 
### CODE NAME: WHATEVER

### by

### Emily Asad

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2003, 2011 by Emily Asad

All Rights Reserved

3rd Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

Dedicated to my amazing husband, who provided the soil for his Rose to bloom

* * * *

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Over the years, many people have read my drafts and offered support and advice. I'd like to thank the following students for believing in me enough to help make this story reach its potential:

**Gaither High School:** Camille Maia, Gigi Graniela, Sophia Ruple, Jayson Palacio, Jenna Puertos, Justin Jordan, Yeniby Fernandez and Alexa Marrero

**Sunlake High School** : Katie Walters, Shelby Arnold and Alex Birtwell

**Peoria Academy** : Sarah Antonacci, Emily Antonacci, Aubrianna Radee, Sofia Rhode, Ariel Montieth (a fellow ginger), Anna Puterbaugh (glitter child), Shruti Pattekar (silent artist), Lina Aldadah and her mother May Abhouhouli, and my colleague Kayla Anderson

**And to my friends:** BJ Sisk, who helped me refine my juggling skills; Sarena Castorino, the most brilliant person I know; Melissa Grubbs, whose poetic sensibilities make me envious; and especially my fellow author-friend Janice Strand (who writes as Lynne Hansen) for getting me started and keeping me going.

Finally, of course, to my own mother, a strong and generous woman, and an excellent grandmother to my beautiful girls. I love you, Mom.

* * * * *

Want more books by this author?

**Visit** Smashwords.com **to download the following titles:**

Survival in Style

Destination Paraguay

Visit the author's website for upcoming projects

www.emilyasad.com

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Before We Start

Chapter 2: Unpacking

Chapter 3: The Steps

Chapter 4: Introductions

Chapter 5: My Heart on Paper

Chapter 6: The List

Chapter 7: The Shenton Zoo

Chapter 8: Not So Alone

Chapter 9: Tryouts and Blow-ups

Chapter 10: Gallant Rose

Chapter 11: The Fall Play

Chapter 12: The Concert

Chapter 13: Confrontations

Chapter 14: Darcy

Chapter 15: Friends Forever

Chapter 16: Inward, Not Onward

Chapter 17: Confidence Builders

Chapter 18: A Valentine Discovery

Chapter 19: Spring

Chapter 20: The Explosion

Chapter 21: Moving On

Statistics and Fragments

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Before We Start

Okay, I confess. I'm not comfortable with you reading this. Especially knowing you're going to judge me, and probably hate me like everyone else does. Or at least, like they used to. I know I went to the trouble of turning parts of my diary into a story for you, but now that you're here, I'm getting cold feet!

Why am I letting you read it, then? Put it this way: Last year really changed my life and I just have to share it with someone. And since I'm still not good at this whole friendship thing, that someone gets to be you. A perfect stranger. Call it therapy, if you like. At least I have enough guts to keep fighting.

By the way, I'm calling myself Margerly now \- not my real name, but you'll figure out why later. It's July, I turn seventeen next week, and Luke will be back in time for the new school year. He's still my only friend – well, the only one still alive – but the guys in the juggler's club have been nice. I'm hoping this "therapy" helps me find some new friends this year, you know?

You won't find vampires or schools of magic or superheroes with their special powers in my story. I'm just an ordinary teenager, the kind you'd probably never notice, the kind you pass in the hallway every single day. I can only offer you my shreds of dignity – my dairy goats, my Satanic stepsister, my moody mother, and my nerdy little List. All I ask is that you not hate me, yet, until you get to know me better. Even my enemies have learned to respect me. Besides, I gave myself a second chance – maybe you can, too.

So here it is, my heart on paper, from one teen to another. I even included the statistics I've battled so you can see what everyone expected, plus some favorite poetry quotes that got me through the tough times.

Enjoy. Or not. Whatever.

Chapter 2: Unpacking

Statistic: Second marriages fail 75% of the time

I checked my watch yet again. With a shake of my head, I noticed that it was only four minutes since I last checked the time. "Stupid," I said aloud.

"What's stupid?" asked Matt - my twin brother, even though we look nothing alike. He has black hair and blue eyes. I have red hair and green eyes. In fact, we look so different that people often mistake us for a dating couple. That always grosses me out.

"I keep looking at the time. And they're not supposed to come home until tomorrow." I tucked my frizzy red hair behind my ears and bent over another box.

"Paranoid, aren't we," Matt said. He stood up and stretched. "I think I've done enough unpacking. It's Peter's turn."

"Oh, come on, Matt! You know that mom will beat me bloody if the house isn't in perfect order. And Peter's no good. He knows he can get away with anything."

"So tell Becky to carry stuff for you."

"You're saying that a seven-year-old is more useful than a sixteen-year-old?"

He shrugged. "I'm done for today." With a sharp but affectionate punch to my shoulder, he added, "And there are only nine boxes left. You'll finish before dinner. Speaking of which, what are you making?"

Weary, I rubbed the back of my neck. I hadn't even thought about making dinner yet. I was so worried about Mom coming home to a messy house that dinner was the least of my concerns. "Spaghetti, maybe?" I replied. "Hey, go check on Peter and Becky. Make sure they haven't messed anything up."

"Spaghetti, huh," he complained, but he did go outside to see what the kids were doing.

I sat back on my heels and looked around. The house had shaped up nicely in the week they had been gone – they being my mother and her new husband. You'd think after all the moves I've been through, I'd be an expert at this. After all, fourteen houses in sixteen years has got to be a Guinness-book qualifier, and I'm not even a military brat. But always before, Mom was in charge of the moves, and everybody helped, even lazy Peter.

Of the nine boxes left, most of them were books for the shelves in the living room. I could unpack those in less than an hour. Especially if I pulled the nasty-sister routine.

"Peter!" I bellowed, raising my voice toward an open window. "Get in here!"

Knowing that appearance was crucial, I stood up, put my hands on my hips and pasted a stern expression on my face. The minute he came inside, I growled, "Why are you playing when there's work to be done?"

Peter laughed. "School starts in a week, remember? I don't want to waste any vacation."

I continued to look stern despite his easy-going answer. "Well, I haven't had any vacation this summer so far, and I want some time to relax. Grab that and put it where it belongs."

To my surprise, he obeyed immediately. I knelt beside the remaining boxes and began to shove books onto the shelf.

"Where does this go?" asked Peter after a few minutes, removing a magazine rack from his box.

I flipped my hair out of my face so I could see what he was whining about. "Which box did it come from?"

"Uh, the one from Wal-Mart."

"No, stupid. I meant, what label did we put on the box?"

His face lit up in a goofy grin. "Oops. Bathroom, I guess."

"So put it in the bathroom."

"Yeah, but which one?"

I sighed, a long-drawn out sound that let him know I was being a very patient older sister but was on the edge of losing my temper. "Mom's the only one who reads while she sits, Peter."

He knew that sigh well. I had used it on him dozens of times before. "Sorry," he muttered, and hustled out of the room.

It always amazes me how I'm the only one with brains in our family. My twin brother, Matt, is probably as smart as I am – at least, he knows lots more useless trivia, and always gets straight A's – but he lacks common sense. He's a poet and a dreamer who would have done better if he had been born in the Renaissance era. Twelve-year-old Peter, our younger brother, was never any good with academics, even though he's probably the most popular kid in his grade. As if sixth grade matters. Then there's Becky, the baby of the family, who still has to prove herself. I'm pretty sure she has a brain, but it's hard to tell with second-graders. In any case, she's phenomenal in gymnastics and already has coaches turning their heads whenever she gives a performance. Me? I'm the invisible, responsible one, the one who takes the blame for everything. And I don't even complain.

