Sorry, but I really do not want to know."

Mr. Grenadilla asked, "When we hear the word madonna, what do we think?" He waited a brief moment and up came a slide showing the singer Madonna. It was the cover photo from Like A Virgin, where she sulks in a chair, dressed like a bridesmaid.

"It is a word that has not entirely lost its power," Mr. Grenadilla went on, "but what does it mean? At one time the Madonna, the Virgin, was painted in this way," and he put up a old icon, very flat, with no perspective, and decorated with gold. Mary looked like an old woman, and the baby Jesus looked like a tiny old man.

"These people are anonymous," he said. "Symbols. Objects. Objects of veneration, yes, but cold and distant. Literally iconic."

His statement was punctuated by the same high, squealing fart that Mallory had played for us outside. Mr. Grenadilla looked up at the speakers and gave an irritated cough.

I'm not going to bore you with the entire speech... he showed us several Renaissance madonnas. He wanted to show that the woman or girl in the painting grew more warm and human over time, and yet remained a mystery.

"Some sort of mystery, eh? What is she thinking? What does she feel? What was she doing a moment before? What will she do after? We do not know.

"With each painting, there is a growing sensation... even perhaps a certainty... that you could see this person in the flesh, but you are certain that you don't understand them. There is something otherworldly, beyond the senses..."

Then it got quite boring... I'm sure I would have dozed off, except that Mallory kept firing fart noises through the sound system at irregular intervals and with astounding variety. One in particular, a sequence of eight pats followed by a short hiss, nearly brought the house down. Everyone was laughing, muttering, and looking around. Mr. Grenadilla looked increasingly irritated and at last he fell silent. I saw our History teacher, the one who had cut Mallory's whoopie cushion in half, get up and talk to Miss Overmore, who rose and said a quick word to Mr. Grenadilla. Then she walked to the back of the auditorium.

Mr. Grenadilla waited for a moment with his hand on his chin. He paced back and forth for a few steps, then clapped his hands again.

"So, my dear girls," he said — so loudly that it made us jump, "You must wonder, Where does that leave us? What relevancy can the Madonna have for us today? Do we really need yet another picture of a somewhat pretty, enigmatic girl? Or could we find a more compelling vision? Is there anything in the image that could seize us, anything that could force us to look beyond the face and form of the girl? Could we find ourselves once again in a state of wordless wonder, in which we have no choice but to question and even to seek something higher and more perfect? Something that lies outside this material world?"

As if a train had come into its station, a long hissing fart sounded with powerful finality. I squeezed my eyes tight shut in an effort to keep from laughing. But then it took no effort at all: Miss Overmore's commanding voice rang out from very near: "Bring the lights up, please." With a rapid series of loud clicks, the lights came up, one group after another. Blinking in the sudden brightness, I was taken aback to see Miss Overmore, at the end of my row. Her face was rigid and downright scary. She stood, her eyes fixed on Mallory, who was holding her remote control with both hands. I couldn't see her face, but afterward someone described her as shocked, guilty, and afraid.

Miss Overmore crooked her finger, and Mallory, head drooping, followed her out of the auditorium.

The room held in silence for a moment, and Mr. Grenadilla seized that moment. "What would a Madonna of today, be? How would we portray the Madonna of tomorrow? The Madonna of the Future? Could it be a girl who stages elaborate pranks, who laughs at rude noises?"

He looked at us, as we all silently thought, No, of course not. But smiling he said, "Who can say? The Madonna of the Future must be unexpected. She may take our preconceptions, and gently but irresistably confound them."

No one spoke, and seeing he'd made an impression, the painter smiled.

"I will be among you, looking for a model, yes. And you may ask yourselves, as I have asked myself: Who or what am I seeking, exactly? For now, I do not know. But I will look, and I will find. As a man of the modern world, among women of the modern type, I will resist easy conclusions and ready-made results. With my artist's eye, and — I like to think — my somewhat mystic sensitivity, I will know the girl when I happen upon her.

"Will she be beautiful? Yes... in some sense she will be beautiful.

"Will she be unusual? Oh, yes... in some sense, she may be quite unusual.

"She will cause us to look and to wonder... She will make us realize that we see and yet we do not understand.

"And when I capture THAT with paint on canvas," he concluded, "THAT will be the Madonna of the Future."

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Did she hurt you?"

"No," I said out loud. Silently I added, I think I gave as good as I got.

"Good," she said. "I assume you must have read at least a bit of that diary, or else you wouldn't have fought so hard to preserve your classmate's privacy."

---

 

5. The Stink-Bomb Madonna
 

"I'll be damned if Mallory is going to be the Madonna," Susan complained. "Could you imagine? For ages to come, that crazy girl's face would be hanging in a church!"

I laughed. "She'd have to have a baby, wouldn't she? I mean, in the picture. Can you imagine that?"

Susan scoffed. "And she'd be showing the baby a whoopie cushion or a stink bomb or something."

"Mmm." I nodded. "The Stink-Bomb Madonna. Still, I feel badly about her getting suspended."

"Why?" Susan countered. "She deserved it. She's lucky she didn't get expelled."

Blair came wandering over to our lunch table. She quietly set down her lunch tray and took her seat. Looking up, she gave us both a smile, then picked up her sandwich and started to eat.

I was amazed by the change in her demeanor. Yesterday she jerked around like a hunted bird. Today she was as calm as a... a cucumber? No... cucumbers are cool. Well anyway, Blair was amazingly calm. She seemed another person.

"Blair, look at you! It's nice to see you so relaxed. Are you feeling more at home here?"

"Oh!" Blair cried. "I'm relaxed because Mallory's not here! That girl is crazy! I don't know if you could tell."

"I had an inkling," Susan said drily.

"She terrorized me!" Blair complained. "It was bad enough being a new girl, but I had to be a new girl with her!

"She was always pinching me and telling me lies. Yesterday, before each class, she told me that they wanted me in the office. That's why I was always late."

"After the first time, why did you believe her?"

"Because she swore that it was true. She'd apologize for the last time, and tell me *this* time it was true. The last time she even showed me a slip from the office." Blair sighed. "It's such a relief that she's not here."

She looked at Susan apologetically. "You know yesterday? When I didn't have my books? It's not because I'm stupid. It's cause Mallory took them. Between each class when I wasn't looking."

Susan frowned. "But in History, your book was there."

"Ah," Blair said. "Okay... well... that time I was stupid. But she had me on my last nerve."

Susan gave me a look and rolled her eyes heavenward, but I was glad Blair wasn't the total ditz she seemed the day before.

I was about to say something about Mallory's ingenuity — after all, she'd bugged Miss Overmore's bathroom, and somehow tied her sounds into the auditorium sound system — when Blair and Susan looked with surprised expressions at something over my right shoulder. "Hello," Susan said uncertainly, while Blair helpfully told me, "Oh, it's the... him... man." I turned, and there stood the artist, Mr. Grenadilla. Jordan was at his elbow. Apparently she'd been chosen to accompany the artist around the school. She raised her eyebrows at me... I guess it was a silent greeting. Her face, as usual, was completely unreadable.

"Jordan," Mr. Grenadilla mused, "Could the Madonna of the Future be an Asian girl?"

Jordan shrugged. "Sure," she said.

His gaze went to Blair. "Or a French girl?"

"Why not?" Jordan replied. The corners of her mouth curved for a moment, but so quickly that I wasn't sure if they curved up or down. Was she smiling, or smirking, or making an irritated frown? Was she interested in what was happening, or was she putting a good face on a boring task? It was impossible to tell.

The artist turned his gaze to me, and stopped cold. He knit his brows, thinking. After an uncomfortable pause, he said, "When I look at you, I think TV. Why is that? Could I possibly have seen you on television?"

"She was on the news," Susan offered.

"Oh yes!" Mr. Grenadilla declared, recognition flooding in. "Yes, of course! You were kidnapped, you poor brave thing! And did you really shoot that man? With his own gun?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, reddening. I wanted to tell him that I had a lot of help, but I wouldn't have been able to explain what I meant.

Susan, seeing my discomfort, jumped in to change the subject. "Mr. Grenadilla—"

He cut in: "—Please, girls, call me Theo."

Susan hesitated, then started again. "Theo, you weren't serious about Mallory being the Madonna, were you?"

"Hmmm." After reflecting for a moment, he replied, "Mallory, the girl who loves rude noises? Why not? Do you think she's unsuitable?"

Susan opened her mouth to say something, but for once she wasn't sure what to say. Theo watched her face, and seeing Susan's uncertainty, he nodded.

"Don't worry," he replied. "There is no way on earth that that... young lady could ever be my model. Apart from any other consideration, every time I looked at her, I would hear those obscene sounds in my head, and it would make me too angry to paint anything worthwhile."

He smiled when Susan smiled at his response, and he went on, "I see you and I are on the same page regarding Miss Mallory. But herein lies the difficulty: I really need to work very hard to not fall into this trap: this utterly mechanical, habitual way of seeing people. You see, a painter fixes, freezes, crystalizes a single moment in time. Just one moment, only one. In ordinary life, when you... or I... look at Mallory, we see everything we know of her, everything we've experienced of her, all at once, and even if she had a moment of kindness and transcendence, it would be easy for us to miss it, because our vision would be clouded by our memories."

Jordan crossed her arms and looked at the ceiling. Theo glanced at her and said, "Ah, I shouldn't lecture you. I've bored you long enough... Jordan, you see, is the canary in the coal mine of my intellect. Goodbye, girls!"

Jordan made a strange face... maybe she didn't know what he meant, or maybe she did and was irritated. Either way, the two moved off to consider other potential candidates for Madonna-hood.

"So that's Jordan?" Susan asked, as she crunched into a stick of celery. I nodded.

"I wish I looked like her," Blair said with a frown. "Her face is so perfect and her hair is so straight."

Susan and I glanced at each other. Somehow, there was something wrong in what Blair said. It was so naked and unaffected... It was disturbing, though I couldn't say how.

"Uh, Blair," I said, "You're pretty striking yourself. And your hair is just like Jordan's, can't you see that?"

Blair shrugged and took another bite of her sandwich.

 

---

 

My last class that day was gym, which — even though I'm a freshman, I still take with the seniors. The reason, if you remember, is so I can shower at home, and not risk having my secret revealed.

The seniors didn't want me there, and they didn't hide the fact, but since we always played basketball, I could keep out of their way if I just kept running. I also had to stay on my toes so they didn't hit me in the head with the ball.

They usually saved that stuff until we were well into the class, when my guard was down. Today, though, they were waiting for me. When I walked onto the gym floor, one of the seniors said, "There she is," and several others said hmmph in a way that clearly said Who does she think she is?

I had no idea what their problem was, so I ignored it until a few of the gathered around to bump and jostle me.

"You think you can be Miss BYHS, Donner? Huh? You've got a lot of nerve."

"What are you talking about? What nerve?"

"Don't play dumb, we know you entered the pageant."

Behind the girls who were hassling me, I could see Lace "the Face" scowling at me. According to Susan, Lace was the sure winner this year.

"I hate to break it to you, Donner, but you're not going to win," one of the seniors sneered.

"I know," I said. "Doesn't mean I can't enter."

"You know you can't win?"

I shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

"So? So, it's stupid. That what's so. Nobody enters a contest if they know they're going to lose. What kind of idiot are you?"

"She's a freshman idiot," someone offered, laughing.

"Does that make you a senior idiot?" I countered. I was getting a little angry.

"Oh, she thinks can be saucy, does she?"

"I've never been in a pageant," I told them. "I just want to have the experience."

They echoed what I'd said as if it was the stupidest thing they'd ever heard.

"You can have the experience when you're a senior," they told me. "Miss BYHS is only for seniors!"

"Then they shouldn't let underclassmen enter," I said forcefully.

"You're right! They shouldn't!" Lace shouted back.

The teacher came in at that point, so the girls around me walked away, although most of them managed to bump me hard as they did. They kept it up for the rest of the class. The girls on the basketball team were the worst. Still, they only managed to knock me down twice, and each time the teacher yelled at me!

It was par for the course, but it grated on me more than usual.
 

When class was over, I ran to one of the bathrooms to change — I used the bathroom on the other end of school, the one farthest from the gym. I took the stall on the far end, closed myself in, and set my bag on the floor. I fumed in silence. There really wasn't anything I could do, except sit down and try to calm down.

I groused for about a minute before I spotted the book. It lay on the floor next to the toilet: a bright white book, a diary. It was the kind of diary made for little girls. The cover was decorated with simple child-like cartoon figures of the Hello Kitty type. I wondered what little girl could possibly have lost it there.

Curious, I picked it up. The small book was about half full, and it was definitely somebody's diary. In spite of the cover, the handwriting clearly belonged to a girl my age. There was no way a little girl would write that well.

I quickly flipped through it, looking inside the back and front covers, but there was no obvious clue to identify the owner.

And then I began to read. It felt kind of creepy, violating the girl's privacy that way, but once I started, I couldn't stop.

 

There are two central facts of my existence.

The first is that I miss my mother.

The second is that I am a girl, down to my bones.

 

Well, that was strange. Not that she missed her mother... that was normal. Maybe her mother died, or was gone in some way. But the second thing? Of course she was a girl! If she was a student at BYHS, she'd have to be a girl. I read some more:

 

Sometimes I'm sure that people know.

Other times I'm sure it's just my imagination.

I don't have the same natural feminine act that other girls have.

I don't mean that *they* are acting. They don't act. They just *are* that way. I don't have it. I'm clumsy. I have big hands and a big head and just don't look like a girl. I know I'm a girl but I don't know if other people see it.

I look at other girls and I want to die. I know I'm jealous. I don't want to be *like* them. I want to *be* them. They don't have learn anything. They just walk into life, into every situation, and they already know what to do and how to be.

People like Marcie Donner and her friends. Nothing ever goes wrong for them. They're only freshmen, but they already know everything and everybody. They do what they want and don't care what anybody thinks, but it doesn't matter because everybody thinks they're wonderful.

 

What!? I said to the book. In what universe is this? Everybody thinks I'm wonderful? What about the stupid seniors? Nobody thinks I'm *wonderful*. I scoffed and flipped some pages.

 

When my mother was dying, she made my father promise to LET ME BE A GIRL. She made him swear to it. I don't know what he would have done, if she hadn't made him swear—

 

I stopped reading and sat there thunderstruck. Was this another girl like me? Someone who was born a boy? It didn't sound like she had a very easy time of it, but it also sounded like most of her agony was in her head. Well, maybe. It sucked that her mother died. And then there were passages like this:

 

I know I'm a girl, even if I don't look like a girl. I have long hair, I wear skirts and stuff, but I look like a boy in a dress.

 

That would suck, too, but I felt that way sometimes, too.

I turned the pages faster. There had to be a clue... there had to be something to tell me who the writer was! But look as I might, I couldn't find anything.

The worst part of this puzzle was that I couldn't ask Susan's help. She could probably figure out who this girl was; she'd give the diary a read and her brain would sift out every tiny indication. She was like a detective mastermind, and I had no doubt she'd put her finger on the girl. But there was no way I could ask her. She didn't know about me, and I couldn't betray this girl's secret, either.

After I'd looked through every single page, I glanced at my watch and realized that I'd been reading for forty minutes! As I scrambled into my uniform and shoved my gym clothes into my bag, I realized what I had to do: I had to bring the book to the office. If there was another transgendered girl in the school, Miss Overmore for sure would know who she was.

The halls were empty, and the only sounds were faint voices calling and basketballs bouncing in the gym. I'd nearly reached the office when I ran into Mara, one of the basketball stars, one of the seniors. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, and then lighted up in cruel delight when she caught a glimpse of the diary.

"Oh, how cute, Marcie-Warcie! Is dat your widdle diary-poo? Let me see it."

"No," I said. "It isn't mine."

"Give it here," she ordered, holding out her hand and snapping her fingers.

"No way," I said. "It isn't mine, and you can't see it."

"Liar," she said. "Give it!" She darted toward me, quick as thought, and grabbed the book with both hands. "It's got to be yours," she gloated. "Otherwise you wouldn't care if I saw your silly little-girl secrets. I'm sure this stuff is comedy gold."

I tried to twist away from her, but she hung on. She was a lot stronger and bigger than me, but there was no way on earth that she was going to get that book.

"Did mummy buy the widdle book for her baby sweetums?" she sneered.

I felt the book slipping, so I kicked her in the shins. First one side, then the other. She grunted in pain, and keeping a tight grip on the book with one hand, she raised her other hand high. I could see one mean slap was on the way. I gritted my teeth and squeezed the book tighter.

She swore in a vicious tone as I kicked her again. "You're gonna pay for that, Donner! You're going to get yours now, you nasty little bi—" She never finished the insult; Miss Overmore's voice cut her off.

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? GIRLS!"

Mara let go and sniffed, holding her head up a little arrogantly. "We were only playing, Miss Overmore. I was trying to get Marcie to show me see her wittle diawy."

Miss Overmore's eyes fell on the book, and I thought I saw a flash of recognition.

"That isn't your book, is it, Marcie?" she asked.

"No, Miss Overmore. I found it in the bathroom."

The Principal looked at the two of us, considering for a moment, then said to me, "Go have a seat in my office. I'll be there in a moment."

As I went inside the door, I heard her talk to Mara in an undertone. I couldn't make out the words on either side, but from the tones I could tell that Mara tried to protest, and probably throw the blame on me, but Miss Overmore's voice countered with a relentless, cold, knifelike sharpness that finally had Mara cowed and apologetic.

After her last Yes, Miss Overmore I heard Mara's footsteps fading down the hallway, and Miss Overmore came into the office and sat down next to me.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly. "Did she hurt you?"