A squeal of fright, followed by a shriek of laughter, arrested my attention. I turned my head. Matt was chasing Becky around the kitchen, threatening to tickle her. For some reason, their laughter made me cranky.

"Is everyone going to enjoy themselves while I slave away?" I said, loud enough for everyone to know I was unhappy.

Matt came and sat beside me on the hardwood floor. "How long do you think this one will last?"

I knew he was referring to Mom's latest marriage. "I'd give it a year," I said, "maybe two. Statistically, it has a chance at two years."

I'm a big believer in statistics. Not because I believe that all people can be categorized, but because I'm determined to defy the statistics. Especially the ones that apply to me.

"I'm thinking a couple of months," he said. "You know Mom."

"No, this one's different. She looks... I don't know... more complete. Relaxed, at least."

"You shouldn't place bets," said Becky, who had settled in a corner to play with her dolls. "That's not nice."

"You said that about the last one," Matt continued, ignoring her.

"Yeah, well, this one seems different," I insisted.

"You'd think four marriages would be a record of some sort," he mumbled.

"Three," I corrected.

He shrugged. We never were quite sure if that second one counted as a marriage, or if it was just some colossal fluke. We kids counted it as a marriage, since it had produced our little brother Peter. The third marriage gave us Becky. This new one was going to give us something we had never known before – stepsisters.

None of the Others came with kids, and this one – his name was Roger – came with two daughters. We had only met them once before, for a few minutes, right after the wedding. That is, I should say right after the wedding was over. We missed it. Matt and I were at summer camp half an hour outside of town, and we kept trying to get the driver to hurry. Did he? No, and my mom decided that it was better to proceed with the wedding as scheduled, instead of making her guests wait. So we missed their wedding by about twenty minutes. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

"I don't know why we had to move again," Matt continued.

"Neither of them wanted any of us to have an advantage," I repeated for the umpteenth time. "A new home is neutral ground. We're all moving into a New Life, remember?"

He groaned at the often-repeated phrase. To him, it was propaganda. "I liked the last place. It had a lake."

"This one's better."

"I can't go fishing."

"You can go hunting. Do you realize how much land there is behind the house? Have you gone for a walk back there yet?"

He shook his head.

I lowered my voice. "I saw two deer out there this morning."

"Oh, yeah?" His eyebrows lifted. I could tell he was interested.

I pointed out the window to our twenty acres, complete with a thick tree line. "Come on, Matt. We're nine miles out of town, in a huge old farmhouse surrounded by all this open land. Don't tell me you didn't think about hunting."

That did the trick. He forgot about fishing – I could tell by his sudden pensive expression. I smiled to myself. At least one of us felt better.

"I'm starving," said Peter. "And I have to go to the bathroom again."

"When we finish unloading these boxes, I'll make dinner," I replied.

The faint crunch of wheels on gravel grew louder, prompting Peter and Becky to look outside

"They're home!" screamed Becky. She tucked her favorite doll under her arm and ran onto the lawn, laughing.

Matt pushed a curtain aside. "And of course, you're not done unpacking yet. Well, guess you're in trouble."

I froze. There was no telling what kind of punishment I had earned this time.

Chapter 3: The Steps

And the feeble little ones must stand

In the thickest of the fight.

-Adelaide Anne Proctor

Forcing myself to stay calm, I walked to the front door to greet my mother. As I passed through the entryway, I brushed my right cheekbone with my fingers. The bruise had almost disappeared and I certainly didn't want a new one just in time for school. Mom gave it to me last week after her wedding reception was finished and the guests were almost gone. See, she was furious that we missed her wedding. When I tried to explain that the camp counselors had forgotten that Matt and I were supposed to be dismissed early, her temper exploded. And when Mom explodes, her fists fly everywhere. Fortunately, she tries to hide that side from Roger, who still thinks she's perfect. So when he came looking for her, and saw us together – me holding my face – Mom told him I had run into a doorway. He was a happy groom and believed her. He thinks I'm a big klutz anyway. After that, he escorted her back to the main reception area, and then they drove away for their honeymoon.

And now they were home again. And the house was not yet ready.

Shame and anger filled me. With Mom, though, anger only feeds more anger, so I pushed my feelings aside and went to greet her.

I joined Becky and the others on the lawn. I really couldn't help smiling when I saw Mom get out of the car – she looked so fresh and happy. It seemed contagious.

She blew kisses to us – blew kisses – and I knew that an alien was inhabiting her body. My mother is not naturally affectionate, and rarely hugs or kisses any of us kids. Her week with Roger must have done wonders. I hoped this new phase would last.

My smile began to fade when I saw what was in the back seat of the car – The Girls. While Mom snatched Becky up in a whirlwind hug, Matt and I stared at The Girls. They looked miserable. They got out of the car and stood staring back at us.

The older one, Erika, had short black hair with streaks of purple and green, black fingernails, a pierced nose, and wore combat boots. Her sneer made me cringe. She was your typical rebellious seventeen-year-old, the kind that my mother always warned me against becoming. Mom would never stand for that kind of attitude – or would she, since Erika was not exactly her daughter?

The other sister, Margaret, seemed harmless. She was twelve years old, slightly pudgy, wore pastel colors, and clutched her little purse with white knuckles. She kept her eyes glued to the ground. I realized that she was more afraid of us than we were of her. Probably she felt outnumbered – after all, there were four of us and two of them.

"Welcome home," I said, trying to break the tension. I smiled at Erika and held out my hand to take her suitcase.

She glared down her nose at me. Her posture made me feel positively ant-like. "Which one are you again?"

"Um, I'm Margaret," I said.

The other Margaret looked at me when she heard her name. I saw the parents exchange glances, and I wondered what it could mean.

Matt heaved a suitcase out of the trunk. "You're home kind of early," he said to Mom. "Didn't you like Florida?"

"It was wonderful," she beamed. "We just thought you kids might want to get to know each other before school starts."

"Gee. A whole week. We'll be best friends by Sunday," muttered Erika.

Mom did not hear her.

"Well. Let me show you your room," I suggested. "Becky, why don't you take Margaret up to hers?"

Matt and Peter helped Mom and her boyfriend – now her husband – unload the car. I felt kind of awkward around him. In the first place, he was so tall! He was easily six foot three. He seemed nice enough, though. He had spent some time at our house while they were dating, and he liked to play the guitar. He had a really great voice, too, a rumbling sort of bass. It was one of the things that had first attracted Mom to him. Plus, he smiled a lot.

I led Erika up to our bedroom. She seemed upset that we would be sharing a room, even though I had taken special care to make her side as nice as I could. Besides, it was a large room, big enough for three or four beds, like maybe they did back last century when the farmhouse was being used as a farmhouse. But her expression clearly said that no room would be large enough for both of us. I crossed my fingers for luck.

I also hoped, judging from her black fingernails and the Pentagram on her tee shirt, that she wouldn't be the kind of person that offers sacrifices to Satan as part of a ritualistic plea to reunite her divorced parents. Maybe I should put a picture of the Virgin Mary in our room, just to be safe!

"So, you're a senior?" I asked, trying to make conversation. "I'm a sophomore."

She threw her suitcase onto the bed without replying.

"Do you play any sports?"

She snorted.

I took it as a 'no.'

"Drama club? Choir?"

She shot a black glare at me. "Look, I don't need you becoming my best friend, so you can stop right now. I was forced to live here. It wasn't my choice. Leave me alone and we'll get along just fine."

I held up my hands. "I'm just trying to be nice."

"Back off." She shoved her clothes into the dresser a little too forcefully.

I was stunned. I hadn't quite expected this sort of reception. Somehow I thought everybody was going to accept and even like everybody else. This was reminiscent of a renegade Brady Bunch – a stepfamily gone dreadfully wrong. And it was only our first day!

I decided to check on Becky and Margaret to see how they were doing. Their door was not closed all the way, so I peeped inside. They were unpacking Margaret's suitcase together, chatting. Margaret still seemed shy, but sweet little Becky had an unconscious way of putting people at ease. At least there would be no ritual blood sacrifices from that bedroom.

I crept downstairs to see what the boys were doing. To my surprise, Matt was on the floor with Roger, wrestling. Peter cheered them on, chanting for a pin.

Mom saw me and beckoned. "You did a good job unpacking."

I was shocked. A compliment? From my mother? She never noticed anything – except when the chores did not get done. Then, boy did she notice!

"I'm sorry I didn't get it finished," I stammered. "I was expecting you tomorrow."

"That's okay, honey," she said. "It looks wonderful."

Honey? I knew for sure that this woman was an imposter! My mother had been left in Florida... I liked the replacement better.

"You got him! You got him!" Peter shouted.

I turned around to see who had been gotten.

Matt lay in a half-Nelson, his neck twisted at an odd angle. He looked uncomfortable, but he was smiling. "I want to learn that move!"

Roger released him. "I earned a spot as the captain of my team with that. I was about your age, too." He saw me and stood up. "Hello, Margaret."

"Hello, sir," I replied.

His eyebrows shot up at my formality. He glanced at Mom, who just shrugged.

I felt as if I had done something wrong, so I began to blush. One drawback to being a redhead is that I'm prone to blushing. I have the kind of pale skin that sunburns easily, overheats even more easily, and blushes uncontrollably. What was I supposed to call him? Roger? Father? Dad? I already had a biological father somewhere out in Oregon, or at least that's where he was the last time we heard from him years ago. I wasn't ready to give this man the intimate title of "Dad," yet calling him "Father" sounded too stuffy. Maybe I could call him something slangy, like "Pop," sort of compromise between recognizing his marriage to my mother and keeping him at arm's length. Or maybe I would just stay with "Roger" until we figured out how long he would stay.

"Donna, did you give the kids their presents?" he said, breaking the growing silence.

"I completely forgot," she said. She called upstairs. "Girls? Come down for a minute. We have something to give you."

Roger retrieved a large plastic bag from the entryway and sat on the loveseat beside my mother. He put his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled up to him as if she belonged there. I had never seen her so content. I started to like Roger a tiny bit more.

Becky tumbled down the stairs in a flash of energy. "What did you bring me?"

"Sit down until the others get here," said Mom.

Matt, Peter, Becky and I crowded onto the couch and waited for our new sisters to join us. Margaret shuffled down the stairs, keeping her eyes on the floor, and sat in the recliner. She folded her hands in her lap, trying very hard to be invisible.

We waited for a few minutes, but Erika did not appear. Mom looked at Roger as if to say, "She's your daughter."

"Erika, come down here, please," he yelled toward the ceiling.

Nothing.

The wait became uncomfortable, so he sighed. "I guess she can have hers later." He put his hand inside the bag and withdrew the first gift. "Matt." He tossed the box into Matt's waiting hands.

I was surprised to see that it was neatly wrapped. The decorative covering made the occasion feel special.

Matt opened the little box eagerly. It was a Swiss Army knife with his name engraved on the handle. "Cool! Thanks!"

"That was Roger's idea," groaned Mom. "You know you never would have gotten it if he hadn't insisted."

Score big points for Roger... he was on Matt's good side already.

"Peter."

Peter caught his box. It was larger than Matt's. We watched, greedy, as he carefully peeled the wrapping paper so as to not tear it. Inside was a remote-controlled jeep. He was delighted.

I rolled my eyes. I could already envision him knocking it into the furniture, breaking lamps or tripping people. I didn't want to be blamed if he broke anything.

Becky's package was carefully handed to her. It was a porcelain doll in a lacy yellow dress. She removed the dress and put it on her own favorite doll, which was still tucked in her arm. Her new doll fell to the floor and lay there, abandoned and naked, while she lovingly buttoned up the dress onto old Abby.

"I told you so," whispered Mom.

"At least she liked the dress," Roger replied.

I was excited. It was like Christmas, except that it was August. And the gifts were personal – they were things we kids would have chosen ourselves, if we had the money and the chance. I couldn't wait to see what they had brought for me!

"Margaret."

We both held out our hands at the same time. Embarrassed, I dropped my hands first. She didn't bother to look at me.

"That's okay," said Roger. "It's the same thing anyway." He handed us each a small narrow box.

I furrowed my eyebrows. What could she possibly want that I also wanted? Did we have the same tastes?

She tore her box open within seconds and withdrew a dainty golden bracelet. Her name – our name – was inscribed on the plate. "Oh, Daddy! It's perfect." she said in her harmless whispery voice. "Now I have the complete set." She held out her wrist to him so he could help her put it on. It matched her earrings and necklace.

My face burned as I opened my box. Mom knew I hated jewelry. What a stupid present. How generic! What was she thinking?

"What do you say, honey?" asked Mom.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

Roger noticed my disappointment. "She hates it, Donna. I told you she would. We should have gotten her that book."

"Book?" I raised my head, trying to hide the interest in my eyes.

"About horses. Pictures and everything."

I repressed a groan. I loved horses! "That's okay. The bracelet is pretty enough."

"Really?"

I attempted a smile. I must have been a good actress, because it fooled him. Mom didn't notice either way.

"Are you kids hungry?" asked Roger.

The boys shouted their answer. I could have spoken for Matt, who was always hungry. Roger decided that we would all go into town and eat at a restaurant. "You shouldn't have to cook your first day back," he crooned to Mom, kissing her cheek.

"But there are six kids," she protested. "It's too expensive."

"It's in the budget. We didn't spend that last night in the hotel, remember?" he said. "Okay, everyone in the car. Skinny-butt kids in the back!"

He had to go upstairs and almost drag Erika down. We could hear their conversation through the ceiling.

"I'm not hungry."

"So get a soda. You don't have to eat."

"I don't want to go!"

"It's family time, Erika. We're going to start behaving like a family now."

"They're not my family. I don't want to be a part of it."

"You don't get a choice. Stop it. Let's go. Grab your purse."

The sudden silence made us cringe. The rest of the conversation was muffled. Soon, Erika tramped downstairs, her lips curled in a snarl. She could have set us all on fire with her gaze, if horror movies happened in real life.

Did you ever hear that expression, "If two's company, then three's a crowd?" Well, imagine a crowd of eight. My new family had eight people, and one tiny little Nissan. Erika and I had to sit in the back storage area, behind the seats.

When we pulled out onto the highway, Erika flashed me a demonic grin, and then pulled a slender pocketknife from her ripped jeans. She put a finger to her lips and locked eyes with mine. Deliberately, she unfolded the knife.

I gulped. If I called for help, would she stab me? I watched, horrified, as she put the blade to her wrist and began to cut tiny knicks into her own flesh.

Droplets of blood welled up. Just when I thought they would spill onto the carpet of the car, she put her wrist to her mouth and sucked. Then she covered the wounds with her other hand, applying pressure. "Stops the bleeding," she whispered.

There was an unspoken threat hanging in the air. Tell anyone, and I'll kill you, she seemed to say.

I tore my gaze away and tried to focus on the corn fields outside. Maybe it was the blood, maybe it was the fact that I hate traveling in the back seat, maybe it was just stuffy with eight people in the tiny car. Whatever it was, I felt nauseous. And afraid. I would probably be murdered by nightfall. What had Mom done this time?