"No," I said. Silently I added, I think I gave as good as I got.

"Good," she said. "I assume you must have read a bit of that diary, or else you wouldn't have fought so hard for your classmate's privacy."

"Is she a freshman, then?" I asked.

Miss Overmore hesitated. "I didn't say that. And I wish I could tell you who she is, just as I wish I could tell her about you, but we have some very specific agreements and promises with the families on both sides."

I nodded.

"She could really use your support," Miss Overmore said, "and I'm sure you could sometimes use hers, but unfortunately it isn't possible right now. I know your family might agree, but I'm very sure this girl's family will not. Absolutely, categorically."

"That's too bad," I said.

"Well," Miss Overmore said. "I am going to tell her to leave this book at home. It isn't the first time that she's lost it."

"Really?" I asked, puzzled and surprised. "That's hard to believe..."

"I know," Miss Overmore agreed, "As you can imagine, she would be devastated if anyone knew the truth about her."

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

People have often told me that I need to think before I act, but who had time to think? What on earth was I supposed to think of? What idea could I possibly have had, if I'd stopped for a moment? Someone was getting hurt! Badly hurt! And no one was there to see, but me.

---

 

6. You Hit A Girl!
 

While I walked home, I puzzled over the diary-writer's identity. Who could she possibly be?

The obvious choice was Mallory, because she was big and boy-like. She ate like a boy: she shoved food in her mouth. She was gross like a boy: she laughed at farts. And she did have a big, boy-like head. She didn't look comfortable in a skirt... in fact, the school uniform made her look more like a boy...

... but it didn't add up. Mallory had only been at school two days, and that phrase "Marcie Donner and her friends" — friends, plural — had to mean me, Susan, and Maisie. But Mallory had never seen Maisie. Mallory would have said Marcie and her friend or Marcie and Susan.

And despite her physical appearance, there wasn't any reason to think that Mallory had ever been a boy. Some girls are big boned, and there isn't any law that says a girl can't laugh at farts. And — though I don't like to admit it — I shovel food into my mouth, too. I try to stop, and Mom is constantly on my case about it, but still...

In any case, it can't be Mallory.

By the same reasoning, it can't be Blair, either. Blair is unusual, even a little weird, but she had a very definite feminine chic all her own. Blair had a exotic, foreign aspect: she looked like a skinny, short-haired French girl. Theo, the artist, had commented on it. Maybe she was uncomfortable with the way she looked, but Blair was definitely a girl.

There was another thing: the way the diary-writer referred to us as "freshman" — I don't think another freshman would talk that way. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Miss Overmore only called her a "classmate" to throw me off the scent.

That's when it hit me: What if it was Mara?

What was Mara doing in that part of school, anyway? The reason *I* was there was to get away from the seniors, especially the baseketball players, and Mara was both those things. She should have been in the gym, playing ball. But if the diary was hers, she'd have to be there: she must have realized that she'd lost it, and she'd come to get it. Unfortunately for her, someone was already there. In fact, I was sitting in the very stall where she left it. It had to be nerve-wracking for her to wait for me to come out... and she waited a long time! The diary was so fascinating that I'd lost track of time.

She probably heard me turning the pages! It must have driven her crazy!

And that would explain why she fought with me so fiercely: she wanted her diary back and she was angry that I'd read it.

When Miss Overmore saw the book in my hands she understood the situation immediately. She sent me to the office so she could talk to Mara without my overhearing. Mara would want her diary back immediately, of course, but Miss Overmore had to convince her to wait and get it later — tomorrow, even. Otherwise, it would have been clear to me that Mara was the author and that she was a t-girl, just like me.

That had to be it! I was pretty pleased with myself for figuring it out.
 

Then I stopped walking and stood stock still. I looked around me, puzzled. For some reason I hadn't taken my usual way home. Instead, I'd gone out of my way, on a much longer and unfamiliar route. I huffed impatiently at myself. Why on earth did I go this way? (There was a good reason, as you'll see, but I was lost in thought over the diary; the effort of trying to figure it out drove everything else from my mind.)

So I shrugged to myself and turned toward home, down a street I'd never walked before. After I'd passed a few houses, I began to hear noises. At first, I couldn't tell what they were. It sounded like a small animal... and then, not an animal, but a person... was it a person? No, it was two people... two people who were fighting! There was an empty lot a few houses up on the left, and by the time I reached it, it was all very clear: two boys were fighting. Then, no... it was worse than that: one boy, the bigger of the two, was beating up a smaller, skinnier kid.

"Stop! Please, stop!" he was screaming in-between sobs and cries. My stomach turned as I heard the punches connect with his bony little body. Without a thought, I threw my bags on the ground and started running toward them. "Hey!" I shouted. "HEY! Stop that! STOP THAT NOW!"

To my glad surprise, the bigger boy *did* stop. He turned and looked at me, regarding me for a moment. I stopped and stared at him. He looked like a lout. In fact, his face scared me. His head was square and blockish, and his hair was like clumps of straw. But he stopped! Then, silently and very dramatically, he let the smaller boy go, lifting his hands slowly and showing me his empty palms. He smiled, and — nervously — I smiled back.

The other boy clambered uncertainly to his feet and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. I relaxed and suddenly realized I'd been holding my breath. The sniffling boy stumbled back a step, then turned to run.

As soon as he did, the bigger boy grabbed him, turned him in the air, and threw him to the ground hard. Oh, God! It must have hurt! He turned his back to me, and squeezed the boy on the ground until he screamed.

I opened my mouth to shout, but no sound came out. I was horrified, shocked, and, above all, angry. My hands were trembling. I had to do something... so I ran directly at them.

People have often told me that I need to think before I act, but who had time to think? What on earth was I supposed to think of? What idea could I possibly have had, if I'd stopped for a moment? Someone was getting hurt! Badly hurt! And no one was there to see, but me. I suppose I thought I'd jump on the bigger kid and start clawing and hitting. Or maybe I was going to attack his big fat head. I don't know. I probably would have gotten hurt in any case, but at least I could helped the little guy escape.

I'll never know what I would have done... because what really happened is this: As I ran up, just before I put my hands on him, the bigger kid jerked his arm back so he could punch the boy on the ground. I walked right into his elbow as it came back. And oh, did it come back hard! It caught me full in the face. It didn't feel like I walked into a wall — it felt like I drove into it, face first, at full speed.

I saw stars. I've heard people use that phrase... I thought it was only words, but I really saw them: tiny balls of flame swimming in the air around me, swirling and curving in every direction. There was a noise, too, like a jet going and coming, going and coming, like the swirling spots. The world stopped for a moment: there was no sound, no motion, just BAM! followed by a white flash of blinding, overwhelming pain and a shock that went beyond words.

The blow knocked me backward, flat on my butt. Somehow I could see myself, sitting on the ground like a doll, arms and legs stiff and outstretched, mouth open, eyes staring, unblinking. I didn't make a sound or even breathe.

Then the world came rushing in, all at once: My nose started bleeding like a faucet. A woman appeared on my right, out of nowhere, shouting, "I saw you! I saw you, Robert! YOU HIT A GIRL! You ought to be ashamed! You hit a girl!" And then, as if far away, I saw the larger boy turn to look at me. His face contorted into a mask of horrow and shame, and he began to wail — a high-pitched screaming sound of desperation. It made absolutely no sense at all.

The woman talked nonstop, scolding the boy, swabbing my face, and telling another woman (who I couldn't see) to call an ambulance. Then she said the strangest thing to me: "I saw you coming into the lot. I thought I recognized you, and now I'm sure. You're that girl was on television, aren't you?"

I looked at her in disbelief. I couldn't talk. I could only gasp for air.

"She was on TV?" wailed the boy who had hit me. "I hit a girl from TV? Oh no! Oh no!" He jumped to his feet and ran off holding his head.

What an idiot, I thought. Everyone in this neighborhood must be out of their mind.
 

Later, I was sitting quietly in a chair with my eyes closed, moaning softly to myself while my mother held my hand. There were bandages on my face and my nose was packed with... stuff... medical stuff. Having all those things in my nose was worse than getting hit. I didn't want to think about it. On the plus side, the pain medication was finally kicking in, and I felt myself begin to float... my head felt as big as a house and every movement of my head seemed like a major shift. The pain was still there, but I didn't care. "Oooh, Momb," I said.

"What is it, honey?" she asked, and put her hand on her belly.

"Oh those damb twints," I said quietly, without rancor. It wasn't what I meant to say; I wanted to tell her that I was floating.

"What?" she asked. I could tell she wasn't sure she understood me, but she was primed to be offended.

"Nuth-thig," I told her. "I diddint meend to say dat. Da drug made me froat."

"Froat?" she repeated. "Maybe you shouldn't be talking, Marcie."

I waved my hand in contradiction and took her arm in both hands. I lowered my head, meaning to rest it on her shoulder. Instead, a white knife of pain shot through my skull, so I straightened up and it went away.

"Momb," I said.

"What honey?"

"Ahhm sorry, Momb."

Even in my drug-addled state I knew that she was supposed to say It's alright, but that isn't what she said. She pressed her lips together, considering for a moment.

"You're always getting into some... physical situation, Marcie. It worries me. A lot."

"Ummm," I agreed. "Doan worry, Momb. Evvythingk wull be fined."

"Eventually everything will be fine," she corrected, "but as soon as it is, something else will start up."

I turned my head toward her. It was a major effort. I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She didn't smile back, so I gave her a thumbs-up. She gave me the strangest look and I wondered whether she was about to cry.

But she didn't. She took my hand and folded my thumb down. She squeezed my hand with both of hers, and then she very gently and carefully hugged me. After all that, and a heavy sigh, she said, "Marcie, this thought keeps going through my head, and it's probably not the best time to voice it, but I have to say it.

"Oh, Marcie. I think that having your nose broken might not be such a bad thing."

"Nod a bad thingk?" I asked, puzzled. I tried to penetrate the cottonwool that filled my brain, but didn't make any headway. How? How? I asked myself. A good thing? Getting my nose broken?

"Gmmph, Momb. I don't... what do you mean?"

"Well, of course it's a bad thing; it's terrible. That horrible boy shouldn't go around hitting girls— punching girls in the face—"

I interrupted: "He shudden be hidding ANY-one!" I gestured vaguely for emphasis.

Mom huffed at my interruption and continued, "What I'm saying is that having your nose broken might just slow you down for a bit. It might make you think twice about sticking your nose into places where it doesn't belong."

"Oh, Momb, my nodes?"

"Yes, your nose. It's almost symbolic, don't you think?"

"No," I said. "It wud justtan accident."

"The woman who called the ambulance saw the whole thing, Marcie. She saw you throw your bags on the ground and run at that boy. Why did you do that? Why on earth did you do that? Who do you think you are?"

"I thod I was the only person to see, Momb. If that lady saw... why diddund that lady do somethink?"

Mom sighed and squeezed my hand. "Oh, Marcie! You don't have to fix everything. The world isn't waiting for you. It's just like at the tea shop: sometimes you have to say, 'It's not my table.'"

I chuckled to myself as a thought drifted lazily into my head. "Hey, Momb. Just thingk: I bedchew the twints will nebber get their nodesez broken. Ha." I could only laugh a slow "Ha. Ha. Ha," with a healthy pause between each "Ha." Then I had to stop because it made my head hurt.

Oh! I desperately wanted to sniff, to blow my nose! Instead I had to sit there with my mouth hanging open. Now I was a mouth-breather. I must have looked quite a sight. I wondered how I'd take a shower tonight, and how...

"Oh no!" I moaned, "Oh no, oh no!"

"What is it, Marcie?" Mom asked, full of alarm and concern. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Ummph!" I groaned, "Da tea shobp! I was subbost to go do work today!"

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

"Oh, God, I hate that woman!" Jordan growled through her teeth sotto voce.

"Why?" I asked.

She shot a look of fury at me... not that she was angry with me, but she was very angry.

"She is a *horrible* person," Jordan said. "And she's going to ruin my father and me, I'm sure of it!"

---

 

7. The Nose-Job Theory
 

Jordan asked me, "What was wrong with the nose you had before?"

I sighed. After two days at home I was going stir-crazy, and so, on Thursday night — even though I hadn't gone to school that day — I went back to work at the tea shop.

My very first customer, a nice, smiling, white-haired man, asked, "Did you get your nose done, dear? I'm sure you'll look even more lovely once it's healed." His companion, a woman in her forties, commented, "She's that age, Chuck. Girls in their teens get braces on their teeth, contacts instead of glasses, nose jobs... they start dyeing their hair..."

A middle-aged woman with a tiny nose put her hand on my arm and whispered, "It's worth the pain, believe me. It changed my high-school experience completely." She said the last word as if it was highly suggestive, and for emphasis, she opened her eyes as wide as they could go.

Soon, the whole tea-shop was buzzing with the topic of nose jobs, past and present. I didn't see much point in correcting their mistake. I just nodded and smiled and hoped they understood the funny, stuffed-up way I was talking.

But when Jordan asked me, for some reason I sighed. I guess it was because she was my age, I kind of felt she should have known. Jordan mis-read my face and quickly said, "Sorry! We don't have to talk about it if you don't want."

I'd barely gotten out the words, "I don't mind, it's just that—" when that woman came in... the one who was talking to Jordan's father when I first applied for work. Jordan's expression abruptly fell into a frown of distaste.

"I'll wait on her," I offered, but Jordan shook her head.

"No," she told me. "I have to show this woman that she can't intimidate me." And so saying, she grabbed her pad and marched over.

The woman smiled and chatted away at Jordan. There was no way for me to hear anything over the general buzz of conversation, but at one point the woman tilted her head back quite purposefully, so she could look Jordan directly in the face, and she said something. The woman was smiling, but it wasn't a nice smile. Jordan's jaw set and she flushed red. I saw her hand clench, and her pad and pencil shook, but only for a moment. Then, Jordan stopped, took a breath, and her expression cleared. She looked down at the woman as if nothing had happened... as if she was just any customer... no one in particular, and I'm quite sure she said, "Which tea would you like?" and the woman briefly replied. Jordan prepared the brew and deposited it without ceremony on the woman's table.

"Oh, God, I hate that woman!" Jordan growled through her teeth sotto voce.

"Why?" I asked.

She shot a look of fury at me... not that she was angry with me, but she was very angry. "She is a *horrible* person," Jordan said. "And she's going to ruin my father and me, I'm sure of it!"
 

---

 

When I got home, the first thing I did was to call Maisie. My conversation with Jordan left me very confused, but I had the feeling that Maisie would understand. Maybe she could tell me that Jordan was wrong, completely wrong... and that's what I was hoping to hear.
 

Maisie was very happy and upbeat. Of course I had to explain why I was talking funny ("No, I dodn't hab a code..."), and Maisie was briefly sympathetic. *She* wanted to talk about Chrissie, but I bulldozed her into the real reason I'd called.

By the way, everything I said came out in a very nasal, mouth-breathing way... I'm not going to try to recreate it. A few times she didn't understand me, and I held the mouthpiece away when I wasn't talking (so she wouldn't hear me breathe... or breed as I would have said).

"Maze, you know about money, right?"

I could almost hear her shrug. "It depends," she replied. "Some things I know; some things I don't."

"Okay, I have to tell you some stuff that Jordan told me tonight."

"Is she the girl from the tea shop?"

"Yeah... see, there is this woman that Jordan doesn't like, and this woman — her name is Lee Something-or-other — I can't remember her last name. Anyway, Lee is an investor, and she's taken some of Jordan's father's money."

"Uh-oh," Maisie said.

"Why do you say uh-oh? I haven't even started."

"Does this Lee person have an office? Or does she come to the tea shop to take his money?"

When she asked that, my mind's eye called up my first visit to the tea shop, when I saw Jordan's dad nervously hand an envelope to Lee.

"I think she comes to the tea shop," I said. "But that's doesn't matter. This is the thing: first she took $500 from Jordan's dad, and a week later she gave him back a thousand—"

"Oh, I know what this is about—" Maisie said with a laugh, but I interrupted.

"—wait, wait: I haven't told you anything yet! So then she took a thousand dollars, and a week or two later she gave back $1500... so—"

"Stop, Marcie, stop. It's a Ponzi scheme."

"What's a Ponzi scheme? And how can you know that already?"

"This lady — she's not really investing the money. She's scamming people. And not just Jordan's dad."

"You can't know that—"

"Yes, I *can* know that, so shut up and listen. Seriously. This Lee person has a bunch of people on the hook. It's not just Jordan's dad. She strings them along and gets money from them. The money she gave to Jordan's father... she got that money from another person just like him."

"That doesn't make any sense," I said. "She can't make money that way. She'd be giving money away!"

"No," Maisie said. "It's timing. It's a con. Everybody who gives her money is a sucker. At every step, she makes the sucker give her more and more money. The way she pays the new suckers, like Jordan's dad, is with money she got from old suckers. She makes them all believe that she can guarantee big returns, and after a while they give her whatever she asks. Pretty soon they hand over every penny they have, and at that point she quits paying returns."

"But... but..." I protested. "It can't work. I mean... at some point, it has to fall apart, and then she'll get caught."

"You're half right. At some point it starts to fall apart, but at that point she's gone. And all the suckers have to kiss their money goodbye."

It made no sense to me. It seemed an impossible game. Maisie explained it to me a couple of times but I still couldn't get it.

"How do you know all this?" I asked her.

"Somebody like that Lee person stung my father, but good," she chortled. "I heard him talking to his lawyer about it. God, was he mad!" She laughed at the memory. "And then, when I got my own lawyer, I asked him about it."

"There's one thing I don't get," I said. "Suppose somebody stops?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's say that she takes my money, and she doubles or triples it. What if I stop there, and don't give her any more money? What if I know it's a Ponzi scheme, and I trick her?"