Chapter 4: Introductions

She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feelings, which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life. –Guy Mannering

The nine miles into town seemed to take an eternity. We finally arrived at Alfredo's and tumbled out of the car, breathing in the fresh air.

Finding a table for eight people was another challenge. Our happy family outing turned into a disaster, fast. We had to wait almost fifteen minutes before they prepared a table large enough for us, and then seating arrangements were hammered out. I sat across from Erika, where I could keep my eyes on her, just in case.

When we finally agreed on what we were going to order – that is, what we could afford to order – we all lapsed into an awkward silence. Nobody knew what to say to each other.

"Margaret, pass the napkins," said Mom.

Margaret and I reached for the napkins. She withdrew first. I could tell that this was going to be a problem.

"Should we tell them?" asked Roger, nudging Mom.

She smiled at him and dropped a nod.

I hoped they weren't pregnant already! Six kids was already too many.

Roger looked pleased with himself, but also a little bit uncomfortable. "Your mom and I have decided to adopt you," he said, looking at us, the Original Four.

"Why?" asked Peter. "We already belong to her."

"Yes, but you all have different fathers."

"Matt and I don't," I said.

"Well, no, but the others do. And you all have different last names. I'd like to adopt you and make you all Shentons. What do you think?"

We looked at each other. Did it matter what our last name was? And did they really care what we thought, anyway? Adults usually did what pleased them; our opinion was just a formality.

"Peter Shenton. I like how it sounds." Peter smiled at Roger. I rolled my eyes.

"What does it mean?" asked Becky, who was always looking for new names for her dolls.

"It's a good last name; it means 'dweller at a beautiful farm.' And we do have a beautiful farm, now."

"Oh. Never mind." Becky chewed her ice cubes and made patterns on the table with the water. She was too young to understand the implications, anyway.

"What about the rest of you?"

Matt shrugged.

Roger looked at me. "Well?"

I squirmed in my seat. "I don't care. But what about Margaret and me? We'll have the same name. Margaret Shenton."

"We thought of that," said Mom, "and we have a solution. We'll just call her by her middle name."

Margaret squeaked. "You can't do that!"

Roger frowned. "Why not, honey? You'll adjust."

Her lips trembled. "Someone found out what my middle name was last year, and they always make fun of me now," she whispered.

I turned to her. "What is your middle name?"

"Sarilla," she replied. "They call me Sarilla Gorilla."

I almost choked in laughter, but I caught myself in time.

Mom glared at me. "So we go to your middle name, then."

It was my turn to be shocked. "That's not fair! I like being Margaret. It's my name, too!"

"Well, we can't have two. It's too confusing. Look at the trouble it's caused already." She knew I was getting ready to argue, and she held up her hand. "We'll call you Beverly. It's settled."

I slumped back in my seat, defeated. They continued to talk but I blocked them out. My expectations of our new family were rapidly disintegrating, and there was nothing I could do about it. Erika hated me, Mom's present was completely impersonal – a signal that she had ignored me yet again – and now Margaret stole my name. The world was against me.

Not only that, but I hated the name Beverly. Margaret, at least, was a character in my favorite book, _Little Women_. But Beverly was an old woman's name!

I excused myself for a quick bathroom break. On the way there, I recognized the waitress, one of the girls from last year's choir. "Hello, Jessica."

"Hey, Margaret. What's up?"

"I didn't know you worked here. Something different with your hair?"

"Dye job," she gushed, wiping a table with a gray washcloth. "How are you doing? I haven't seen you all summer."

"I'm fine," I lied. "You ready for school?"

"No, but is anybody ever?" She pointed over at my booth. "Who are they?"

I stared at my mix-and-match family, unsure of how to begin. A tempting, wicked thought entered my mind. I decided to introduce my family in an honest, straightforward manner.

I pointed to my mother. "Well, you know my mom, I think." I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. "It's her fourth marriage..." I raised my voice. "... and this is my new stepfather Roger." Another whisper: "We'll see how long he sticks around, hmm?"

Jessica's smile began to fade at my disrespectful manner, but I continued. "You know my twin brother, Matt, who everybody thinks is my boyfriend because we don't even look related. And this is Peter, my little brother, except that he's my half-brother. And Becky, my half-sister, and she's even half to Peter."

I waited for Jessica to come to the conclusion that Becky was, therefore, only a quarter human, but Jessica really seemed confused.

"My new stepsister Erika, who hates my mother, and my other stepsister Margaret," I pointed. "Oh, and since her name is Margaret and my name is Margaret, you're going to have to call me Beverly."

Jessica stared at me, her face blank. "Why?"

"Well, Margaret's middle name is Sarilla, which rhymes with Gorilla, so that's what the kids at school call her. Sarilla Gorilla. So we'll use my middle name: Beverly. It means 'Meadow of Beavers.' Other girls get to be 'Pearl of Beauty' or 'Flower of Joy' but I got stuck with 'beavers.' Not that it matters – it's just temporary..."

Jessica gulped. "Okay. Well. I have to get back to the kitchen. See you in school on Monday, Margaret."

"It's Beverly now."

"Whatever." She fled.

In the bathroom, I thought of plenty of good reasons why we should keep my name and change the other Margaret's. I rehearsed in the mirror, knowing Mom would cut me off if she didn't like what I had to say. When I was ready, I returned to the table, only to be greeted by a chorus of, "Welcome back, Beverly." Obviously, they had been rehearsing.

"It's not Beverly," I began. "Let me explain a few things."

"Not now, Beverly," said Mom. "Margaret keeps her name. No more."

"But, Mom-"

"Not tonight," said Mom, and her icy cold glare told me "not ever."

So. That was it. Without further discussion, I was stripped of my name.

I fuzzed out of the conversation and stared at my fork, drifting into the comforting world of my daydreams. To be honest, I have often wished I could actually live in my daydreams. They follow logical rules, and they're always in my favor. Sometimes I dreamed about the typical "normal" middle class life – whatever "normal" in today's world could be – and I had three kids, two cars, a loving husband, and a two-story house.

Wait. Make that a miniature castle, or at least a house designed to look like a castle. That's it. A place where I could be a princess. A queen, really, and my doting husband would be a British man who I met at a Renaissance festival. After we were married, he would find out that he was distantly related to some Earl or Duke who had no direct heirs left, and he alone was the sole recipient of an immense fortune... I smiled in my daydream as I imagined my beloved riding up in his white mustang (the modern version of a knight in shining armor, you know) and saying to me, "We will live happily ever after, Margaret, my love. I mean Beverly. That is to say... whatever..."

My precious daydream was shattered by the bleak reality of my name loss. That was always a problem: how to mix reality and dreams. I knew it was possible. It had to be! I desperately tried to regain the warm feelings from my imagined scenario, but they were lost. I jabbed my fork into my steak and used my knife to express my frustrations, carving my meat with excessive energy.

My furious sawing actions drew the typical disapproving eyebrow from Mom. "Is there a problem?" she asked, and we both knew she wasn't referring to the steak.

"No, ma'am," I muttered.

No problem at all. I had just lost my name, my very identity. I was now a stranger in my own family.

Chapter 5: My Heart on Paper

He writhed - then sternly manned his heart

To play his hard but destined part.

-Lord of the Isles

Because our new house was outside city limits, we had to awaken super early in the morning in order to catch the bus. Of course I didn't sleep much now, kept awake especially by my fear of being hacked to pieces in my sleep by my new Satanist step-sister, so I was fatigued even before I rolled out of bed.

"Turn that horrible noise off!" moaned Erika, covering her face with her pillow.

I fumbled with the alarm clock. Let the games begin, I thought. I got dressed, checked my backpack to make sure I had all the pencils, papers, folders, and miscellaneous items needed for the new school year. I had cereal for breakfast. By the time the sun came up, everyone was awake and shuffling around, bumping into each other.

Now, our new house was large, having been built at the turn of the last century by some skilled carpenters, but eight people could make any house seem crowded. And there were only two bathrooms – and Mom and Roger used one of them. That left one bathroom for six people. I wondered how the Brady Bunch did it without killing each other. I was glad I showered at night.

"But I don't want to take the bus!" whined Peter, throwing himself at Roger's legs and holding on tight. It would have been cute if he were four years old instead of twelve.

Roger was moved, regardless. "All right, son," he said, pulling Peter to his feet, "you can ride with us."

Peter grinned at the word "son" but Mom spoiled his glory. "He'll take the bus. We don't have time to drop them all off. If you give in to one, you have to take them all."

"What about me?" frowned Matt. "The bus kids hate me."

It was true. Matt got beaten up on a regular basis, even though he was a sophomore. It was one reason he was so good at wrestling – he was angry and had a lot of energy to re-direct. Plus he wasn't afraid of pain.

Peter, on the other hand, hated the bus because it was unfashionable, and only poor kids took the bus. We were poor – very poor – but for some reason, Peter never quite grasped that important fact. Our clothes were often old, worn-out, and out of style. It didn't matter to Matt and me. We couldn't do anything about it, so we learned to live with it. But Peter actually took pride in his appearance. He would have preferred to go to school naked than to wear hand-me-downs. And if he had to take the bus, then he didn't want to go at all.

"You're taking the bus," Mom said in her 'don't argue with me, I'm the adult' tone of voice. She smacked Peter on the butt. She held up her finger to Matt. "You, too."

Peter squawked, grabbed his backpack, and ran outside.

I didn't say anything. I just hiked my own bag over my shoulder and followed the boys.

Our new driveway was pretty long and lined with white-barked birch trees. By the time Peter reached the end, his whines had abated. Now he was only depressed.

"You look nice," I said by way of encouragement.

He shook his head. "When I grow up, I'm going to be rich. I'm going shopping every weekend and I'll never wear stupid clothes again. And my kids will never have to ride a bus. I'll buy them all cars."

I nodded sympathetically. His words reminded me about my List. My hand flew to my List, which I kept in my pocket. Nobody knew it existed, and I intended to keep it a secret. It was precious – like my heart on paper.

The bus pulled to a stop just in front of us, and we boarded it. As a sophomore, I should have been able to sit in the 'respected' section – the very back, with all the other big kids. However, as an impoverished outcast, I had to fend for myself. Even being one of the oldest kids on the bus didn't earn me instant respect.

I scooted toward the window, in case somebody decided to sit next to me, so they wouldn't have to ask. I hated starting conversations with strangers. I figured if they saw the empty seat, it was an open invitation and they'd leave me alone.

Margaret and Erika sat together, very quiet, as if they had never ridden a bus before. Maybe they hadn't. Their mother's house was pretty close to the school; probably they just walked in years past. Well, they'd soon adjust.

Matt, the perfect picture of anti-social behavior, spread his backpack and belongings out on his seat, a sort of unspoken warning to anybody who might consider asking him to share. He was wearing his mean face, the one that said he was a bulldog ready to bite somebody's arm off.

Peter did what Peter does best: talked with the prettiest girls on the bus. It didn't matter if they were older or younger. Somehow he always said the right thing. He handed out compliments as if they were candy, but he personalized them so they didn't sound like lines. He was amazing. And he was only twelve.

I thought about his behavior and wanted to write something in my List, but I decided to wait until I was alone. Personal belongings were always snatched by the bus bully, and I didn't want to take my chances.

We arrived a few minutes before the bell rang. I hurried to unload my backpack into my locker and make it to my first class on time. I had Chemistry, which I knew would not be my favorite subject.

At least we would not be dissecting frogs this year. I had almost puked last year when my frog slipped off the table into a little puddle of formaldehyde on the floor! The kids made jokes about my frog not being quite dead yet, and I had nightmares for weeks about slicing into living amphibians.

I sat in my customary position in the classroom, toward the front but near the wall. That way I could see the notes and teacher easily, without being too obvious about it. I was no teacher's pet.

Roll call began. The teacher stuttered over the names. I heard him say "Margaret Shenton" and wondered why my little stepsister would be taking sophomore courses. He got to the end of the list and looked up. "Is there anyone I didn't call?" he said in his nasal voice.

I raised my hand. "Margaret White."

He peered at the list. "You're not on here. Are you sure you have the right class?"

I began to blush. Everybody was looking at me. I wished I could melt into the wall beside me. "It says chemistry, first period," I insisted, holding up my schedule. A sudden thought struck me. "Oh, wait. I'm Margaret Shenton."

The class laughed. Mr. McLeonard looked at me over his glasses, which were far down on his nose. "Is there a reason you don't know your own name?"

I gulped. "My... my mom got married, um, a few weeks ago," I stammered, "and her husband is adopting us."

He nodded, not really listening. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell us before I begin class?"

I began to shake my head, and then stopped. I may as well confess everything, since the situation couldn't possibly get any worse. "I'm supposed to go by my middle name, now. Beverly."

"I didn't hear you. Speak up."

My blush grew to crimson. I could barely breathe. I managed to squeak out the words again.

He made a note on the sheet, and then turned on the overhead projector. He droned on and on about his lesson plans and homework assignments, but I did not pay any attention. Several of the other kids in class stared at me for a few minutes longer. I kept my face turned toward my chemistry book so I wouldn't see them.

A piece of paper landed on my book. It was crumpled up. I unfolded it. "Margaret Beverly White Shenton," it said. I looked behind me but could not tell who threw it. I tossed it into the trash can.

Another ball of paper landed near me. It read, "I'm so stupid, I don't know my own name."

My blush began to return. I twisted in my seat, searching for the culprit.

"Miss Shenton, is there something wrong with your chair?" asked Mr. McLeonard.

I did not realize he was speaking to me. I continued to look around.

"Miss Shenton, turn around at once. You're disrupting my class." He walked over to me and rapped a knuckle on my desk.

I jumped, my heart skipping a few beats, and faced him.

"You'll never pass this class if you keep flirting with the boys," he said. "Pay attention."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. I flicked the next ball of paper off my desk without reading it.

When the bell rang, I practically dashed out of the room, away from that pit of vipers.

My next class, Geometry, also had me registered as Margaret Shenton. I realized that every class would be the same. I would have to explain my whole name change situation several more times before the end of the day.

I wondered how long the parents had been planning this humiliation for me.

By fourth period, I almost had it down to a routine. Blush and stammer, and then retreat into absolute silence. Except that I could not be silent in this particular class – it was choir. And my nemesis Naomi Bell shared the class with me.

"Another divorce, Margaret? Oops, I guess it's Beverly now," she whispered. "What a stupid name."

I tried to concentrate on what Mrs. Crofton was saying, but it was hard to ignore Naomi. In the first place, she was probably the prettiest girl in the entire high school – everybody took fashion cues from her. She was my height, but there the resemblance stopped. She had perfect blonde hair, big blue eyes, naturally red lips, and flawless skin. Plus her wardrobe was custom tailored. And she usually wore a tennis bracelet with real diamonds and sapphires.

I, on the other hand, had scraggly red hair that refused to be tamed. I always had a few zits, plus freckles, and my eyes were green. I love having green eyes – I'm the only one in the entire school whose eyes are a true emerald and not just hazel – but my eyelashes matched my eyebrows. Yellow. They made my eyes look small and beady.