"That's funny, because that's exactly what my father tried to do. He figured he was so smart that he could con the con man. He thought he could quit while he was ahead."

"So why didn't he?"

"The people who do this stuff, do it because they're good at it. They play people like violins. My dad is greedy and thinks he's smarter than anybody, so the con man — con person, whatever — played off that."

"What did he do?"

"It was a she. She made my dad think that she was new to the scam and that she had messed up. She pretended that he had her over a barrel. Dad threatened that if she didn't pay up, he would call the police. So she acted all afraid and apologetic. He's so vain and greedy, he thought he'd won. But then, she pulled the old switcheroo. She showed up with all the money he wanted, but she left him with a big envelope full of cut-up newspaper. By the time he looked inside, she was gone, baby, gone."

I fell silent, trying to take it all in. I could imagine Maisie's father being cheated, because... after all... he was a jerk, but Jordan's father was a different kind of person.

In any case, Maisie got tired of the subject and wanted to tell me something else.

"Listen, Marce: tomorrow Chrissie is going to ask my Dad to fly you out here for Spring break!"

"Wow!" I exclaimed, "that would be incredible!" but then, inwardly, I kind of fell to earth, and asked her, "So that means you're still going to be out there... that long?"

"I hope so," she said.

"Your mother misses you," I said. I really meant that *I* missed her, but that's what came out, and it sounded very lame. I kicked myself for saying it, but anyway, it was true.

She responded with a raspberry.
 

---

 

After I hung up with Maisie, I called Susan. She also seemed quite well-informed on the subject of Ponzi schemes. "They've been in the news," she said — in a tone that suggested that I should have known. Susan was a lot better at explaining, and pretty soon I felt that I had a grip on it.

"I think Jordan's instinct is right," Susan said. "This woman sounds like a real criminal."

"What if she's not?" I insisted. "What if she really knows ways of making money?"

Susan replied, "I can't pretend to know this, but I can tell you what they said on TV. If Lee was really an investor, she would take a cut of the profits. Otherwise, how is she making money?"

"She's making investments on her own," I offered.

"If she is making money on her own investments, why does she need Jordan's father's money?"

"Uhhh.... she's sharing?"

"Another thing they said is that no one can guarantee any investment. Even investments that seem very safe can go very wrong. It's like gambling. No one should invest money that they can't afford to lose."

That made some sense.

"The last thing I remember is that investments don't usually pay off like that. It's very rare for people to get high, consistent, quick returns like that. It would be like winning the lottery over and over and over. It doesn't happen. Remember, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

I still wanted to believe that it was possible, but the fact that Maisie and Susan both said the same thing meant a lot. I had to tell Jordan. Maybe she could talk to her father. Beyond that, I didn't know what else I could do.
 

---

 

Mom told me I could stay home Friday if I wanted. "You've already missed two days, Marcie. If you stay home one more you'll have a good five days of recovery." But I had to get out. I couldn't stand to sit around home any more. I was missing too much; school had only just begun.
 

Friday was just a regular school day up until the end, which was gym class with the seniors.

I didn't bother changing clothes. I figured I'd spend that period in the library doing homework. All I had to do was give the coach my doctor's note and I'd be free.

But I was far from free. When I walked in, coach wasn't there; just the seniors, shooting baskets.

"I don't believe it!" Lace cried. "Will you look at this girl?"

"Dream on, Donner," another girl called, in a voice filled with scorn.

The other girls began crowing and laughing.

"What?" I asked, puzzled and offended.

They echoed my what?, mincing and walking around all la-di-dah — which I had not done at all.

Mara stepped up and poked me in the shoulder. "Getting a nose job is NOT going to make you Miss BYHS!" she declared.

"I didn't!" I shouted, and the blood rushing to my head gave me a spasm of pain. I took a step back and tried to calm down. In a quieter voice I said, "I didn't get a nose job."

"You didn't? What a liar! Everybody can SEE you got a nose job, you idiot! One day you enter the pageant, the next day you get a nose job!" Mara shook her head in disgust.

I felt my anger rising, but I didn't respond. I had to keep a grip on myself or I was in for a lot of pain. Every time I got excited, or angry, or laughed too much... any kind of strong emotion, brought the blood to my head. More blood meant more pressure, and more pressure meant pain around my eyes, to the place where I was hit.

I half-closed my eyes and made my way to a bench, where I sat down. I ignored the taunts and accusations. I had to calm down and stay calm.

"I still don't understand why they let babies enter the pageant!" Lace was saying.

"I know, right?" Mara seconded her.

All I had to do was wait for coach and then I could leave.

In fact, why didn't I leave this class all together? I didn't belong here with these older girls. They didn't want me, and I didn't want to be with them. They were always hassling me. I went through all this trouble just for the sake of no one seeing me in the shower! I wondered for a moment whether it was worth all the grief. I might be better off if everyone knew I was transgendered!

But no, that was no solution. That wouldn't work either. I didn't think so, anyway.

Still, I had to talk with Miss Overmore. Maybe there was a better solution for me... some other way to avoid the shower issue.

In any case, once I sat down, the seniors seemed to forget about me. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe... simply breathe... slowly, deeply... The fact that I was breathing through my mouth didn't help, but I was calming down. The gymnasium sounds faded into the background. A pretty loud background, for sure, but because I was tired, the noise blended into a curtain or a blanket... it melted into a kind of soundtrack, far off, nothing at all to do with me. The basketballs bounced, sneakers squeaked, the players called to each other and softly grunted to themselves, and every so often a ball would pound the backboard and swish through the net.

In the midst of all that another sound came, that did have something to do with me: I heard the coach's voice when she walked in, away on the other side of the gymnasium. She was talking to the players, correcting their form, telling them to hustle... I didn't open my eyes yet. I heard her sneakered steps approaching, but I waited until they came a little closer...

When I opened my eyes, my vision was filled by an orange ball flying toward me, zooming through the air like bullet, in the space to the left of the coach. It was behind her, so she didn't see it. It was silent, so she didn't hear it.

"Donner," she said, by way of greeting.

My mouth, which was already open, fell open a bit more, stupidly gaping, and my eyes widened at the approaching missile. I had my doctor's note in one hand and my backback in the other, and both hands clenched and unclenched slightly. What I should have done was bring my arms up fast to shield my face, but I was far too slow. I was still thinking about it. It must have been the pain killers...

The coach read the alarm on my face, shot a glance over her shoulder, and did a quick quarter-turn on her heel. She reacted in an instant, and snatched the ball out of the air with both hands. In a fury, she raised her arms overhead and hurled the ball across the width of the room, where it struck the wall loudly and went bouncing off at an angle, down toward the empty end of the basketball court.

Oh, hell, I thought. Somehow *I* will get detention for this.

Instead, coach turned on the seniors and shouted, "Who threw that ball? Who threw it?"

The seniors shuffled their feet but said nothing.

"I want to know who threw that ball, and I want to know NOW!" she demanded, still shouting.

"Nobody threw it, coach..." Mara mumbled.

"What's that? I can't hear you!"

Mara cleared her throat and spoke more loudly. "Nobody threw it, coach. The ball just got away. You know."

"No, I don't know," the coach replied. "I don't know. You girls listen to me, and listen up good: this girl's got an injury–" she gestured to me "–and NOBODY is going to injure her further. If I see... or hear... of ANY of you messing with her, hurting her, or giving her grief, you will be suspended from the team for THREE GAMES. THREE GAMES! Do you hear me? Do you understand me?"

Mara licked her lips. "But, coach...," she protested.

"No," the coach replied. "No buts. It's final. And I don't care what three games they are."

One of the other girls pulled a face. "You would lose a game for her?"

"Yes, I would," the coach replied. "And if you don't believe me, just try me." She scowled at them, looking in turn at each girl. "Anybody want to try me?"

There were some sighs and groans from the class, and someone muttered, "That's what we get for having a baby in the class."

"What was that?" the coach asked in a challenging tone. There was no answer, so she said, "I thought so." Then she blew her whistle and gave some instructions. The girls began to do sprinting drills on the other side of the gym. The coach sat down next to me.

After asking how I was felt, if I'd been hurt (I hadn't), she accepted my note. Then the coach dropped into confidential tone. "Donner, listen: that boy–" she looked over to see if any of the girls could hear "–that boy who was getting beaten up... the one you got your nose busted for... He's my nephew." She squinted a little and her eyes began to glisten.

Oh, lord, I thought nervously, she's not going to start crying, is she? But she didn't. Still, I was afraid she could start any moment.

She continued, "I know that the common wisdom about bullying is that the boy should stand up for himself... that if he's being bullied, it's somehow his fault. But he tried and tried and tried. I know he did. He tried, but it didn't work." She squeezed her thighs with her hands and bent forward, her eyes continuing to glisten. "He asked for help, and you know what help he got?"

I shrugged. I had no idea.

"He got nothing. Nada. Zip. His parents, his school, nobody gave a —" here she started to swear. Then she broke off an apologized. "Sorry, Donner. But it's true. Nobody gave a damn or lifted a finger. Nobody. Nobody but you." Then she broke off and turned away so I couldn't see her face. She blew her nose for a while. I looked on in envy and kept breathing through my mouth.

Then she turned back to me and said, "What you did took guts, Donner. Real guts. And I'll tell you something: you made a friend that day. You've got a friend in me. Anything I can do for you... anybody gives you grief, you tell me." She gave an awkward grin and squeezed my thigh so hard that it hurt a bit. "Okay?" she asked, and gave me a poke with her elbow that nearly made me tip over.

"Yeah, coach, thanks," I replied, feeling a little embarrassed. It was an weird moment for both of us. I waited for her to somehow put a cap on it.

"Okay," she said and turned to watch the seniors. I waited for a bit, wondering if I could go, but she didn't say anything.

At last I tentatively said, "Uh, coach?"

"Yeah, Donner?"

"Could I go study in the library? I think I'd be a little more... uh... safer there. No basketballs flying around."

"Oh, the library!" she said. She began waving her arms as she spoke, and I realized that she felt quite as awkward as I did. "Yeah, yeah! Sure! Yeah, take off, Donner. And thanks again! You got guts, girl!"

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]

And yes, I did say Mallory. She was back in school, but she was very subdued.
"It's a new record," she said quietly. "I never been suspended so quick before."
Susan bristled at the ungrammatical statement, but said nothing.
"Two days!" Mallory continued. "It's my new personal best."

---

 
8. Hid In The Nose
 

Things were beginning to wear me down.

Every day, every time they saw me, the seniors continued to harrass me. Coach's promise to protect me didn't do any good, and neither did her threats of retribution on the seniors. They just did things and said things when she wasn't around, and there was no way I was going to run to her every time somebody gave me a funny look.

Honestly, though, it wasn't that big a deal. All the seniors would do is bump into me, and — if I wasn't paying attention — they'd try to knock my books on the ground. That's as physical as they got.

And they would say things to me, and call me names. They called me "Nosejob," as if it was my name, and they started using the word as if it was a swear word. They'd give me a disgusted look and say, "Can you believe what a nosejob she is?" or "Donner, you're a real nosejob."

Of course, "nosejob" sounds a lot like a couple more vulgar words, and the seniors did what they could with the similarity. They had a few choice phrases about me that sounded very smutty and indecent. I'm not going to repeat them.

But as I said, it wasn't a big deal. It was more of an irritation than anything else. If it was the only annoying thing going on in my life, I probably wouldn't have cared.

After all, they weren't hurting me. They were only being stupid.

And maybe this is stupid on my part, but the fact that I hadn't gotten a nose job was the part that really bugged me. A few times I got angry enough to shout, "I DIDN'T GET A NOSE JOB! I GOT HID IN THE NOSE!" And then my head split with pain. Of course, I was saying "hit in the nose" but with all the packing and bandages, I was still talking badly.

After that, "Hid in the nose" got to be another phrase that they taunted me with. Someone wrote HID IN THE NOSE on my locker with an indelible marker, and it was two weeks before the janitor painted over it.

I still had another week before the packing would come out. I couldn't wait. I was tired of breathing through my mouth. Because I couldn't breathe right, I was always gaping like an idiot — and of course the seniors (and others) would mimic that look to mock me. Plus, my mouth was always dry. I tried drinking more water, which had me running to the bathroom between each class. And it didn't take long before I was tired of sucking on lozenges and cough drops. I never thought I could get tired of sweet things, but pretty soon I was sick to death of the sugar in the lozenges.

Once the stupid bandages and packing were gone, all of that stuff would be over: the gaping, the mouth breathing, the talking funny, the dry mouth... and people would begin to forget. Without the bandages to remind them, eventually they'd stop calling me Nosejob, and everyone would stop thinking that I'd *had* a nose job.

Thanks to the seniors, everyone in school thought I'd gotten a nose job for the sake of the Miss BYHS pageant. No one believed me when I said I was hit in the face.

Even Susan would forget at times, usually after she'd made some scathing remark about Miss BYHS. For instance, she'd say, "It's demeaning! It teaches young women to place more importance on physical appearance than any other personal quality! Even you, Marcie! You went and had your nose done—" at which point she'd remember, stop, and apologize.

"I understand that you don't like it," I said, "but can't you ignore it? It's not like we hear about it every day."

"I'm sorry, Marcie," she said, "I thought I could ignore it — and I tried, because of you! — but now the school is using it as a fund raiser. We have to collect money to back our favorite candidate."

The school pretended to set up a SuperPAC for Miss BYHS, and all the funds collected went there. Supposedly the winner got to donate the money to the "charity of their choice" but in reality they were just going to present a check to the school after being crowned.

"I don't like it either," I replied. "All you guys have to do is bring in something. They set goals for the girls in the pageant! I have to raise $200! Believe me, I don't want to do that."

Mallory finished her drink and made a loud sucking noise with her straw. Then she said, "Get your parents to raise the money. Put them to work." When I frowned, she explained, "Ask your parents to ask their co-workers. You might not have to do any fundraising at all."

I considered the idea, and it sounded good. Dad's boss, Mrs. Means, might kick in all the money I needed.

And yes, I did say Mallory. She was back in school, but she was very subdued. "It's a new record," she said quietly. "I never been suspended so quick before." Susan bristled at the ungrammatical statement, but said nothing. "Two days!" Mallory continued. "It's my new personal best."

However, even though she continued to talk like a rebel, her pranks had come to an end. She also quit laughing like a donkey, throwing her head back and baring her teeth.

Mallory and Blair had taken to hanging around with Susan and me. Neither of us were the type to push people away or ask them to sit at another table. In any case, we'd come to find that they weren't bad to be with — now that they'd both calmed down. In fact, they were among the few people at school who didn't bother me now.

Oh! While I'm listing the things that bug me, I have to tell you two more: one was the twins. My mother was always on and on about the twins, and how the pregnancy was going. Yesterday she wanted to show me the ultrasound picture.

Now that was a trip. Mom very proudly handed me a strip of very thin paper. On it was a picture of what looked like a dirty fan.

"I don't see anything," I told her. "Is it upside down?"

She laughed and said, "Look!" With her fingernail she traced what she said were the heads and arms of the two babies inside her. "And you can see that they aren't boys," she said, running her finger around the smudges.

I shook my head. It didn't look like anything at all. All I could see was black and gray smudges. "What do you mean, you can see that they're not boys?"

Mom laughed again. "They don't have things — you know..." and she waggled her little finger.

"Oh, Mom! Gross!" I chided. "Can you really see all that in this?" I was sure she was just making it up. "Is this the real ultrasound?"

"Yes," she replied. "That's the real thing, and yes, I see all that. You must see it too. Look here and here!"

But I didn't. Even if I tried to imagine that I saw two babies, I couldn't make them out. Seemed like I was the only one.

Anyway...

The last thing that was eating at me was Susan's new obsession.

In addition to being on a high horse about Miss BYHS, Susan was obsessed with The Madonna Dialogs, which was a new feature in the school paper. The paper came out each week on Wednesday, and the new feature was in the very first issue.

Then, because there was so much material and it was so timely, the paper began printing the dialogs three times a week.

The Madonna Dialogs were transcripts of the conversations between the artist, Mr. Theo, and Jordan, who accompanied him around school. To tell the truth, they weren't interesting at all. In fact, they were deadly boring. In some, Mr. Theo would talk about art and the Madonna and so on, but for the most part all that would happen is that he would ask Jordan, "Could the Madonna of the Future be a skater girl?" or "Could the Madonna of the Future be emo?"

Jordan always gave a noncommittal answer, such as "Sure, why not?" or "Could be."

Given how predictable and repetitive they were, I couldn't understand Susan's obsession.

"I'm not obsessed," she countered.

"Why do you care about them at all?" I asked.

"I want to know where they come from," she said. "Jordan said the wording is verbatim; it's very exact."

"You talked to her?"

"Yes, I wanted to know if she was the one giving the transcripts to the paper. But she's not. In fact, she was mystified."

"So?"

"So, it's a kind of puzzle! I've questioned Jordan pretty closely, and I've followed them around a little. No one is ever near enough to hear everything he says, and some of the stuff I've heard has been in the paper. So whoever heard it had to be there when I was."

"Maybe Theo repeats himself," Mallory offered.

I said, "Somebody could just make it all up. I mean, it's not like he says anything clever or different."

"Why don't you ask the girls who do the newspaper?" Blair asked.

Susan replied, "I did. I asked the newspaper editors and they told me the source asked not to be identified."

"That's weird," I said.

"Yes," Susan agreed, with great satisfaction. "It's like a little whodunit."

"The butler did it," Blair laughed.

"Hey, maybe the artist gives them to the paper," I suggested.