I thought my clothes were decent, today at least, my first-day-of-school best. My cousin had outgrown them and sent them to me. There was nothing wrong with keeping nice clothes in the family.

I was just thinking about how nice it was to finally have some "in" clothes when she intruded in my thoughts again. "Ralph Lauren jeans? How stylish. Surely you didn't pick them out yourself."

Her friends giggled. "Are they from Second-Hand Rose?" they asked, referring to the thrift store.

I shrugged.

"Second-hand clothes for a second-hand slut," hissed Naomi.

I turned to face her, surprised at her venom. "What's your problem? I've never done anything to you."

"You're intruding upon my personal sense of aesthetics," she said primly. At my blank look, she clarified. "That means you're so ugly, you're making me sick."

I glanced at Mrs. Crofton, who was flipping through some sheet music. Would she ever come to my defense? And did I want to make an issue out of this, thus opening up future opportunities for shame?

"If you need clothes so bad, you can have mine," Naomi sniffed. "I have plenty of old things that I'd be glad to give you."

"Leave me alone."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing. Just leave me alone." I looked her straight in the eyes. "What's it to you anyway? I'm nothing to you. We don't even live in the same world."

"You're an embarrassment to the world," she spat. "It's people like you who tax the system and make hard-working people like my parents have to support you. How many times is your mom going to be on welfare? Just don't expect me to help you when you get old and can't afford groceries."

"I don't expect help from anybody," I said. My voice grew high-pitched. I fought to keep it under control. "And my mom's never been on welfare. She works hard, too. We always take care of ourselves."

"Girls, that's enough," said Mrs. Crofton. "We're on page two of 'How Great Thou Art.' Are we ready? Get out your pencils so we can mark the breathers."

I opened my sheet music and readied my pencil.

"I only have a marker, Mrs. Crofton," said Naomi sweetly, raising her hand.

"That'll do. The first break comes after 'wonder' followed by another break after 'hands have made...'"

Naomi reached over with her black magic marker and began to mark on my sheet.

"Hey, cut it out!" I pushed her away.

"Margaret Beverly pushed me!" she whimpered.

Mrs. Crofton looked over at us.

"She's writing on my music," I explained.

"This is not kindergarten," Mrs. Crofton frowned. "Margaret, uh, Beverly, don't push."

Naomi smirked at me.

I wished I had fingernails so I could claw her face, but I was a confirmed nail-biter. The worst I would be able to do was leave fingerprints.

Naomi wrote on my sheet again. I moved so she could not reach it. And then, she did something that almost made me cry.

She wrote on my new jeans with her black marker.

They were ruined. The ink was permanent.

I gasped.

Naomi shrugged and smiled sweetly. "Oops."

Mrs. Crofton conveniently missed the whole scene.

I scooted over as far as my chair would allow, out of Naomi's range. My cheeks burned with anger and frustration. They were my only new jeans. Even if they weren't _new_ new, they were new to me. They were my best. She had destroyed them.

I was so upset that I could barely sing, which was a bad situation on the first day of school, since Mrs. Crofton was trying to separate us into the appropriate groups. And this was not just any choir; this was A Cappella choir, the top group in the entire school. Over two hundred students auditioned for it each year, but only twenty of us were chosen. I was one of the lucky ones. I did not want Mrs. Crofton to regret her decision and bump me down to a lesser group.

I knew that Naomi was planning more mischief, but the bell rang before she could carry out her wicked intentions. I fled. It was lunchtime. I hoped that Matt had the same lunch period, because I desperately needed to vent my emotions.

I found him at his locker.

"You look awful! What happened?"

I told him about my day.

He was a sympathetic listener. "Labels. You gotta love 'em."

"Huh?"

"Look," he said, "she feels threatened by you. They all do. You don't belong to any particular group. You're smart, so you could be a nerd, except that you're also athletic, so that discounts you. You're musical, as good as they are, and without having to take lessons. You're pretty, too, but you don't have the right clothes to be in the popular crowd. And you're my sister, so all the wrestlers like you."

"I wish I belonged somewhere," I pouted.

"No, you don't. You've got too much potential to limit yourself. You don't need them. Make your own rules."

I had to smile at him, even though I didn't believe a word he was saying. "Where did you get to be so smart? You could have your own talk show. Matt Straightens Out the World."

He chuckled. "Keep your chin up, kid."

"Don't call me kid."

"Whatever. I'll see you after school."

There was that word again. My new identity. "I thought we were going to eat lunch together."

He hesitated. "I don't mean to abandon you in your moment of need, but... I can't be hanging around my sister if I'm gonna get any chicks. You understand..."

So. I was being dumped for the hopes of other female attention. I pasted on my best fake smile. "I understand."

He punched my shoulder and took off down the hall.

I retrieved my lunch bag from my locker. As I approached the lunch room, I could see Erika in the corner with a group of seniors. I smiled and waved.

She rolled her eyes, obviously disgusted. And then she turned her back toward me.

I took the hint and bypassed her. There were other corners in the room. I hoped one was still abandoned.

While I was standing there, exposed, trying to find a quiet place to sit, Naomi and her little gang decided to target me for another round. She pointed her finger directly at me and raised her voice. I could not hear what she was saying, but suddenly, everyone at her table turned around and stared at me. In one voice, they burst into laughter.

It was the kind of laughter that made my skin crawl. I didn't know what rumors Naomi was spreading about me now, but I knew I couldn't stay. The wing outside the gym would probably be abandoned; I decided to eat my lunch there.

I stopped at my locker to grab some beanbags for juggling, and then made my way to the gym. Sure enough, it was empty. I sat down on the stairs that led up to the wrestling room; the landing was wide enough and hidden enough for my purposes.

My cheese-pickle-mayonnaise sandwich did little to soothe my damaged ego, but juggling was a sure-fire way to boost my self-esteem. Not to brag, I'm the best juggler I knew, aside from the folks at the circus who came through once a year. That may sound a little egotistical to you, but it's not that big of a claim. There are only twelve thousand people in the whole town of Fergus Falls. It's easy to be the best when there's no competition!

As I eased into a cascade pattern, I turned my thoughts to flesh-eaters like Naomi and wondered why they always seemed to prey on outcasts like me. No answer sprang to mind, and it was a question I had given lots of thought.

I hope she gives herself an ulcer.

That thought made me smile in wicked pleasure. Shame on me. I tried to erase that negative image from my mind, focusing on my beanbags instead

One, two, three... one, two, three... The beanbags plopped in my hands in a solid rhythm. Their noise echoed softly off the wall as I practiced Mill's Mess, a very complicated pattern. I didn't make much progress. After twenty minutes I decided to try something else.

Voices echoing down the corridor distracted me. I hated thinking that somebody might stumble near the staircase where I was practicing. Was there nowhere to be alone in this whole school? Oh, well. I decided to ignore whoever it might be. I was there first, after all.

It was Naomi.

Ignoring her was impossible. Especially because her voice was shrill and loud. "She's such a slut," she was saying. "I can't believe they let people like that roam free on the streets. I wonder how many more babies she's going to have before they make her get her tubes tied."

Her cronies laughed. I wondered who the target of their derision might be this time.

"Oh, and did you hear Margaret in choir today? It sounded like she had swallowed a cricket! I sure hope Crofton kicks her out of the group. She doesn't belong with the rest of us."

One of her friends had the guts to disagree. "She has a pretty good voice. Better than Kayla, at least."

"She can't sing, and you know it. The only reason Crofton has her there is because she took pity on her."

My blood froze. Now she was criticizing my voice? What else could she find to fault? It's not like I had much in the first place, but she was stripping away every shred of dignity I possessed.

"At least she can float between alto and soprano," said Amber.