"No," Susan countered. "The newspaper girls let something slip: they did tell me that it's a student. But anyway, I'm intrigued. It's a mystery, it's a question. And so, it's a challenge. Someone's being very clever, and I'm going to find out who!"

Mallory had been shifting uncomfortably in her seat throughout Susan's declaration, and she frowned as she munched her fries. Susan eyed the girl, and asked, "Is something wrong, Mallory?"

She looked up startled, holding a fry in front of her face. "Uh, no," she said, red with embarrassment.

Susan gave a suspicious frown.

"I was just thinking...," Mallory said, fumbling for words. "I was thinking about the... uh... the Miss BYHS thing. Do you think Miss Overmore started it because she used to be a model?"

I shook my head in surprise. Somehow I was quite sure that whatever Mallory was thinking about, it wasn't Miss BYHS. But if she was looking to create a diversion, she'd hit just the right topic.

"You don't understand anything about it, Mallory," Susan scoffed. "In first place, Miss Overmore didn't start the contest. In fact, she was a contestant when she was a student here."

"She was a student here?" Mallory repeated.

"Yes!" Susan replied, as if it was obvious. "I thought everyone knew that."

"I am kind of new here," Mallory told her. "Two whole days. I won't know everything until tomorrow or the next day. Cut me a little slack!"

"Sorry," Susan said. "It's just something that we've been over a lot. I mean before you got here. But you do make me wonder... how in the world... the thing is: I can't believe that Miss Overmore is allowing Miss BYHS to go on! I mean, after what happened to her..."

"What happened to her?" Mallory asked, and Susan told her the story of how Miss Overmore, when she was a student, had gotten more votes than anyone in the pageant. More than the next several candidates put together, but because she was only a junior, they didn't let her win. They rigged the votes somehow, and they made a senior win.

Mallory munched thoughtfully for a while, then asked in a low voice, "Are you sure they made her lose because she was a junior?"

"Of course!" Susan replied scornfully. "What other reason could there be?"

In an even quieter voice Mallory said, "Maybe they made her lose because she's black."

Susan mouth fell open. She was stunned.

Mallory chewed a little more, thinking, then asked, "Did Miss Overmore enter the contest when she was a senior?"

"No, she didn't."

Mallory shrugged, as if to say There you have it, then.

Susan huffed in a disappointed way. "I can't believe I didn't think of that! I should have seen it right away!"

"You can't think of everything," Mallory said in a comforting tone.

"I should have, though! It was staring me right in the face! And you saw it right away!"

"I wouldn't worry, Susan," Mallory told her. "They say you have the highest level of intelligence of any girl in the school."

Susan's brow furrowed with suspicion. "Who says that?"

"Miss Overmore said it. When she was lecturing me on how bad I'd been, she said 'At least I can compliment you on the company you've been keeping.' And that's when she said the thing about your level of intelligence."

"Wow," Susan said, overcome. She looked down for a moment at the table, and as she did, Mallory gave me a slow wink from her left eye.

Then Susan looked up and in a voice filled with emotion said, "Thank you, Mallory, for sharing that with me. You have no idea how much that means to me."

Mallory shrugged and smiled, and shoved a fry into her mouth. Susan beamed at her. I rolled my eyes, but no one noticed.

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

"Ugh, Mom, what is that smell?" I shouted, not knowing where in the house she was.
"Is there a skunk outside?"

"Oh, Marcie," Mom scoffed as she entered from the kitchen.
"You can't pretend you can smell anything. And it's not as bad as all that."

---

 
9. Fumes
 

After Mallory said that thing about Susan having "highest level of intelligence of any girl in the school," Susan walked on air the rest of that day.

And her attitude toward Mallory did a complete turnaround. Yesterday — this morning, even! — she didn't just not like Mallory. I think she actively despised the girl. But now, she couldn't do enough for Mallory. She held the door for her, offered helpful remarks, paid her compliments, and so on. She even began repeating Mallory's quips to me as if they were jewels of comic wisdom.

Don't ask me why it made me angry. I don't know why. But I steamed and sputtered all the way home.

How on earth could Susan be so easily taken in? And why did Mallory have to make me part of the deception? Well... the second question was easier to answer. Mallory wanted an audience.

I didn't want to admit it, but it was a clever move on Mallory's part. She didn't flatter Susan directly — Susan would have seen right through that. Instead, Mallory attributed the flattery to Miss Overmore, knowing that Susan would never dare check with the pretended source.

Also, the flattery was as good as true. I mean, Miss Overmore could easily have said something just like that. And Susan probably did have the "highest level of intelligence" of any girl in the school. She was brilliant, hardworking, and thorough. When it came to unraveling mysteries, she was a regular Sherlock Holmes.

Which is exactly why she shouldn't have been fooled by Mallory! She was too smart for that!

I felt so frustrated — and disgusted — that I actually balled up my fists and growled. Out loud, there on the sidewalk! Then I realized how stupid I must look... but after a quick glance around, I was relieved to see that I was alone. No one could have heard or seen me.

And as I looked around, I realized that once again I hadn't been paying attention to where I was going! I was just about to turn the wrong way again, toward work — or toward the street where I'd been hit.

I sighed and kicked a little stone out of the path. It danced across someone's lawn and disappeared under a bush. Then I turned and walked the other way, toward home.
 

---

 

The minute I walked into the house... well... I want to say I could smell it, but my nose was still packed with gauze and other medical junk. And yet, I could tell that something was in the air... something nasty. I could feel it in my throat, and it made me gag.

"Ugh, Mom, what is that smell?" I shouted, not knowing where in the house she was. "Is there a skunk outside?"

"Oh, Marcie," Mom scoffed as she entered from the kitchen. "You can't pretend you can smell anything. And it's not as bad as all that."

"So there is a skunk? I mean a stink?"

"No," she said. "It's flowers. Lilies. They do have a strong scent. Some people don't like them, but I find the fragrance invigorating."

I grimaced.

"You'll change your mind when you know why they're here," she told me, with a coy smile that said I know a secret!

"Did somebody die?" I asked.

Mom rolled her eyes. "Really, Marcie!" she objected. "No. Of course nobody died. Someone brought flowers for you!"

"For me? Why? And who?" And I didn't say it out loud, but in my head I asked, And why did they bring such horrid-smelling ones?

Mom led me into the dining room, and there, in an enormous vase, were a dozen lilies. Each flower was at least six inches across. They looked nice; in fact, they were beautiful. The flowers were wide open, curving out in stiff sweeping bells. The petals were intensely red in the center, fading to bright white edges, and freckled with dark red spots.

"A picture would have been better," I groused, and then the scent caught me hard in the throat. Gack! Gack! I coughed. I couldn't stop. My eyes were bulging, and I was gasping for air. At last Mom took my arm and led me away to the kitchen. She had a expression of long-suffering resignation on her face.

"Honestly, Marcie, you've got to be putting it on," she said as she poured me a glass of water.

I gaped at her in surprise. "Mom!" I cried, "that smell is—" But before I could say another syllable, the doorbell rang.

"That's probably for you," she said. "When the boy brought the flowers, he didn't want to leave a note or a message. So I told him when you'd be home."

I went to the door, very puzzled. If it was a guy who liked me, he was definitely starting on the wrong foot. And if it wasn't that, what on earth could it be?

I got my answer the moment I opened the door. "You!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, me," the boy said, wringing his hands and looking at my feet. He let out a loud, heavy sigh. He had the air of a wanted criminal who'd turned himself in. He was expecting to have the book thrown at him.

Did you guess who it was? It was the boy who hit me in the face.

"I came to apologize," he said. "I never hit a girl before. Never. I'm ashamed of myself. I wasn't raised that way. I know it's wrong, and I'm very very VERY sorry."

As he spoke, I glanced down toward the street. I pretended not to notice the car and the woman sitting inside it. I had no doubt that she was the boy's mother, and she was there to make sure that he delivered his message.

The boy was in agony. I had the feeling his mother had given him hell.

"Don't beat yourself up over it," I told him. "I know you didn't hit me on purpose."

When I said that, I paused for just a second. I wasn't done talking, but he thought I was.

The boy relaxed and even smiled, and was just about to turn and run off. So I quickly told him, "Wait!" He froze and turned back to me, looking a little sullen. "Now what?" he asked.

"It was good that you came to apologize," I told him. "Even if it was an accident, it still hurt, and I hate going around with these stupid bandages and stuff."

"I said I was sorry," he said, a little resentfully.

"I know," I said. "But there's something I want to know. Did you apologize to the boy?"

His expression changed to a bewildered frown. "To the boy?" he repeated. "What boy? Do you mean me? Why would I apologize to myself?"

"No, I don't mean you! I'm talking about the boy you were beating up."

He frowned. He looked genuinely perplexed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"You know that boy you were beating up? That little boy?"

"Yeah," he said in a distainful tone, as if the question was stupid and the answer was obvious.

"Did you apologize to him, too?"

The boy scoffed. "For what?"

"For beating him up!" I said. "For being a bully."

"I'm not a bully!" he replied, sounding offended.

"You were beating up a kid who's half your size! Do you think it's wrong to hit a girl, but okay to hit a boy?"

He looked at me like I was crazy, like he couldn't believe I'd asked such a thing. From then until he left, he kept his eyes on me as if I were some unpredictable loon. "Yes," he said, as if explaining something simple to a not-very-bright child, "It's okay for boys to fight. Boys are supposed to fight. It's how we get strong. It's natural."

"Oh, no no no," I told him. "It isn't natural and it isn't right. It's not right to beat up anybody. Especially someone who can't defend themself."

He continued to keep his eyes on my face, and he turned a little, ready to run. He told me, "You only think that because you're a girl. You don't understand."

I was beginning to get upset. I could feel the blood pounding around my eyes and nose. It was beginning to hurt. I needed to calm down, or I was in for a lot of head-splitting pain.

"Okay," I said. "Forget it."

"Can I go now?" he asked, without missing a beat.
 

---

 

The next day at school, Susan and Mallory were so happy being best friends that they were downright giddy. I hadn't seen Susan smile so much in a long time. The two of them really seemed to have clicked in a way that Susan and I didn't, and honestly I felt left out. Still, I had to be glad for Susan: Even if Mallory had started things off with a lie (or a half-lie) it was clear that she sincerely liked Susan, and the two were having fun together.

They disappeared right after lunch, without saying where they were going.

... which me alone with Blair.

And Blair — who was already weird on a good day — was moody.

She wasn't talking. Blair never did talk much... in fact, it was easy to forget she was there. Still, I felt obliged to get her talking, to make her feel welcome. But it was heavy going. I was getting tired of wracking my brain for something to say. I kept tossing her the conversational ball, but she'd reply with a "yes" or "no" or some some other short answer. She killed every topic I raised.

Just when I'd had enough and was about to give up and leave, Blair's eyes abruptly narrowed, and her lips pressed into a tight straight line. I turned my head to see who on earth she was looking at. To my surprise, she was focused like a laser of hate on the artist, Mr. Theo. I gave her a quizzical look.

"I don't like that man," Blair told me. "I don't like him at all. I don't trust him."

"Why not?" I asked her. "He seems nice enough to me."

"He's very creepy," she said. "He shouldn't be allowed to wander around the school."

I turned and watched him chat with one of the nuns and a few of the students. I searched his face, his manner for some trace of the creepiness Blair mentioned. But I just couldn't see it. All I could see was a likeable, kind of boring, harmless adult. After straining to see what didn't seem to be there, I turned back.

"I don't see it, Blair."

"I did," she replied. "I did and I do. I saw it right away. When he spoke to me, the hackles when up all over me. That night, I told my parents to sign the sheet so he would leave me alone."

"Really?" I asked, very much surprised. "But did he *do* anything to you, or say anything suggestive or bad?"

"No," she said. "It's just a feeling I have."
 

---

 

After school I went straight to the tea shop. We were very busy, maybe the busiest we've been since I started working there.

I was glad. It was good to be busy. It kept my mind off all the things that were bugging me. I even forgot about my stupid nose.

The customers just kept coming. For the first time, we had people waiting for tables. It didn't let up until dinner time, and then the place emptied out. Jordan's father went into the back room, and Jordan and I were left alone.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked me.

I laughed.

"No, really," she repeated. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!" I replied, "I thought you were joking, because—"

"Yeah, I know," she said, smiling for once. "We say it a hundred times a day."

I took a table near the counter, and she brought over two cups and a pot of lemon tea. Then she set down a dish with four little cookies called madeleines. I love them. They look like little yellow scallop shells.

I bit right into mine, but Jordan broke off a piece and dipped it in her tea.

I suddenly remembered that I had something important to tell her.

"Oh, Jordan!" I said. "I didn't have a chance to tell you this, but..." and then I explained (as well as I could) what I'd heard from Maisie and Susan about Ponzi schemes.

I fumbled quite a bit, and as I talked, I realized that I'd forgotten a lot, and it didn't make as much sense as when Maisie or Susan explained it.

But Jordan was able to fill in the gaps, and she got it. She really got it. And it made her angry.

"I knew it!" she said. "I knew that woman was bad news! I knew it!" She jumped up from her seat and ran into the back room to tell her father.

At that moment, I knew I'd made a big mistake. It was as if I'd been working hard to get a fire lit, only to see, once I got the flame going, that I was burning somebody's house down.

I don't know why I didn't see it before, but right now I was sure that Mr. Fisby wasn't going to be happy. He wasn't going to like this at all.

Nervously, I stood up and cleared away the tea things, and just as I'd finished tidying up, Mr. Fisby burst from the back room, his eyes aflame.

"Marcie," he said, "I am so upset that I can barely contain it!" Jordan stood behind him. She looked angry, too, but for a different reason.

Mr. Fisby put his face so close to mine that our noses nearly touched. He wasn't shouting, but he spoke with such intensity and anger that it made me more than a little afraid. "Who do you think you are? WHO do you think you are? What makes you think you — at fourteen... fifteen years old — can stick your nose in MY business? Are you an expert on investments, Marcie?" When I didn't answer, he said, "Tell me: ARE you?"

"No," I answered in a small voice.

"Do you know anything at all about money? about managing money? Can you tell me the best ways to invest?"

"No," I said.

"And yet, you come here, causing trouble, filling Jordan's head with lies and misinformation—"

"They're not lies!" Jordan shouted. "She's right!"

Mr. Fisby turned to her and said, "You and I will talk later. For now, I don't want to hear a word from you. Do you understand me? NOT ONE WORD!"

"You've filled her head with lies and misinformation and NONSENSE about things you don't understand at all! Where do you get off? And where did you get all this crap that you fed her? Don't tell me that you made it up; I won't believe you. You must have gotten this idiotic trash from somebody else. You've been telling somebody about my business, haven't you!"

Oh, my God. If there was ever a time for a lie, it was now. "No," I said.

He softened a little at that. "Well, that's something, anyway," he said. "Please continue to NOT discuss my business. With ANYONE."

Then he looked at the empty tea room. He looked back at me.

"I hope you understand why I'm upset," he said. I nodded. "So... tell me, then: Where did you get all that foolishness you told Jordan? Did you get it off the internet?"

"Yes," I said. "The internet."

"Hmmph," he scoffed. "I hope you know you can't believe everything you read there."

"Am I fired?" I asked him.

He thought about it, but then he shook his head. "No," he said. "You're not fired." He smiled grimly. "You're a terrible investment advisor, but you're a good waitress. And I need a good waitress. Just don't ever do this again. Do not get into my business, Marcie. Do not discuss my business. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, sir."

He sighed, then looked over his shoulder at Jordan, who was sulking in the back room. "Why don't you go home now, Marcie. I'm going to need to go through this mess you've made with Jordan. I might as well close up early."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fisby," I told him.

"All right," he said. "Just don't do it again."
 

---

 

When I got home, I made the mistake of telling my mother what happened. She was shocked. And angry. Maybe even angrier than Mr. Fisby.

"Marcella Antoinette Donner!" she exclaimed, "Who on earth do you think you are?" And then she launched into a long form of the scolding Mr. Fisby had already given me.

"I'm just amazed!" she said, shaking her head. "I can't believe he didn't fire you on the spot!"

"I guess I'm a good worker," I said.

"Oh, Marcie," Mom said, "when will you ever learn?"

Learn what? I thought. But I knew better than to say it.

Then, unexpectedly, Mom abruptly changed gears. She tousled my hair and hugged me. "But still," she said as she squeezed the life out of me, "I'd rather have you doing this than shooting murderers."

"Oh, Mom!" I said. "What melodrama!"

"Be that as it may," she said, releasing me and looking at my face. "How's your nose doing?"

"It's okay," I said. "I feel like the bandages ought to come off."

"Oh, good!" she said. "But you might be glad they're in this weekend."

"Why?" I asked. "Are you getting more lilies?"

"No, silly! I have a little job for you."

Uh oh! "What is it?" I asked in a suspicious tone.

"Painting," she said. "We need to paint the nursery, and you're the one to do it."

I groaned. "Painting?" I whined. "Why me? Why can't you?"

"I'm pregnant," she said. "The fumes could hurt the babies."

I growled in frustration.

"That sounds like a yes to me," Mom said, laughing.

I almost asked whether Dad could do it, but I knew that he was busy. Mom was right: it had to be me.

"Oooh, look at you," Mom teased, pushing my hair back. "I can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears. But don't worry: *your* fumes won't hurt the twins.

I stomped off to my room and threw myself on my bed.

Fuming? Yes, I was fuming. Everything seemed to be going wrong. Something had to change. Something had to change SOON!

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

"Oh my God!" Mallory said, and began wringing her hands in desperation.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Why are you so upset?"

"Because," Mallory said, sniffing, "when Miss Overmore hears about this, I will be expelled."
She looked as if she was about to cry. "They won't let me come back. No one will laugh about this,
and no one will forgive me. My parents will KILL me. This school is supposed to be my last chance.
I don't know where I can go if I get kicked out of here."

---

 
10. Pure Sherlock
 

The scolding from Mr. Fisby really unnerved me. I desperately needed to talk to someone about it.

If I could hear somebody say Oh, my God! and Are you kidding!? and He said WHAT? I'd feel a whole lot better.

But what I really wanted was for someone to tell me You were right and Don't beat yourself up over it.

Obviously, my mother wouldn't say that. I could hear her downstairs, pottering around the kitchen. She was probably coming up with more material to add to the scolding she already gave me. The last thing I needed to do was give her an opening to unload them on me.

Susan was out of the question, because her parents don't like her using the phone, especially on school nights.

I tried calling Maisie, but her phone didn't even ring. It went straight to voicemail. She must have turned it off... or maybe she was out of range... off hiking with Chrissie or something. Her phone stayed that way all night. I gave her one last try after I got into bed, but she still didn't answer.

I considered the other people I knew in California... I thought about Jerry, Eden, and Aunt Jane. Jerry and Eden wouldn't have understood about Ponzi schemes — at least I hoped they wouldn't! — and I knew I couldn't explain... I tried Aunt Jane a couple of times but she didn't answer, either. I didn't bother leaving a message. She was probably at work, anyway.

I even considered calling Mrs. Earshon, the psychic. It would have been nice to get some good news. At the very least she'd tell me something puzzling and weird that would take my mind off what was happening. But I didn't call her. She would have made me pay, and I didn't have an appointment, anyway.

In the end, I spent the evening stewing in my own juice, replaying what I said to Jordan and what Mr. Fisby said to me. It ran like an endless loop, repeating over and over inside my brain. Some moments would jump out at me, especially when he said You've been telling somebody about my business, haven't you! It wasn't a question, it was an accusation. Worst of all, it was true. I *had* talked about his business: with Maisie, with Susan — even Mallory and Blair heard something about it.

My face burned with shame and guilt. Was there any way Mr. Fisby could find out that I lied? If Mallory or Blair made a mistake and talked to Jordan... I groaned aloud, I hadn't even considered what Jordan would think or say. After all, she got in trouble for repeating what I said. How would she act toward me tomorrow? Would her father convince her that I was a troublemaker who didn't understand anything?

Then I felt angry. Mr. Fisby shouldn't have yelled at me. He really was in danger. Something was wrong in that little tea shop. Jordan knew it. Maisie and Susan both saw the problem instantly. I wasn't wrong. I wasn't!

And then I felt scared. Even though Mr. Fisby told me I wasn't fired, I was still worried about getting fired. Maybe Jordan would get him angry and he'd blame me. I worried about getting into more trouble, even if I couldn't imagine what that trouble could be.

I kept turning over and over in my bed. I couldn't get comfortable and it took me forever to fall asleep. It was not a restful night at all.
 

---

 

When morning came... early morning... I dragged myself out of bed an hour early. Even though I hadn't gotten slept very much or very well, I got dressed and ready in no time at all.

I wasn't awake though. My brain was only up to zombie level: I could shuffle my feet and mumble, but I wasn't capable of anything more than that. It was still dark out. It felt so indecently early that I couldn't even think about breakfast. As far as my stomach was concerned, I was still fast asleep.

We got in the car and Mom drove through the dark streets to the nose doctor's office. By the time we got there I was blinking and looking around. My belly was beginning to wonder when breakfast would come. But that would have to wait: Today, right now, I was getting the bandages off my nose and the packing out of my nostrils. I was ready to put up with any inconvenience and indignity as long as I got my nose back.

The nose doctor sat down in front of me, all wide awake and cheery. I rubbed my eyes. He said to me, "Before we start, I want to remind you that you had a very nice nose to begin with. We agreed that we weren't going to change it. We were just going to fix the break and nothing more. We didn't change anything. It should still look fine, just like before."

It was still too early in the day to talk. I made a noncommital noise. The doctor frowned. "I don't want to start until I know you understand."

I took a deep breath and sat up straighter. I was still half-asleep, but I managed to say, "Yes, Doctor, I understand. I don't want a different nose. I just want to breathe."

"Good!" he replied, and he got down to work.

I don't think I've ever seen anyone work so gently and carefully. He would cut a little, and pull a little, tossing the bits of bandage and tape onto a little steel tray. Sometimes it hurt a little, but I didn't complain. I tried to not whimper. I'd been praying for this day; I wasn't going to complain, now that it was here.

The really hard part came at the end. He asked me to sit on my hands and tilt my head back. He moved the steel tray under my chin and oh-so-gently pulled the packing out of my nose. It was very uncomfortable, but I clenched my teeth and forced myself to sit as still as a statue and not make any noise. After the big plugs came out, he pulled out smaller pieces. I wished I could see what he was pulling out, because I couldn't believe my little nose could hold so much stuff.

At last he said, "All done!" and, taking hold of my chin, he turned my head left and right and tilted it to different angles. "Lovely!" he concluded, and asked me how I felt.

I drew a deep slow breath. "It's wonderful to be able to breathe again!" I told him. Then I felt a tickle somewhere up inside my right nostril. Oh no! I grasping desperately at tissues and squeezed my eyes shut because I felt a sneeze coming. I expected it to hurt like mad and probably bleed, and... and... ah... ahhh... AAAchooo!

"Ohhhh!" I said in a voice filled with grateful wonder. "It didn't hurt!"
 

---

 

When I got to school, Susan looked at me quizzically. "Your nose looks the same," she told me.

I huffed in indignation. "Susan! I didn't get a nose job! I was hit in the face!"

"Oh, sorry," she said.

Of course, it was the stupid seniors' fault. And when they saw me, the nose-job remarks didn't stop.

"What kind of a nose job is that, Donner? Your nose looks the same! What an idiot!"

"You can't even get a nose job right, you nosejob."

"What a total waste! If you think that nose is going to make you Miss BYHS, you're dreaming!"

BUT, the good news was: I didn't care. The bandages were off. My nose was working again! I didn't have to breathe through my mouth any more.

Eventually the bruises would fade, and everyone would forget. Even if they didn't forget, nose-job jokes wouldn't be funny any more.
 

---

 

On the way to lunch, I gave Susan a hurried version of what happened with Mr. Fisby. I hurried because I didn't want Mallory and Blair to hear. It wasn't a very satisfying experience, because I told it so fast that the humiliation I felt didn't come across at all. Susan took the story as a simple difference of opinion.

"Of course you were right," she said, but she said it in a very matter-of-fact way. "You did what you could. I'm sure that in the near future he'll be sorry that he didn't listen, but what else can you do?"

I dropped the subject, because that wasn't the point at all. I didn't care so much about being right. I wanted to talk about it, about my nerves and fears and bad feelings.

Susan, on the other hand, wanted to talk about something else entirely. As we worked our way through the cafeteria line and sat down at our usual table, I could see that she was excited about something.

"What's up with you?" I asked her.

"I've got a little surprise," she chuckled. "But wait until Mallory and Blair get here."

That irritated me a little. Maybe it was just my lack of sleep, but I wanted to say, If you like Mallory so much, why don't you marry her? But of course I didn't.

Once Mallory and Blair were seated, and Mallory had a mouthful of food, Susan began. She put her hand inside her bag and kept it there. She smiled and waited, until Mallory, her mouth full of food, asked, "What's in the bag, Susan?"

Susan gave an enigmatic smile. "I've solved the mystery!"

"Which mystery is that?" I asked.

"The mystery of the Madonna Dialogs!"

Blair's eyes narrowed. Mallory swallowed the entire bolt of unchewed food. Her eyes bulged and her face turned bright red. She reached for her milk and gulped it down with some difficulty, pounding her chest as if to loosen the lump of food stuck inside and make it move down. It took her about a minute of gasping, swallowing, and sipping milk before she came back to herself.

Susan waited patiently until Mallory had fully recovered. Then she said, "Look at this!" and pulled her hand out of her bag.

In her hand was a hard white plastic card, a little bigger than a business card. It said VISITOR in big black letters. On the back was a clip, and a small black box that I assumed was a magnet, like a kitchen magnet.

"Where did you get that?" Mallory croaked. "Oh, Susan, please don't get me in trouble."

Blair sniffed. She looked annoyed.

"I asked Mr. Theo for it," she answered. "I told him he didn't need it any more."

"I don't understand," I said.

"This black box," she said, "is a bug. It's a tiny microphone and transmitter."

"How did you know?" Mallory asked. She looked miserable.

"I realized that if no one was there to hear Mr. Theo talk, that there had to be a bug. I remembered how you bugged Miss Overmore's bathroom," Susan said.

"But you couldn't have hidden one in the building, because he's always wandering around. And you couldn't have stuck one on him, or he would have noticed," she continued. "It had to be something you could give him; something he'd accept and carry with him." She held up the VISITOR pass.

"Oh my God!" Mallory said, and began wringing her hands in desperation.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Why are you so upset?"

"Because," Mallory said, sniffing, "when Miss Overmore hears about this, I will be expelled." She looked as if she was about to cry. "They won't let me come back. No one will laugh about this, and no one will forgive me. My parents will KILL me. This school is supposed to be my last chance. I don't know where I can go if I get kicked out of here."

Blair scoffed impatiently. "Oh, stop it, Mallory!" she said. "Don't be such a martyr!"

I stared at Blair, shocked. I couldn't believe she'd be so callous and uncaring. Susan, on the other hand, seemed to have expected it.

"She's right, Mallory. You have nothing to worry about."

Blair looked away, angry. Mallory still looked guilty and afraid. Susan was nearly glowing. She was in a state of pure Sherlock.

"Okay," I said, "Hold on for a minute. I'm obviously the only one who has no idea what's going on here. Could somebody please explain it to me?"

Susan looked from Blair to Mallory, and then to me. "Blair was convinced that Theo is... well, not a good person. She thought he was a creep. You know, the kind who likes school girls. So she talked to Mallory..."

I interrupted. "So whose idea was the VISITOR badge?"

"Mine," Mallory croaked.

"Clever," I commented.

Mallory gave a sad smile, but continued to look down.

"It *was* clever," Susan agreed. "And when Blair told Theo that he needed to wear the badge, he simply agreed."

"So what was the point of putting the conversations in the paper?" I asked.

"I wanted him to know that he was being watched," Blair answered.

"But he never did anything bad or wrong, did he?" I pointed out.

"No," Blair agreed. "My plan worked."
 

---

 

"That Blair is a little nutso," I confided to Susan later on.

She shrugged. "We don't know what's happened in her life," she said. "And I don't think we should ignore anyone's intutions."

"I think she was wrong in every way," I replied.

"I'm kind of sorry I figured it out," Susan said, smiling. "It was an interesting puzzle."
 

---

 

That afternoon Maisie called me. "I saw you called," she said. "You called like a gazillion times!"

"Yeah, I have to tell you something—"

"Yeah, I have to tell YOU something too! Me first! Chrissie is on the phone downstairs, talking to my father. She's going to find out if we can fly you out here for Spring break!"

"Oh my God!" I cried. "Do you think he will?"

"I think so," she said. "He pretty much does whatever Chrissie wants."

"Great!" I said. "I could really use a break from Flickerbridge and BYHS."

"Mmmm," she said. "So what's happening?"

I told her about Mr. Fisby. She knew exactly how to respond. She exclaimed in disbelief, she blew raspberries at things he said. She called him stupid, said he'd be sorry. She asked me how I felt and what I wanted to do about it.

"I don't think there's anything I *can* do," I replied. "I think I'll get fired if I say another word."

"You can still talk to Jordan," she said.

"Yeah, Jordan..." I realized that I hadn't seen her at school today. Well, I saw her, but we didn't have a chance to talk.

"How did she take it?" Maisie asked. "Did her father give her a hard time?"

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't been able to talk to her yet. And I saw her today, but her face is completely unreadable."

"She should be a poker player," Maisie quipped.

"Yeah, probably," I agreed.

We talked for another twenty minutes. I told her about Susan finding the bug and about Mallory and Blair.

Oddly, she didn't agree with me about Blair being crazy. She said the same thing Susan had said: "We don't know what's happened in her life. And you don't know: she might have good reason for being suspicious."

I asked Maisie about school, and she said that now she had tutors coming every day.

"Do you like that?" I asked.

"Well... it's okay. They're... okay. I miss the, uh... wait — hold on a minute... Chrissie is here."

She must have pressed her phone into her shirt because her words turned into soft murmurs. I couldn't hear Chrissie at all. The sounds Maisie was making got loud and angry pretty quickly. It didn't sound like good news. As far as I could tell, she was fighting with Chrissie, or at least yelling at her. It went on for almost ten minutes. I just hung on, listening, but unable to make out any words.

When Maisie got back on the line, she was pretty angry.

"I hate my father!" she declared.

"I know that," I said. "I guess this means I can't come. It's okay, Maisie."

"No, no," she said. "It's not okay. It's the opposite of okay. It's really bad." And she began swearing, calling her father all sorts of vile, unrepeatable names.

I tried to calm her down, but she wouldn't listen. "Maze!" I said. "Listen! It's not a big deal! I can't expect your father to pay for a private jet to come and pick me up. It must cost a fortune! It's okay. It's really okay."

"No," she said. "It isn't that. The problem is that he's a bigoted asshole. He wouldn't let you come even if you paid your own way."

"Huh?"

"He did a background check on you," she said. "Back when you got kidnapped."

"Yeah?" I said. "That's kind of weird." My neck started to tingle.

"I know," she agreed. "I told you: he's an asshole. And the reason he doesn't want you here is that... he said... he doesn't want a T-girl in his house."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

Then I caught myself. What if she only meant "tea girl"? A girl who serves tea?

---

 
11. The Real Tea Girl
 

The floor dropped out from under me. What Maisie said took me so completely by surprise that I couldn't speak. I could barely think.

Honestly, I tended to forget that I wasn't always Marcie and that physically I'm not 100% girl. Of course, there were always problem situations, like with gym class and with boys, but nothing that had ever cut me like this. If someone was mean to me, or just didn't like me — the seniors, for instance — it wasn't because I had some boy-remnants.

Maisie assured me, with lots of energy and venom, that she would make her father pay. And she told me that Chrissie had fought with him for me for the past three days. That was something; I appreciated it. But in the end, I couldn't go. Even if I paid my own way.

Truthfully, I had been looking forward to the private jet. Maisie had painted a vivid picture of the two of us and Chrissie zooming across the country. She had described the jet in so much detail that I almost felt that I'd already flown in it.

Now, it would never happen.

I wondered whether my whole life would be this way, even after I got the operation. I mean, after all, I couldn't change my past. Anybody paranoid enough to do a background check would find out that I used to be called Mark.

I wondered whether I'd be better off getting it over with by just telling everyone.

If everyone knew I was a t-girl, I could quit taking gym with the seniors. If everybody knew, I wouldn't have to worry about being exposed or found out, because I'd already *be* out.

Even that stupid hypocrisy about the bully: he could beat up a boy without a problem, but when he hit me he was horrified because I'm a girl. How would he feel if he knew I was a t-girl?

And there I stopped. Because I knew that my life wouldn't be easier if everybody knew. It would be harder. Maisie's father wouldn't have bothered to do a background check. He would have said NO from the very start.

And everyone else — the bully, the seniors — it would all be worse.

I felt so angry and frustrated... and humiliated — but the worst thing was, I had no one to talk to about it. I knew my therapist would tell me encouraging things, but — I sighed. It would be nice to talk with someone who knew *exactly* what I was going through, because they were going through it, too.

... like the girl who wrote that diary, for instance. I wasn't so sure that it was Mara any more. I'd looked at her as closely as I could without getting her angry, and I did't see a single atom of boy in her at all.

I didn't really want to talk to Maisie about it. She was sympathetic to me, and angry with her father, but that only went so far... and talking with her mainly reminded me of her father's insult.

And Mom... I didn't want to tell Mom. I know my mother cares and and I know she loves me, but she's so unpredictable. She could just as easily make things worse as make things better.

Susan, of course, had no idea that I was in transition, so I'd be opening up the whole can of worms if I talked to her. And I was in no mood for matter-of-fact judgments and opinions. Susan is my friend, one of my best friends, but so far I'd never told her my secret. I didn't have a real reason not to... but somehow I never got around to telling her.

I thought, with a slightly bitter laugh, that if Susan was as remarkable a detective as everyone thought, it was surprising that she hadn't figured it out on her own already.
 

---

 

The next evening I went to work. Mr. Fisby wasn't there, so it seemed the perfect opportunity to find out how Jordan felt after her father's explosion.

But Jordan cut me off. "We can't talk about that here and now," she said. "My father will be back any minute. He will flip right out if he hears us talk about that."

So, I closed my mouth, put on my apron, and got to work. It turned out that Jordan's father didn't come back for several hours. In fact, if Jordan and I were quick, we could have talked a little when I first came in, but then it got so busy that the subject flew out of both our minds.

Eventually the rush slowed and the tea shop gradually emptied out. Jordan and I bustled around, clearing tables, collecting money, washing cups and teapots, and suddenly the tables were empty!

All except one.

There sat Lee Sheppard, the woman with the Ponzi scheme.

"Well, well, well!" she said in a voice that filled the little shop. "If it isn't my favorite investment advisor and t-girl!"

I blushed hard. I felt embarrassed, angry, and exposed. I was also quite indignant. How on earth does she know? I asked myself. Then it occurred to me: She must have done a background check on me, just like Maisie's stupid father did.

Then I caught myself. What if she only meant "tea girl"? A girl who serves tea?

Lee sat there, smiling, watching my face. Then her gaze moved to Jordan.