"She's not a floater," scoffed Naomi. "She's so bad, she can't be one or the other. Hey, why are you taking her side anyway? Do you like her or something?"

"Of course not! I think she's really stupid," she replied defensively.

I could see them through the railing. Naomi checked her watch. "I don't see him. He was supposed to meet me here. He's late." She whirled around and walked out of the wing. Her stoolies rushed after her.

My hands were too weak to hold the beanbags, and they fell to the floor. My knees were weak, too. I sat down on the step and put my head on my arms.

It was true. My voice wasn't pretty, but it was reliable. One of the reasons Mrs. Crofton kept me in A Cappella was to keep the other girls in key. Without music, it was easy to go sharp or flat, but I never did. I could hear the music in my head.

Naomi's comments cut me to the heart. Singing was my one true talent, and now it seemed like a waste of time. That, too, had been ripped away from me. I felt incomplete.

I wanted to cry. I really wanted to. It might have purged my building humiliation. But I never could cry like other girls. In my family, you had to be strong. Mom only gave us five minutes to cry, and since it was hard to stop once you got going, it was better to not start. The logical thing, therefore, was to deny my emotions than to expose them. That was one of the first rules I had written in my List.

It doesn't matter, I chanted silently. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch hour. If only it would ring for the end of the day.

Chapter 6: The List

Statistic: Among teenage and adult populations of females, parental divorce has been associated with lower self-esteem, precocious sexual activity, greater delinquent-like behavior, and more difficulty establishing gratifying, lasting adult heterosexual relationships.

I was too depressed to read my book during the bus ride home. I doubt if Sara Crewe, the heroine of _The Little Princess_ , would have read her precious books in my situation.

I dumped my book bag on my bed. I had no homework, because I had finished it all during study hour, so I checked the kitchen table for Mom's daily chore list.

It was mercifully short. Most days, it included five or six various tasks that were supposed to be delegated to each child, but always ended up being done by me. Today I only had to prepare dinner, since the house had not yet had time to gather dust, or dirt, or need scrubbing, mopping, or sweeping.

After checking the refrigerator, I decided on chicken pot pie – my favorite, which might even put me in a better mood. I sautéed the chicken, diced the potatoes, carrots, and onions, and made a white sauce into which I blended the vegetable mix and chicken pieces. I kept reminding myself that I was now cooking for eight people, not five, so I was careful to add enough to feed everyone.

Kneading the pie crust dough was soothing. I pounded and poked, pretending it was Naomi and the unknown assailant from Chemistry. Eventually, I rolled it out and placed it in the pie tin, then poured my filling in and sealed it with a top crust. I put the two pies in the oven. They would need about an hour, which would coincide perfectly with the time the parents were due back home, so I headed out to the barn to explore.

As soon as I set my feet inside the barn, I knew it would be my sanctuary. It smelled of old, musty straw and rotting hay. Animals had not lived in it for several years, but I could still detect traces of manure. Who else would possibly want such a place? I just wanted some peace and quiet. I hoped that none of the other kids took a liking to it.

I found a corner that seemed reasonably dry and clean. I checked for spiders – I hate spiders – and then sat down.

It was hard to concentrate. I kept seeing Naomi's perfect face and the little balls of crumpled-up insults. So I started to sing a few notes from our choir homework, but I heard my voice echo off the cement walls. I was ashamed of how it sounded. My song came to an abrupt halt.

I wallowed in self-pity for a few minutes. Finally, I took out the List and opened to the "When I Grow Up" section.

Now, I know; an author should stay out of her story, because it interrupts the action. But I have to explain something first so you'll understand. I don't really want to tell you about my List, but it's important. You have to promise not to laugh.

My aunt discovered my List two years ago. She reacted so violently that I swore right then to never share it with anyone else. I was fourteen at the time, and I thought she would understand. Instead, she criticized me for being so unrealistic.

"Life is full of unexpected pains, and you can't plan for them," she had sneered. "You're so self-righteous that you're setting yourself up for failure. Nobody can live this perfectly. You're going to be in debt and carry lots of burdens, and you'll face a good deal of grief. So get used to it now."

I had argued with her, trying to convince her of my wisdom, even though she was three times my age. "I don't have to live in debt. And I don't have to turn out like Mom. If I plan my reactions before I get stuck in the situation, then my chances of success are increased."

"You're too young to know what you're talking about. I suggest you burn that list and quit thinking your foolish ideas."

"How can I be too young to start thinking about my life?"

"You're judging everyone who has made these mistakes. Including me. Look at this one," and she pointed to my rule about dating. "If your mom ever reads this, you'll send her into the deepest depression you've ever seen. You're not living in the real world."

But that was the whole point of the List! I didn't want to live in the 'real world,' if it created cynical, bitter, sarcastic adults. If I could avoid making the big mistakes most other people make, maybe I could have a chance at a truly happy life.

After my discussion with my aunt, it became obvious that I could not share my ideals with folks who had already committed the serious mistakes. I knew I would only be able to record my thoughts in secret. So that's why I'm so protective about sharing it with anyone, including you.

Enough explanation already, right? Back to my story.

I reviewed some of the offensive items in The List: When I grow up, I'm never using a credit card because people who use credit cards get themselves into debt and never get out again. I will pay cash, or go without... When I grow up, I will spend quality time with my kids. If they talk to me, I will stop what I'm doing and give them my complete attention, and make them feel special... When I grow up, I will ask my kids every year on their birthday what I can do to be a better mom, and then I will take their advice...When I grow up, when I grow up, when I grow up...

This morning, Peter said he wanted to be rich and never wear hand-me-downs. I decided I didn't want to be rich, but I certainly didn't want to be poor either. I wanted to have enough money to be comfortable, to pay all my bills, and to play with – but not so much that I grew lazy or careless. I wrote that into my List and turned the page.

Now, my "Rules for Happy Living" are kind of like the "When I Grow Up" section, but it's more succinct. It has things like: There's a way around everything... I make my own destiny... I am not a statistic... I didn't have anything to add to that section, so I flipped past it to "Romance."

You'll probably think that I'm the strangest teenager you've ever met when I tell you what's in my Romance section. I'm not crazy, and I'm not a prude. I just want to avoid all the heartache my mother went through - and put us through - so my little Rules for Romance seems to be sensible enough. Since I've never had a boyfriend, they might turn out to be unrealistic, but for now I can only base my wisdom on the experiences of others. Personally, I learn more about what not to do in a relationship from my mother than I learn what to do.

For example, my first rule is about kissing. No kissing until I get married. The logic behind this one is simple: Many of my friends stay friends with each other, or at least have sensible crushes, until they add the kissing factor. Once the kissing is introduced into a relationship, it usually goes downhill, fast. And for my mom, once she started kissing, she's probably going to get married. Or pregnant. Whichever came first. Maybe it's an extreme reaction, but I prefer to err on the side of prudishness than prostitution.

My second rule is "No rushes – analyze the prospect first." This is based on the fact that I'm too young to get married, which is the whole point behind dating, right? I mean, how many married sixteen-year-olds have you met? Very few, I bet. I figure that high school is a perfect training ground for becoming responsible adults. I've seen too many people – my own mother included – develop crushes on the most handsome, most athletic, most talented, or most popular guy, only to discover later that he was a complete loser. By then, it's too late – they either continue with the relationship, thus hurting themselves, or go through intense grief when they break up.

As for me, I know exactly the kind of man I'm going to marry. Here it comes – and you have to remember your promise not to laugh.