I turned to look at Jordan, too, but she wasn't looking at me. I've always said that Jordan's face was unreadable, but for once, it was easy to read. She was angry, indignant... even outraged... and nearly on the point of tears.

That's when it hit me: Lee didn't mean that *I* was the investment advisor and t-girl... she meant that I was the advisor and Jordan was the t-girl!

Jordan was the other girl at BYHS in transition! She was the one who wrote that diary!

And now I knew how Lee Sheppard was getting to Jordan. She was calling her a t-girl, pretending she meant "tea girl." She probably did it every time she came in. And poor Jordan had to be polite and take it. She couldn't say a thing.

Until now. Now, Lee had called her out in front of me.

And that made ME see red. She had no right. She had no right at all.

All this time, while my brain was churning, processing this and realizing that, Lee Sheppard was watching my face and reading a story there as well.

"Oh, my goodness!" she said. "I never thought! Do we have two t-girls in this little tea shop? What are the chances?"

Jordan's jaw started working, as if she was trying to find something to say but couldn't.

Lee smiled and looked first at me, then at Jordan, going back and forth, enjoying the sight of our discomfort. I'm sure that all she saw was a pair of harmless teenage girls, girls in transition. I'm sure that the bully in her thought that we'd never dare stand up for ourselves, that we'd be too embarrassed and afraid. And the three of us were alone: there was no Mr. Fisby to witness her nastiness, so she settled in and got ready to poke us, to see how far she could push us, and maybe make us cry or run away.

Maybe yesterday, it might have worked. Maybe if she'd tried this rotten trick a few days ago, I would have been taken by surprise; I would have been embarrassed. Any day but today I probably would have been tongue-tied, humiliated, and left kicking myself or crying afterward.

But not today. I already felt humiliated, angry, and hurt, and I was not about to take any more. Not from anyone, and especially not from someone who made a habit of bullying a girl in transition. There was an angry energy bottled up inside me. It was like I had a hornets' nest in a jar inside me, shaken up, buzzing mad, and ready to go. If Lee pushed me, even a little — or if she said the wrong thing to Jordan — I was going take that jar, give it a good shake and open it up... on her.

Lee's smile broadened, and she said, "So what about it, Marcie? Are you a t-girl? Or a real girl? Which are you, hmm?"

I stood up tall and said in a strong, clear voice, "I'm a real t-girl."

She was clearly taken aback by my manner and delivery, so she said, "What's *that* supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?" I shot back. "It means that you can't push me around!"

Her face blanched for a moment, but only for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know who — or what — you think you are, little thing, but you don't cross me," she said in a tight voice.

"Right back at you," I growled. I had had enough. Enough of the seniors in gym class, enough of Maisie's father, enough of my mother, and more than enough of this scam artist in front of me.

"We'll see who has the last word here," she said, and she stood up. She went to the door, opened it, and paused in the opening. "You two 'girls' have fun playing dress up," she said, and shut the door behind her.

"GO TO HELL!" Jordan shouted as the door shut.

Then she burst into tears.
 

---

 

Of course, Mr. Fisby arrived at just that moment. He entered through the back, so he hadn't seen Ms. Sheppard.

"Honey, are you alright?" he asked, his face full of concern. He glanced at me, then moved quickly to the door. He locked it and turned the OPEN sign over to CLOSED.

"Let's go in the back and talk," he said. "Are you alright, Jordan? Marcie, what happened?"

Jordan began blurting out the story in between sobs. I filled in some of the gaps and translated when Jordan cried too hard to be intelligible. Mr. Fisby was stunned.

"Jordan, I had no idea," he said. "You should have told me she was saying those awful things to you."

"I didn't think you'd listen," she said. "You think that woman walks on water."

He spluttered for a moment, then asked, "And she did this every time she came here?"

"She never missed a chance," Jordan answered, sniffing. She was beginning to calm down.

Jordan's father made helpless motions with his hands. "I wish you'd told me, Jordan. I didn't know! I'm so sorry."

Jordan shook her head. "I tried to talk to you about her, but you think she's some kind of saint or something."

"She has helped me a lot," he said. "She's made me a lot of money."

"She's suckering you," Jordan said, but she said it in a low, downcast voice, because she was sure he wouldn't listen.

"Now I understand why you think that," he replied.

Jordan gave a resigned sigh.

"Mr. Fisby," I said, "I guess I can't work here any more." I took off my apron and handed it to him.

He looked at the crumpled cloth in his hand. "I don't know about that, Marcie. I know that the customer is always right and all that... but she really crossed a line. With both of you. You shouldn't have to take that from anyone, no matter who they are. I'm glad that you realize that losing your temper is not a good thing, but believe me, I understand why you were upset, and I appreciate the fact that you were defending Jordan as much as yourself."

"I guess," I said.

He smiled and handed me back the apron. "I don't guess, I know," he said. "Please, Marcie. Don't quit."

"Okay," I said.

"And I'm glad you two know about each other," he said. "It must be hard thinking you're the only one. But you know... Marcie, honestly... I never would have guessed."

"I never would have guessed about Jordan, either," I said.

"Seriously?" Jordan asked, looking at me in disbelief.

"I don't see anything boy about you," I replied. "When I found that diary, I thought it belonged to Mara."

"Mara?" Jordan echoed in puzzled disbelief. "The basketball player? You've got to be kidding!"

I shrugged, and the two of us laughed.

"Alrighty then! I will talk to Lee Sheppard," Mr. Fisby said grimly. "No matter who she is, nobody talks to my daughter — or any of my employees — like that. If she can't give you two the respect you deserve, she won't be welcome in my shop."

"Really?" Jordan asked, blinking.

Mr. Fisby hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded. "Yes, really," he said.

"And what about her 'investments'?" Jordan asked.

He hesitated again. This time, a little longer. "Well... to tell the truth, all this money stuff has been making me nervous. Every time she has an opportunity, I have to put out more money. Even though she tells me that there's no risk, I'm still afraid I might lose that money."

"So you'll stop?" Jordan asked.

He glanced at me before answering, considering how much he wanted to say in front of me. Then he gave a quick nod and said, "Lee has one more opportunity coming up in a week or so," he said. "If I can be a part of it, I will. But after that, I'm done. It's too much for me. The stakes are way too high, and the suspense just kills me."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to me,
"My client says, you help him find Lee Sheppard and then he'll talk."

"No," I said. "First he has to release the hostage. In the meantime, he can talk to himself if he wants to talk."

---

 
12. Time To Find Out
 

Even though Mr. Fisby said he'd talk to Lee Sheppard about the way she treated Jordan and me, I was pretty nervous. Each time the door of the tea shop opened and the little bell jingled, I glanced up nervously.

Jordan told me that she felt the same way, although you'd never know it from looking at her.

Mr. Fisby made himself busy out front. He wanted to be there when Lee walked in. He wanted to be sure he talked to her before she talked to either of us girls. As luck would have it, the moment Mr. Fisby went into the back room, the door opened, the little bell jingled, and Lee Sheppard stepped in as if she owned the place.

She was wearing a light gray tailleur, which was a lot dressier and more professional than she usually dressed. Her shoes were a no-nonsense pair of dark gray pumps, whose heels clicked loudly on the stone floor of the shop. She carried a black leather briefcase that closed with a zip at the top. She was also wearing more makeup than usual. When I took in her whole look, apart from the alarm I felt, my first thought was, I wonder who she's skinning today?

Jordan and I happened to be standing at opposite ends of the shop: she was in a corner by the front window; I was next to the tea counter in back. We looked at each other across the tables, mutely asking What do we do now?

Lee sat in her usual table, near the wall, apart from the few other patrons. She didn't look up. She didn't look at us. She busied herself with something on her table. She expected service; she expected one of us, probably Jordan, to pop over right away.

Neither of us wanted to move. It was almost as if we could remain invisible if we stood stock still.

After a few prolonged seconds, Lee gave a sniff that was heard through the whole place, and I decided I had to move. Whatever she was going to say to me wouldn't kill me, after all. I just had to be careful to not lose my temper or say something stupid. Above all, I had to be careful not to apologize. I was just going to ask for her order and ignore anything else she happened to say.

Jordan had the same idea (it turned out). The two of us put a foot forward at the same moment.

We both paused, and before we could take another step, Mr. Fisby came out like a shot from the back room. He moved swiftly to Lee's table and sat down without asking. Lee looked up in surprise, and as she parted her lips to speak, he leaned forward, and looking her straight in the eyes began talking very intensely and seriously. Her eyes widened in surprise. Jordan and I moved behind the counter and pretended to straighten things, wiping counters that were already clean, dusting containers that weren't dusty, and both of us nervous as could be.

"Go, Dad!" Jordan muttered under her breath, and the two of us shared a quick smile.

Their conversation didn't last very long. I didn't want to look, but Jordan did. I saw her eyes trail Lee as she walked from the table to the door. The door opened, the bell jingled, and the door shut with a bang!

"You should have seen her face!" Jordan crowed gleefully. "Dad must have really told her, because she was angry! I wouldn't be surprised if she never comes back again!"

"Here's hoping," I replied.
 

---

 

When I got home from work, Mom was peeling a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. "Uh-oh," I said. "That's not dinner, is it?"

She laughed. "No. These are only for me. Somehow I can't get enough boiled eggs. I asked your father to buy more eggs on the way home."

It's the twins, I thought.

"It's the twins," Mom said, as if reading my mind. "My babies want eggs."

"Mom!" I protested. "Gross!"

She was in a good mood; she laughed. Then, as she picked up an egg to take a bite, she suddenly stopped. "Oh, Marcie!" she told me, "Maisie called you. Five times! The last time I let it go to the answering machine."

I walked over to the table in the entry way and hit PLAY. After some beeps and noises, I heard Maisie's voice: "Marce! Call me! Call me call me call me call me call me! Hey, and when you get a chance, call me!"

"I guess she wants me to call her," I said, laughing.

"She sounds pretty excited," Mom observed. "She must have some kind of news. Maybe her father is finally going to wise up and let her come back here."

I doubt it, I thought.

Mom added, "And wasn't there talk of you going out to see her?"

"I dunno," I told her, looking down. I didn't want to talk about it.

Mom bit into a hard-boiled egg and moaned with pleasure. "I can't believe how good these taste!" I rolled my eyes and trudged upstairs to my room.

"Don't drop your backpack—" she called after me, just as I was letting go of it. Boom!

"Sorry!" I called. "Next time!"

I threw myself on my bed and pulled up Maisie's number on the phone.

"Hey, Maze," I said. "What's up?"

"Hey yourself," Maisie said. "Guess what? Guess what? You'll never guess!"

"I don't know," I said, searching for an answer. "You dyed your hair?"

"No!" she said. Then, after a pause: "Do you think I should to dye my hair?"

"No," I said. "Don't! You said to guess, but I have no idea!"

"You'll never guess!" she repeated, laughing.

"I'm sure I won't!" I replied.

"Try," she demanded.

"Okay," I said. "Your father changed his mind."

She stopped laughing. "No. Sorry."

"It's okay," I told her. "Just tell me, Maze."

"Alright. This is rich! You know that woman... Lee Sheppard... the Ponzi lady?"

"Yeah. I saw her today."

Maisie chortled. "It turns out that she is the one who ripped my father off!" Maisie burst into laughter, laughing so hard I had to hold the phone away from my head.

I groaned, disgusted.

"Isn't it funny?" Maisie asked.

"No, not really," I replied. "I hate that woman. She's an awful, spiteful person! She's really vile. And mean."

"She sounds just like my father," Maisie retorted. "But guess what?"

"No, Maze, just tell me."

"Okay. He wants to know where she is."

"Your father wants to know where Lee Sheppard is?"

"Yes, he told me to ask you."

"I wouldn't give him the time of day," I retorted, hotly. "I'm not telling him anything!"

"Good!" Maisie said.

"Do you mind?" I asked her.

"Hell, no!" she laughed. "I'm glad. Serves him right! I'm glad that woman ripped him off. He deserved it!"

"Did you tell him about the tea shop and Mr. Fisby?"

"No."

"Well, don't."

"Okay. I've zipped my lips. But I kind of thought you'd want to tell."

"Why?"

"Because my father would have her arrested, and Old Mr. Fishface would be saved."

"Fisby," I corrected. "And he doesn't want to be saved. And he isn't old."

"Hmmph. Oh, well. His loss," she said. "Literally."

"Don't tell your father anything that could help him," I told her. "Don't mention the tea shop or my job, or Jordan, or Mr. Fisby, or anything."

"I won't." I could almost hear her shrug at her end of the line. "It's not like I ever talk to him, or he ever listens. He only wants me here because it pisses off my Mom. Anyway, I don't blame you. And honestly, I couldn't care less. Except that your not telling is going to piss him off royally, which is great. He's dying to find that lady. He wants to string her up."

"Literally?" I asked.

"No," she said, laughing. "He just wants his money back."
 

---

 

A couple of days later as I was leaving school, Miss Overmore stopped me in the hall. I'm not sure what it was about. Maybe she just wanted to chat. She asked about my mother, how she was handling the pregnancy. She asked about my nose. She asked about Miss BYHS. She asked about the friendship between Mallory and Susan. Last of all, she asked about Blair. By the time she got that far, the hall was empty. Everyone had gone, except the basketball team. We weren't far from the gym, so I could hear the balls bouncing, the sneakers squeaking, the shouts and hustle.

Miss Overmore was speaking quietly now, and I got the idea that this was the point of the chat. I did feel like I was being pumped for information... but in a nice way. I didn't like it much, but then again, something was going on with Blair. Clearly Miss Overmore felt it and wanted to get a handle on it.

Then she looked at her watch and said she had to hurry off. I did too, so I shouldered my backpack and trudged to the front door.

As I was about to push it open, I saw the man. He was across the street, wearing dark glasses, leaning against a car as if he was waiting for someone.

He was tall and a little overweight. His brown hair needed a haircut, but his khakis and polo shirt were clean and pressed.

But why was he there? He was outside school yesterday, too. And come to think of it, I'd seen him outside a store this morning, while I was walking to school.

Was he following me?

He couldn't be waiting for anyone else. There wasn't anyone else to wait for. The basketball team was nowhere near the end of practice. There was only me.

I thought for a moment, and said out loud, "Time to find out!"

I pushed open the doors and took a left, walking fast as if I was late. I pretended not to see him. From the corner of my eye I saw him straighten up when I came out. I took a left at the corner, and in the reflection in a window opposite, I could see he was coming my way.

I didn't speed up, but I didn't want him to catch me yet. I went straight for four blocks. This wasn't my usual way home. In fact, it was the wrong way, but I needed to get to the Hill.

Every time I passed a car that had a decent reflection, I checked that he was still there. The man stayed on my tail, but two blocks back. If I wasn't watching, if I wasn't suspicious, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about him.

At last I reached the street I was aiming for: Valley Street. The moment I turned the corner and was out of sight, I took off running. Valley Street runs across the foot of the Hill, and the Hill is where the rich people live. The higher you go, the bigger the houses get, and the larger and lusher the lawns. Right here, on this bit of Valley, a stone staircase cuts through a wall five-feet high, and runs up between rows of greenery all the way to the top of the Hill. There are landings and benches every so often, and once a year there's a Heartbreak Race to the top. But today I wasn't going that far.

After a dozen steps, I found a break in the wall of bushes, and there I pushed through to the grass behind, ignoring the scratches and the leaves and twigs in my hair.

Once free of the bushes, I walked back down toward Valley Street.

My timing was excellent. The man was standing almost right in front of me, his head turning in every direction except toward me.

I cleared my throat and he jumped. "Looking for me?" I asked, and showed him my cell phone. As I hit the buttons, I told him, "I'm dialing 9-1-1, but before I press SEND I'll give you one chance to explain yourself."

I was nervous, but I felt pretty safe. He couldn't reach me, up where I was, and if he tried, all I had to do was take a step back. If he tried to climb the wall, I could walk up the hill. If he came up the stairs, he'd wouldn't get through the bushes, and in the meantime I could climb down to the sidewalk and run away.

No matter what, I could do any of those things and call 911 at the same time.

"Don't do that!" he said. "Don't make that call! Please, just wait a moment! I only want to talk to you."

"If you want to talk to me, why didn't you come to my house and ring the doorbell? Why didn't you use the phone?"

"Look," he said, "I'm not a weirdo. My name is Clark Riswold. I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for Lee Sheppard."

"Clark Riswold?" I repeated. "That sounds like a made-up name."

He shrugged. "What can I do? I didn't pick it. Look, here's my business card." He opened his jacket with one hand, showing me his shirt pocket. With his other hand he pulled out a card, and with exaggerated slowness he approached the wall and set the card under a tiny rock. Then he took two giant steps backward.

"All I want to do is find Lee Sheppard," he repeated.

"And do you think I'm her?" I asked.

"No, of course not. But according to my information, you know where she is."

"That's not true," I said.

"But you know who I'm talking about."

I didn't want to waste time playing around, so I said, "I know who you're talking about, and I could probably help you find her, but I won't."

"This woman is a criminal, do you realize that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why would a nice girl like you want to help a wanted criminal?"

I made a face when he said nice girl. I told him, "I don't want to help a criminal. That's why I'm not going to help you."

"I'm not a criminal," he retorted.

"No, but your client is."

"I didn't say who my client is," he replied, "but in any case, he's not a criminal."

"He's a kidnapper," I said.

He looked at me in silence for a few moments, perplexed, then gestured to his business card. "Look: You can call your friend, the police detective," he said. "Theresa Dandino knows who I am."

I frowned. I wasn't about to ask how he knew that I knew Theresa. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I shook my head. "It won't do you any good. No matter what she says, I won't help your client."

"I never said who my client is," he repeated.

"It's Maisie's father," I said. "It's Mr. Beale."

When he didn't answer, I added, "Your client is a kidnapper. You tell him I said so. You tell your client that I'll help you find Lee Sheppard, but before I do, he has to release the hostage."

The man frowned. "Hostage?" he asked.

"He'll know what I mean."

"Hold on a minute," he told me. "I'm going to ask him now. Don't go away."

He pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed dial, and began talking in a low voice. Then, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to me, "My client says, you help him find Lee Sheppard and then he'll talk."

"No," I said. "First he has to release the hostage. In the meantime, he can talk to himself if he wants to talk."

Clark's eyebrows bounced at that, but he repeated it word for word into the phone. Then he jerked it away from his ear. As far away as I was, even I could hear Mr. Beale's shouting.

Then, after a final shout, Maisie's father hung up. Clark Riswold looked at me.

"Stop following me," I said. "Leave me alone, or I'll make sure you never find her."

He scratched his ear.

"Besides," I told him, "No offense, but you're not very good at it."

"No offense?" he scoffed. "Listen, it's easier tailing adults. Kids are tricky. But who cares? Forget about that. Call Detective Dandino. She'll set you straight."

"I'll make sure I don't call her, then," I replied. "And anyway, it isn't you. It's your client I don't like. I wouldn't help him for anything on earth."

"To tell the truth, I don't like him much either," Clark told me. "Anything else you want to say? Might as well get it all off your chest."

"Yes," I said. "Get rid of those glasses. They make you look creepy."

"Mmm," he said, with a smile and a nod. "My wife says the same thing."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

Susan's face went white. "Marcie, you do realize that we're just a couple of teenage girls, right?
This woman Lee has been scamming people for a long time. Maisie's father couldn't outwit her,
but you think we can?"

"I don't know," I said. "But Jordan doesn't have anyone else to ask."

---

 
13. What About Mallory?
 

When I got to school next morning, Jordan was standing in the middle of the lawn, in front of the office windows, facing the street. The other girls, who were making their way up the walk and into the building, shot glances at her, but no one was rude enough to stare.

I walked over to her. I had the feeling she was waiting for me. Her face was as white as a sheet, and she didn't return my hello. When she spoke, at first I had to strain to hear.

"It's happening tomorrow," she said, barely audible.

I felt the blood drain from my face. I knew what it was, but I couldn't stop myself from asking, "What is happening tomorrow?"

"The big one," she replied. "The last one. Lee Sheppard is going to skin my father alive. She's going to take every penny he's got, and then she'll disappear."

A chill shot through me, and every hair on my body stood on end.

"You need to call the police, Jordan."

She laughed a bitter, scornful laugh. "And what would they do?"

"Arrest her?"

"For what? If I talk to any adult, what's the first thing they'll do? The very first thing?"

I shrugged. "I dunno. What?"

"They'll talk to my father, and my father will tell them that nothing is wrong. And then he'll be angry with me, not that *that* matters, but..." She scoffed. "Anyway, it won't help. There's no one who can help."

I opened my mouth to tell her about Clark Riswold, but hesitated. He probably would help. In fact, he'd probably make the problem go away. Permanently. He'd arrest Lee Sheppard before she took Mr. Fisby's money, and she would never come back. But did I want that? If I told Clark Riswold, I'd be helping Jordan and her father in the only way possible, but at the same time I'd be helping Mr. Beale, and I didn't want that.

And then, Maisie might never come home.

Still, the sight of the usually impassive Jordan, who now stood wringing her hands, her face a mask of pain... it was too much for me.

I told her about Clark Riswold.

"Do you trust him?" she asked me. "He sounds pretty creepy."

"Yeah," I agreed. "He *is* pretty creepy. But he told me I could call Theresa Dandino and she would vouch for him."

"Who's she?"

"A police detective I know."

At the word police, Jordan shut down. "No," she said. "No no no no!"

"Why?" I asked her. "He's not with the police! If I call him, he'll arrest her and she'll be gone."

"Can a private eye arrest a person?" she asked.

"I don't know. I guess so."

"But... to find out if he's on the up-and-up, you have to call the police. And if you call the police, all the adult world is going to get into motion. They have all kinds of rules. They'll ask my dad because they have to, and everything will stop right there."

I sighed.

She went on, "... and then Lee Sheppard will take my father's money, laugh in my face, and disappear. And we will be ruined."

The two of us stood in silence, looking at each other, until she wailed, "Marcie, what am I going to do?"

I considered for a moment. There *was* someone else to ask. If Jordan refused to trust an adult, well... I knew it sounded crazy, but I had to say it. Hesitantly, I forced the words out. "Well... Jordan... if it was me... I'd ask Susan Ash for help."

She frowned, trying to place the name. Then she got it. "Oh, wait... no! Come on! Susan Ash?" she echoed, incredulous. "The Chinese girl in your class? The freshman? The little black-haired bookworm? That Susan Ash?"

"Yes," I said. "She's smart. Scary smart. She's like Sherlock Holmes in a pleated skirt."

Jordan didn't laugh at my joke, so I said (very lamely), "Trust me."

"I don't know," she said. "I'm desperate, but I'm not sure if I'm that desperate."

"Let me see what she says," I replied.
 

---

 

I sat behind Susan in homeroom, and quickly filled her in.

"Do you think we can help her?" I asked.

Susan's face went white. "Marcie, you do realize that we're just a couple of teenage girls, right? This woman Lee has been scamming people for a long time. Maisie's father couldn't outwit her, but you think we can?"

"I don't know," I said. "But she doesn't have anyone else to ask."

"Yes, she does," Susan contradicted. "At the very least, she can call this Clark guy. You can call Detective Dandino and get the low-down on him."

"Jordan doesn't want that."

"I understand, but you can be all hypothetical with Theresa. You don't have to tell her everything."

I considered that for a moment. "I'm not sure that would work."

Susan gave me a flat look. "You could try," she said, and turned her back to me. Class was starting, anyway, so we had to quit talking. I spent the whole period chewing my nails and wondering what to do. Susan, on the other hand, was bent over her desk, scribbling notes, crossing things out. Every so often she'd look off in the distance, tapping her lips with the end of her pen.

When the bell rang, she turned to me with a red, embarrassed face. She said, "Um... if Jordan wants to come to our lunch table today... I mean, if she *wants* to... I might have some ideas — but only... if she wants."

"Great!" I responded enthusiastically. What a relief! "But — oh! What about Blair and Mallory? I don't think she'll want those two to be there."

Susan considered for a moment, then said, "Blair won't be there," she said. "I can take care of that, and kill two birds with one stone."

Puzzled, I asked, "Which two birds? What's the other one?"

"Never mind for now," she replied. "I'll tell you later." She turned to leave, but I caught her arm.

"Whoa, Susan, wait! What about Mallory?"

"What about Mallory?" she echoed. "We need Mallory. Mallory has to be there."

"Are you kidding?" I shot back, but she just nodded, clutched her pile of books, and went to our next class.
 

---

 

Jordan came unwillingly, all the more because she didn't like Susan and Mallory knowing her situation. And yet, she came.

Mallory and Susan were already sitting down. They each had trays of food in front of them, but neither was eating. There was a lot of food on Susan's tray, and from it she set a sandwich and an apple in front of Jordan and did the same for me.

"I'm not hungry," Jordan said.

"It's camouflage," Susan replied, still embarrassed. "Open it up and pretend to eat it. If we're not eating, one of the teachers might come over and ask why."

Jordan made a sour look. She ripped the plastic wrap off the sandwich and took a bite. "Happy now?" she asked.

Susan was obviously very uncomfortable and felt very awkward. She told me later that she wasn't "qualified" to give Jordan any advice (other than to send her to an adult). So, she laid her cards on the table. "Look, Jordan. I'm just a kid. We both know that. But I understand that you're uncomfortable going to an adult. Well... I have some ideas about how we can —"

Jordan interrupted. "What do you mean we?"

It hardly seemed possible, but Susan blushed an even deeper red. In a quiet voice she replied, "Marcie said you needed help. I think that we —" here she made a gesture that included the four of us "— we can help. If you want it. If you don't, fine. Personally, I think you ought to let Marcie call the private investigator, but if you won't, maybe you'll try something else. If you don't like my ideas, fine. You don't have do them. For now, just hear me out. Okay?"

Jordan leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She had a sullen look, but she said, "Okay. I'm listening."

"All right," Susan said. "There are three things that we'd like to see happen: one, that Lee doesn't take your father's money, two, that your father understands that Lee is a crook, and three, that Lee gets arrested. Point two is the hardest, and probably isn't worth pursuing, and point three needs at least one adult, so let's set that aside for now. We need to concentrate on point one: not letting Lee get the money. If we can make the other two happen, great — and I have some ideas there, too — but if we can accomplish point one, well, that's the main thing. That's the most important point."

Jordan's face looked a little less sullen. Her expression was moving back toward her usual, naturally unreadable setting. But I could tell she was getting interested. She asked Susan, "How exactly do we stop her from getting the money? My father wants to put it in her hands. Even if I took it and hid it, he'd tear everything apart until he found it and gave it to Lee."

Susan glanced at Mallory, who cleared her throat and said, "We're going to pull the old switcheroo. We'll prepare a second bag of money that's filled with cut-up newspapers."

"No, wait," I objected. "Maisie's father tried that, but *he* ended up with the newspapers."

"Right," Susan said. "He did. But we have an advantage that Maisie's father didn't."

"What's that?"

"We don't think we're smarter than her." She let that sink in, then added, "We have to assume that this woman is much smarter than we are, and that she knows tricks we can't even imagine."

She glanced at Mallory, who offered, "A good scam artist is an expert at reading people. When Maisie's father tried to give her the wrong bag, it was written all over his face. He was thinking, Ha, ha, I'm tricking her and no doubt he was checking to be make he gave her the wrong bag. She would have seen all that and knew what he was trying to do."

"How do you know?" Jordan asked in a challenging tone.

"Why do you think it went wrong?" Mallory asked. "When the switch happens, you can't think. You have to be stupid and forget that there are two bags. There's only one bag: the one you give her. What Susan said is important: she is smarter than us, so we have to be stupid enough to not register."

While Jordan took this in, Susan said, "Jordan... if you want to try this, Mallory will drill you on the switch."

Mallory said, "You'll get to the point that you'll automatically give her the right bag, but you'll feel like you're giving her every penny you own. Oh, and we'll need to know what sort of bag your father will use. Do you think it will be a jiffy bag? Or a big manila envelope?"

"I think that it's a big jiffy bag," Jordan replied. "I'll find out. But when am I supposed to do this? And what if she looks in the bag?"

"You have to show her what's in the bag," Mallory replied. "You let her see the money, then you put the money bag away. I'll show you."

Jordan repeated, "But when am I supposed to do this? My dad might look in the bag himself."

"Right," Susan agreed. "You need to sit at the table when they do they deal. This part is trickier."

"I don't think I can do that," she replied. "That woman and I — we hate each other's guts."

"Well, if you can't do that," Susan said, "the worst case is that you change the bag ahead of time. You can put newspapers on the bottom and real money on top. Then your father will lose something, but not everything."

Jordan liked that idea. "I could do that. Then maybe he'll only lose the money that she gave him! That would be ironic." She actually laughed at the thought. Then she suddenly brightened with another idea. "You know what? I could do both! I could hide most of the money, put newspaper in the bottom of the money bag, AND try the switcheroo. If it works, all she gets is newspaper. If it doesn't, she just gets her own money back."

"That's a good idea," I said.

"Yes," Susan agreed, and I could see she was a little nettled that she hadn't thought of it. But she continued. "Okay, so that's point one: not letting her get the money. Now, let's jump to point three: getting her arrested. This ties into the switcheroo, anyway. For this, you need to sit at the table when they make the deal."

"That's not going to happen," Jordan said.

"Maybe not," Susan agreed, "but we can try. How do you think your father would react if you told him that you realized you were wrong about Lee Sheppard, and now you think she's a great person and a good investment advisor?"

I blushed at that, and Jordan shot me a look. I shook my head, and she understood: I hadn't given her away. Susan didn't know that Jordan and I were in transition. She didn't know there were *two* issues with Lee Sheppard: the money and the harrassment. Susan only knew about the money.

"Well..." Jordan began, but clearly she didn't know what to say.

"Susan," I cut in, "Lee was harrassing Jordan, every time she came in. She's a rude and horrible person, and just the other day Mr. Fisby had to tell her to stop. So Jordan can't say Lee is a wonderful person. Mr. Fibsy knows she's not, and he wouldn't believe it."

Susan took this in. "Okay, so how about this: how do you think he'd would react if you said that — in spite of her personal failings and the way she treated you — that you came to see that she is a terrific investor and that she's helping your family?"

Jordan shrugged. "He'd be relieved. He'd be really happy. We fight a lot over Lee and the money, so he'd be glad if it was over."

"And what if you said the same thing to Lee?"

"Phffft! As if! She'd know it was BS. She wouldn't believe it."

"But if you said it in front of your dad..."

"He'd lap it up."

"And maybe he'd let you sit at the table."

Jordan frowned. "Why do you keep trying to get me at the table? Why do I have to be at the table?"

Susan glanced at Mallory, who shifted uncomfortably. Then she said, "Because if you want to secretly record a conversation, New Jersey is a one-party consent state. That means that as long as one person in the conversation knows they're being recorded, it's legal."

Jordan's face lit up for a moment, then went dark again. "And how is it going to be recorded?"

"Just a sec," Mallory said. "Watch where I go and what I do. My backpack is on that chair over there." We watched her walk across the cafeteria. She fished a small tape recorder out of the backpack and brought it back to us.

After she sat down, she rewound the tape a few seconds and hit PLAY. Jordan's voice came out, crisp and clear: "... hide most of the money, put newspaper in the bottom of the money bag, AND try the switcheroo. If it works—" Mallory switched it off. Jordan was impressed.

"Where's the microphone?" I asked.

"It's better if no one knows," Mallory replied. "Then nobody will look at it."

"So," Susan concluded, "if you sit at the table, anything she says can be used as evidence against her."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

Theresa gave a laughing groan. "Clark, you're not going to impress these girls with that corn."

"And what about you?" he asked Theresa in a suggestive tone. "Are you impressed by my corn?"

---

 
14. Hit In The Brains
 

The next day, the moment I got home from school, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice replied, "Hi. Am I speaking to Marcie Donner?"

"Yes, this is me."

"Oh, good!" she said. I had no idea who it was, but I liked her voice. She sounded so friendly and positive. "My name is Chrissie Frambois. I'm calling from California."

"Are you Maisie's Chrissie?"

She laughed, a light, pretty laugh. "Yes, I'm Maisie's Chrissie. I'm calling because I have good news for you and bad news for me. I'm bringing Maisie back to her mother tomorrow. We've got a flight at 8 am our time."

"Really? Why isn't Maisie the one who's calling to tell me?"

"Good question!" Chrissie agreed. "Maisie is NOT happy about going back. She's not happy at all. Neither am I, to tell the truth, but it's time. It's past time. She's supposed to be with her mother now, and I've been trying to bring her back, but her father didn't want to let her go."

I grunted in response. I did remember Maisie saying the same thing.

Chrissie continued. "There's no way she can be back before... before your thing tonight, but I promise you she'll be there tomorrow. You can try and call her, but she's pretty angry. She probably won't pick up the phone. If she does answer, she might chew your head right off."

I blushed. I still wasn't sure about this... but at the same time I was. I knew Maisie didn't want it, and it wasn't my place to interfere, but...

"Marcie?" Chrissie said. "For what it's worth, I think you've done the right thing. Maisie doesn't want to go, but she has to. Her father was wrong to keep her from her mother."

"I know," I said, but I didn't sound very brave or convinced.

"She has to spend time with *both* parents. And she needs to be with you! I hope I get to meet you some time soon. I've heard — and read — a lot about you. Most of it's hard to believe! You're a remarkable girl, Marcie Donner. And Maisie owes you her life. She might not say so, but she knows it, and so do I."

I mumbled a clumsy thanks. I knew she meant the kidnapping, but I really didn't want to talk about it.

"For what it's worth, her father ought to show some gratitude to you, too, but I guess that would be out of character. I'm sorry he's that way, but he owes you a lot. Somewhere inside him, he knows that, too."

I wasn't sure what to say to that, but I managed to say something polite, and then Chrissie signed off.

After I wiped a few tears, I picked up the phone and called Theresa Dandino. "Has the eagle landed?" she asked in a mock-serious tone.

"Not yet," I said, "but you can call Clark Riswold."

"Great!" she said. "Tonight, one way or another, Lee Sheppard is going down."

"Let's hope so," I said.
 

---

 

Yes, I called Police Detective Theresa Dandino, and yes, I asked her to call Clark Riswold. And yes, Jordan knew I'd be calling the both of them, and she was okay with it.

When Susan worked her way through her plan yesterday at the lunch table, *that* was where she was heading the entire time. I didn't know it, and neither did Mallory, but Susan had a secret goal. After winning Jordan over by solving the problem of the money, she began to talk about how to get Lee Sheppard to confess on tape. From there, as she outlined ways of getting the woman arrested, Jordan finally broke down and agreed to let me call the police.

"Thank goodness!" Susan told me afterward. "We would have been crazy not to! We had to call the police!"

We set up a war room on the second floor of bookstore near the tea shop. Mr. Fisby gave me the night off, even though I was supposed to work. I guess he didn't want me messing up his last deal with Lee.

Mallory sat on a table near her tape recorder. "Shouldn't you be wearing headphones?" I joked. She smiled and shrugged. "If they make this into a movie, I'll wear headphones and stare at the desk. But I can hear it just fine from here."

At the moment, all we could hear were the sounds of tea cups and light chatter.

Susan, Theresa, and Clark sat by the windows. Taped to the walls near the windows were eight large photos, all different, of Lee Sheppard.

Earlier, Clark had asked Mallory what would happen if the tape recorder died.

"I put in fresh batteries today," she said, "and I have spares—" she produced some loose batteries from a bag "—AND there is a backup recorder hidden in the tea shop."

Clark grunted. He was impressed, but didn't want to admit it.

"Marcie," Theresa reminded me, "You should be over here at the window, watching. You're the only one who's actually met her."

After five minutes, Clark announced, "Gray Camry parking at nine o'clock."

Theresa pointed for my benefit. "There's a woman at the wheel," she observed.

"It could be her," I said. Clark continued to scan the entire scene, and announced two other car arrivals, and asked about a woman who was "walking at two o'clock."

The woman in the Camry took forever to get out, but as soon as she straightened up and shut the door, I knew it was her. "That's Lee Sheppard," I said. "Getting out of the Camry... at nine o'clock."

"Very good!" Theresa said. "Let's back away from the window a little, so she doesn't catch us looking, okay?"

We watched her walk, smiling and confident, all the way up the block and into the tea house. We heard the door open and the bell jingle on Mallory's recorder. Susan moved over to the table. Theresa shifted her chair to get a better view of the tea shop's door. Clark stood up and straightened his clothes.

"Going somewhere?" Theresa asked.

I got alarmed. "You can't arrest her now!" I exclaimed. "You agreed—"

He put up his hand to quiet me. "I'm not going anywhere near her... yet. I'm going to sabotage her car. Make sure it won't start. Whatever happens in the tea shop, I don't want her getting away."

"Oh, okay," I said.

"And, just so we're clear," he went on, "I'm going to stay down there. The moment she approaches her car, or the moment she leaves the tea shop for any place else, I'm going to be on her. I want her to try on this pretty pair of bracelets." He dangled a set of handcuffs.

Theresa gave a laughing groan. "Clark, you're not going to impress these girls with that corn."

"And what about you?" he asked Theresa in a suggestive tone. "Are you impressed by my corn?"

She rolled her eyes and he left.

From there on, we were silent, listening to the conversation between Lee and Mr. Fisby. Occasionally, Jordan would pipe up with a question. She always sounded respectful and interested. She wanted to know where the money was going, how long it would take. She asked Lee how she'd gotten into the business and how she learned what she knew. She asked if the returns were really guaranteed, and if so, how come everyone wasn't investing the same way.

"This is based on insider information," Lee told her, betraying just the slightest hint of impatience, "and this particular deal is in foreign currency. It's pretty simple, really, but only if you know what you're doing. Let's say there's a currency called... let's say there's a country that uses oyster shells for currency. And say there are 40 oysters to the dollar. That's the exchange rate. Now: what if you know that tomorrow, the exchange rate would be 20 oysters to the dollar! What would you do? You'd take your dollars and buy oysters today, and then tomorrow buy your dollars back."

"You'd double your money!" Mr. Fisby said. You could hear his excitement.

"You'd double your money," Lee agreed. "It's simple, but not everyone can do it. Not everyone can see it. For one thing, you've got to move fast and buy your oysters quickly, before other traders catch on to what you're doing. If they see you buying oysters, they'll start buying oysters too, and that will drive the price up. Do you get it?"

"Not really," Jordan said. "But how do you know the oysters will be worth more? and why would they be?"

"That's the way money works, Jordan," Lee replied, with a superior air. "It goes up and down like a tide. And just like sailors on the sea, you can learn to read the signs, watch the weather, so to speak..."

Theresa snorted in disgust. "Listen to her! She really knows how to sling that stuff! What a load of baloney!"

We could tell when the money (or the newspaper) was handed over. There was a peculiar kind of reverent silence. Once Lee dropped the money in her briefcase, the conversation quickly fell apart, and Lee left the table. Again, the door opened, the bell jingled, and the door closed with a bang.

Susan, Mallory, and I ran to window. Theresa quickly hissed, "Girls, get back! Don't let her see you!" and Lee stopped in her tracks. I'm sure she didn't hear Theresa, who was only whispering. Maybe it was some sixth sense, or more likely, she saw our movement from the corner of her eye. In any case, Lee turned her head and looked up toward our window. At first she was only curious, but when her eye fell on me, her face changed. Her expression tightened, and she began walking quickly away from her car.

"No no no!" I cried. "She's getting away!" and the next moment I was pounding down the stairs as fast as my feet could carry me.

Theresa pushed past me on the stairs, and was gone when I hit the sidewalk. I couldn't see Lee, either. So I crossed the street to the Green. As soon as I did, I spotted Lee in the middle of the block to my left. Clark would say she was at two o'clock. I jumped the low shrubbery and took off across the Green. At the same time, I saw Theresa several yards behind Lee, pushing past shoppers and strollers, trying to reach the fleeing scammer.

Where does Lee think she's going? I asked myself. Why didn't she head for her car? She couldn't have *another* car, could she? But no, that was crazy. She just wanted to get away. In fact, I realized she had her shoes in her hand — heels were no good for running.

She was just about to round the corner onto Carver Street, which was full of tiny shops, when she collided head-on with a man. It was Clark Riswold. She tried to get by him; he gripped her wrists. The two of them struggled. Lee drew close and drove her knee into Clark's groin. His dark glasses couldn't hide the pain in his face. Still, he didn't let go. Lee cocked her knee twice more, hard, but Clark saw those coming, and they didn't connect.

But the next one did, and his body twisted to the left. Theresa and I were nearly there, so when Lee dropped her shoes and got her right hand free, Theresa snapped a cuff on that wrist, and pulled Lee's arm back in a hammerlock. Clark was trying to straighten up. He still had a hold on her left arm, but with a piercing scream and a few hard kicks to his ankles, she jerked it free.

That's when I arrived, skidding to a halt — I slipped on something. That's when the worst thing happened, because I was bent over, in exactly the wrong place. As my face was moving down, Lee's arm broke free and her elbow shot back, smacking me hard right between the eyes. Her heavy briefcase, which was hanging on that arm, struck me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me.

Not again!

I stumbled back. Tiny flaming stars swam in front of my eyes, and I couldn't catch my breath. I backed into a lamp post, and sank down, sliding down the post till my butt hit the the ground.

"Serves you right, you little witch!" Lee shouted. "I hate nosy people!"

"Enough!" Theresa barked. She spun, jerking Lee's body, so the woman landed belly-first with a oof! on the pavement.

She put her knee in the small of Lee's back, grabbed Lee's free hand and snapped the handcuffs on tight. Then she pulled out her radio and called for a police car.

"Are you alright?" she called to me. I gingerly tested my nose with my fingers, feeling all the bones. Nothing seemed to be broken. "I think so," I told her. "I was afraid that she'd busted my nose again."

"That's what I was aiming for, you—" and she let out a string of profanity. Theresa laughed.

"Hey, don't *I* get any sympathy?" Clark called. He shook himself and coughed twice. "I can't even touch where it hurts!"

"Aw, you're okay," Theresa said. "She only kicked you in the brains."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way

When I walked home, I was in a total daze. My mind was still in a whirl from the stake out last night and the chase,
and I hadn't gotten much sleep. Because of all that, and after hearing about Blair, I was so caught up
that I forgot something very important. Luckily, that something — I mean that someone — hadn't forgotten me.

---

 
15.  M&M&M's
 

It turned out that Jordan had managed the switcheroo perfectly. When Lee ran off, she thought she had a bag of cash, but all she had was a stack of cut-up newspapers.

"You should have seen her face!" Theresa laughed. "I poured it all out on the table and said, Do you want to count it, Lee? She clenched her jaw so tight, I'm surprised she didn't crack a few teeth!"

"What really made her angry is that she's spent her life fooling people, only to get punked by a group of teenage girls!" she said later.

California filed extradition papers. As the word went out, other states starting lining up to take their prosecuting Lee. And there were civil suits against her as well.

"Even if we can't make her case stick here," Theresa told us, "She'll be going state to state, serving time."

Once Mr. Fisby understood how the whole investment scam worked, he handed over as much of the money he'd "gained" as he could. "It's food off someone else's table," he said.

Jordan was relieved, but a little disgusted as well. "I'd been telling Dad for months, but as soon as an adult said the same thing, he was all Oh, I see!"
 

---

 

Blair wasn't in school the next day. In fact, she didn't come back, ever. Susan took me to a quiet corner and explained. "This is what happened with Blair: Miss Overmore came to talk to me one day in the library, when no one was around. At first she talked about this, and talked about that, but in the end she wanted to talk about Blair."

"She did the same thing with me," I said. "Except it wasn't in the library."

"Anyway... afterward, I couldn't stop thinking about the questions she asked me. Some of them were kind of strange. At the time I didn't understand where she was going, but then it hit me: Miss Overmore believed that Blair was being abused."

"What!? Where? By who?"

"By whom," Susan corrected, and then apologized. "I don't know, but it was probably at home. That's where most abuse happens."

"Oh, my God!" I said.

"I think Miss Overmore wanted to intervene, but unless Blair said something, she was nothing she could do. So when you told me that Blair shouldn't be at lunch..."

"... you told her to go talk to Miss Overmore about Mr. Theo."

"Yes!"

"But I don't get it. Theo wasn't abusing her."

"No, he wasn't, but talking about that gave the opening to Miss Overmore. She must have convinced Blair to tell her what was going on at home."

"But Susan — that sounds kind of dangerous! Weren't you afraid that Blair would say something bad about Theo and get *him* in trouble?"

"No, I went and talked to Miss Overmore about it first — before I talked to Blair."

Susan was just amazing sometimes. "So what happens now?"

"Now Child Services and the police are involved. I'm guessing that Blair will go live with someone else, and hopefully whoever was hurting her will end up behind bars."

"Oh, man!" I exclaimed. I felt awful. "Susan — all the mean things I said and thought about her—"

"We all did," Susan agreed. "We have to remember for next time."
 

---

 

When I walked home, I was in a total daze. My mind was still in a whirl from the stake out last night and the chase, and I hadn't gotten much sleep. Because of all that, and after hearing about Blair, I was so caught up that I forgot something very important. Luckily, that something — I mean that someone — hadn't forgotten me.

The house was empty when I got home. I shouted "hello" and "halloooo" all over the place, but no one answered. Another thing I'd forgotten: Mom was at the doctor's for yet another prenatal checkup. So I went to the kitchen to make myself a snack, but before I'd even opened the peanut butter, the front doorbell rang.

And there, on the front porch, was Maisie!

She was standing with one hand on her hip, and her head tilted to one side, dressed in tight jeans and an oversized red t-shirt, chewing gum and looking for all the world as if she was posing for a photo. She was standing very still, but her eyes were darting around. She didn't look me in the eye.

Behind her was a tall blond-haired man in a suit. He was tall, wide, and muscular, like an ex-football player. He wasn't bad looking, but he didn't look like a very nice man. Next to him, with her hand on his arm, stood a skinny woman with long, blonde, shining hair and a pair of enormous breasts. She looked and dressed like a model. I mean, like a supermodel. She was amazing, like Barbie come to life.

I opened the door and Maisie strolled inside without a word, giving me a resounding sock on the arm as she passed.

"Ow! Jeeze, Maze!" I exclaimed, and started rubbing my arm. Then to the adults, I said, "Would you like to come in?"

The woman of course was Chrissie, and she oohed and aahed about everything: me, the house, the flight, the fact that Maisie was back in New Jersey... but she was nice. She seemed very sincere and good hearted. I liked her even better in person than on the phone. I'm sure my mother would have dismissed her as a "bimbo," but even if she looked the part, she didn't play the part at all.

Mr. Beale said nothing. He looked me and the house up and down. He looked at everything, as if estimating it, as if he'd already decided that it wasn't worth buying. I didn't like him at all. I couldn't imagine how Ida had ever married him, or how Chrissie could stand him.

Maisie looked good. She was tanned; she'd put on weight. She used to be so bony, people thought she was anorexic. Now she looked healthy and strong: the best I'd ever seen her. But she was pacing up and down my living room in an aggressive way, scowling at me. I didn't know what to say. Should I apologize?

Maisie stopped pacing and looked me in the face. She stuck out her lower lip and tried to frown, but saw she was hiding a smile. It was all an act! She knew that I knew, and she burst out laughing.

Maisie ran at me and clutched me in a tight, tight hug with her bony little arms. Hmm... well, bony with muscle. There was a little more substance to her now. I guess she'd gotten wiry, which is a good step up from bony.

And then of course she wouldn't be Maisie if she didn't say something insulting: "What a little pig you are, Marcie! Look at how fat you've gotten!"

"Maisie!" Chrissie exclaimed, shocked, but Maisie and I just laughed. Maisie didn't mean it. It was her weird way of showing affection. Don't ask me to explain. And — just for the record — I'm not fat at all.

"Marcie," Mr Beale said, interrupting and extending his hand, "I'm Aiden Beale, Maisie's father," (as if that wasn't obvious) "and I have to thank you. And, not to sound melodramatic, but if it weren't for you, Maisie would likely have died. We all know that; we're all grateful." Then he looked at Chrissie, who smiled and nodded. I guessed that she was the real audience for that.

Then Mr. Beale asked, "Is your father home? No? He used to work for me, you know. But it looks as though he's landed on his feet here. I'm glad."

"Um... I'll tell him that," I said.

Chrissie had been studying my face, and now she stepped a little closer. She turned her head to different angles, and then she asked, "Marcie, did you have a nose job recently?"

Mr. Beale scoffed. "She didn't have a nose job! Anyone can see that!"

I blinked. Was Maisie's father going to be the first and only person to see — to know that I didn't get a nose job? That went beyond strange!

"No," he said, stepping forward and taking my chin in his hand. He tilted my head in one direction and another. "It's obvious! You can see plain as day that somebody hit you."

Chrissie frowned in disagreement, so I told her that he was right.

"I'm guessing you got an elbow in the face," he went on.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, then added, "but it was an accident. Both times."

His eyebrows went up at both times. He let go of my face and said, "Whether it was accidental or on purpose, the same damage is done."

"Er... I guess so."

"I have something for you," Mr. Beale said, and he fished a small wallet-like thing out of his pocket. It was full of business cards. He flipped through them quickly, selected one and, smiling, handed to me. It was the business card of a lawyer.

"He is my personal-injury lawyer," Mr. Beale told me, "and you don't pay him; he only works on contingency. Marcie, let me tell you: nothing makes you feel better than suing someone. You'll see. And this man is the best. He's in California, but his practice *does* extend to New Jersey; he's done a few things for me here."

With that, he smiled and walked out of the house without another word.

"That's how Dad says goodbye," Maisie explained, rolling her eyes.

"Your father shows his feelings in other ways," Chrissie said.

"If you say so," Maisie laughed.

"He does," Chrissie insisted. "Now come here, you!" And she opened her arms. Maisie ran over and they hugged each other.

"I'll miss you!" Maisie told her.

Chrissie cooed, "I'll miss you too, but you know who else has been missing you?"

Maisie sighed. "My stupid mother."

Chrissie bit her lip, then told her, "I never knew my mother, Maisie, and I've always been sorry. You need to know her. So try to get along. You can always call me." She gave Maisie a kiss, said goodbye to me, and left.

We listened to her heels click down the porch steps and away. Then, "Wow," I said. "You're back."

"Yeah," Maisie agreed. "My front, too."
 

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So... what else do you need to know?

Lace the Face won Miss BYHS, to no one's surprise. Once that happened, the seniors quit bothering me. The pageant was a lot of fun. I liked being dressed up, on the stage, answering questions and walking around waving. What surprised me most was how wound-up and nervous Lacey was, the entire time. Everyone knew she had it in the bag from the very start. Watching her made me see how relaxed and happy *I* was, by contrast. I guess that knowing full well that I couldn't win made it fun.

I don't think I'll ever do a pageant again, but I'm glad I had the experience. I crossed it off my list of girly things to do.
 

What else? Oh! Finally, after weeks of searching, Mr. Theo found his Madonna of the Future. Weeks of wandering around the school finally paid off. With Jordan at his side, he considered one girl and another. Then, just when he was about to give up and go elsewhere, he turned and looked at the one who'd been at his side all along. The only girl who had that enigmatic, unreadable beauty was... Jordan Fisby. It was one of those cute ironies that he'd gone high and low, asking questions, looking at faces... and the face he was looking for was helping him look.

He painted a lovely, striking picture of her in a knee-length dress. She was sitting at a desk, her eyes directed toward a small, high window. Her face, her expression were amazing. She had this unearthly beauty, but above all, you had no idea of what was in her mind, or what she was doing a moment ago, or what she'd do after.

And that was exactly what Theo Grenadilla was aiming at: you could look at her and wonder, but never, ever know.

Unfortunately, the picture didn't stay in the cathedral very long. People complained that Jordan was too pretty (!), and that people were coming to look at the girl, and not at what she represented.

The picture went into a private collection, and was replaced with an old-looking thing that interested no one.
 

The rest of freshman year was pretty quiet. Susan, Maisie, Mallory, and I shared the lunch table and got to be pretty good friends. We were an odd bunch, but I guess that's how it goes with people.

A few people called us the "M&M&M's" like the candy, and Susan repeated her old joke about changing her name to "something with an M."

At last I began to think that my life had finally settled down, and that nothing crazy was ever going to happen to me again. So many times since I changed from Mark to Marcie, I'd said I was going to keep a low profile, and now it seemed that it had finally come true.

Little did I know what summer vacation would bring! But that is another story...
 

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This is the end of The Madonna Of The Future

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© 2012 by Kaleigh Way