The perfect man for me has to meet everything on my List in order for me to consider him. I haven't met him yet, but I know he's out there. He'll be handsome, kind, even-tempered, intelligent, witty, athletic, musical, and gentle. He'll adore his mother but not be dependent upon her. He'll be well-educated and able to discuss anything in great detail. Of course, he'll also speak three or four languages, at least, and he'll be financially stable. (Not that I would marry for money, but I want to know that he can handle our finances and not get us into debt.) He will be articulate and in touch with his feelings. And, most of all, he will understand that I'm just a diamond in the rough, if you will, in need of a good deal of polishing, but patient enough to bring it out of me. He's going to be my hero, my equal, my savior, and my friend – all rolled into one perfect bundle. I've been thinking about him since I was ten, and I started writing qualities on my List when I was twelve.

So now you see my problem in the dating arena. Where am I to find such a man in high school? It's ludicrous to believe he's there, with all these qualities already all developed. Heck, I don't even have a job yet; how can I expect someone my age to? So why put myself through unnecessary heartache with juvenile break-ups and make-ups? It is just more logical to wait.

Okay. So you'll say that maybe romance isn't a logical thing that falls into nice, neat categories. And maybe, my high ideals and standards for romance will be shattered when I enter the 'real world.' But I've been through my mother's divorces, and I figure I'm about as qualified as anyone to decide what works and what doesn't. And if it works for me, so much the better.

So now you know what I've tried to hide from others. You've discovered my heart on paper. I hope you're not laughing.

"There you are," said Matt, interrupting my thoughts.

I almost fell off the straw bale in my panic to hide my List. He still doesn't know about it. And I'm not going to share with anyone else!

If he noticed, he did not say anything. That was Matt for you, tactful and considerate. "I wanted to see if your day had gotten any better."

I shrugged and looked away. "Worse, actually. I hate school."

"No, you don't. You just hate the people in the school."

"They hate me," I corrected. "I don't hate anyone. I'm nice to everyone, all the time. I don't understand why people are so mean to me."

"I told you why. You need to find a group."

"Nobody wants me. I don't even have any friends this year, Matt."

He did not argue. He perched himself on the rail opposite me.

"How long do you think we'll stay here, anyway?" I asked, to switch the topic.

"Assuming the marriage lasts? Maybe a few years. Couple of months, at least. It doesn't matter – we're graduating in a few years anyway."

"I like this place. I really do. Look at these stalls – empty. I could buy a horse!"

"You can't afford a horse."

I licked my lips. "Yes, I can," I confided, dropping my voice to a whisper. "I've saved seven hundred dollars. That's five hundred for the horse, and the leftovers will go toward food and tack."

"You have seven hundred dollars?"

"Don't tell Mom. You know she always raids my hoarding fund when she needs to pay the bills."

"How on earth did you manage to hide seven hundred dollars?"

"I have a dummy box. I keep fifty in it, but the rest I put in a sock beneath my mattress. Just in case Mom asks. I don't have to lie to her – I just give her what's in the dummy box."

He clicked his tongue. "You held out."

"I had to! Come on, Matt. You know we never have enough."

"So how do you plan to approach the subject? She'll be furious when she finds out you have seven hundred dollars!"

"Roger wants to be a good stepfather, doesn't he? And he grew up on a farm. I'll suggest it to him, and let him break the ice with Mom."

"It's a dangerous game," he said. Then he chuckled. "Good for you."

I changed the subject before he asked any more questions. "I'm tired of moving. Do you realize we've lived in fourteen houses? That's like a house a year!"

"Well, there's two salaries now. I doubt we'll go anywhere for a while." He threw a piece of straw at me. "Don't worry! You worry too much. You wanna come hunting? I'm going after squirrels today."

I glared at him. "You know I don't kill innocent animals."

"You'd better get used to it," he said, folding his arms. "I heard Roger say something about filling this place with animals. Sheep, goats, rabbits... He even said something about making us butcher our own chickens."

I shuddered. "I'm not killing anything," I repeated.

"I'll tan the hides for you, if we end up raising rabbits."

I made a face. "Sure, Matt. That sounds just peachy. Real dandy."

"See you around," he said. He jumped off the railing, hiked his gun over his shoulder, and strolled away.

I lay back in the straw and stared up at the ceiling. There were cobwebs everywhere. I imagined how nice the barn would look if I cleaned it up.

That's it! If I cleaned it up, it would be mine! I would be the one doing the labor, so I would have an automatic claim that I could defend if the parents questioned it. I searched for a broom, found one, and began sweeping out the first stall.

I heard a noise above me and glanced up, hoping there weren't rats in the loft. It was worse – it was Erika. She climbed down the ladder. I wasn't alone, after all.

"Hey, Cinderella," she said, gesturing toward my broom. She strode past me toward the door.

So I wasn't the only one seeking privacy. I was glad she was leaving. Still, I could be polite...

"There's enough room for both of us," I called.

"I don't think so. You're way too noisy, even when you're trying to be quiet," she replied. She stopped suddenly, and spun around. "You know what your problem is? You're a loner. Easy target. You don't have any friends to defend you, do you?"

I stopped sweeping, insulted and shocked by her bluntness. I was getting it from every direction today, it seemed.

"Fourteen houses, huh? That's got to be a record of some kind."

She had overheard my conversation! I wondered if she knew about the List. And my money!

She took a few steps in my direction, but kept her distance. "Fourteen houses, introvert, nerd, and divorced kid," she said, holding up a finger with each label. "You probably suffer from detachment syndrome."

"What?"

"Detachment syndrome. You've been ripped away from relationships one too many times. It means you don't let anybody get to know the real you. See, you're deeper than you let on, and just my telling you this is making you uncomfortable." She sneered at me – or was it a grin? I couldn't tell. "You appear friendly to others, and you even listen to their woes, but you could care less. You're happy on your own, even though you crave friendship and attention."

I began to blush as she analyzed me. It was highly uncomfortable. I couldn't let her continue. "At least I don't look like a Satanist. There are other ways to get attention, you know."

"And being a goody two-shoes is working for you? Your mother ignores you as much as my dad ignores me. Parents don't care, one way or the other. The sooner you learn that, the better you'll be."

"I don't believe you," I said in a quiet voice.

"They take everything away from you," she continued. "First they destroy your nice, orderly little world. Then they fight over who's the better parent. You're the ammunition."

"Not my parents. Maybe yours, but my mom isn't like that."

She leaned in so close that I could almost feel her breath on my cheeks. "Your mom doesn't love you. She took your name away. You're no longer you. Think about that."

I stepped backwards. "I'll never be cynical and bitter like you."

"You say that now," she laughed, and backed away, pointing her black-tipped finger at me, "but you'll see." She kicked the door open and let it slam behind her.

My solace was ruined. I was no longer in the mood to clean up the barn, even if it might eventually be my private refuge. I let the broom clatter to the floor. I had to check on my pot pies anyway, before they burned.

You're no longer you... You're no longer you... Margaret Beverly White Shenton... I don't know my own name... You're no longer you... The thoughts whirled in my head as I marched back to the house. I could not stop them. They flooded over me, soaking my soul in desperation. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. You're no longer you...

Who was I? It did matter! I wanted to be somebody! I stopped several yards from the porch. My fists balled tightly. I let out a primal scream that came from the bottom of my stomach. It ripped past my vocal chords. I knew they would be raw tomorrow, and I might not be able to sing. I didn't care. If I couldn't cry, then I would scream.

It didn't make me feel any better, though. If anything, I felt worse.

Chapter 7: The Shenton Zoo

_Statistic: Even several years after divorce, on average parents and children have less positive relationships in divorced rather than married families_.

To shake the depression that settled over me, I focused on the enormous task of finding a new identity. I considered developing a British accent – I loved how they sounded – but decided that it might be too drastic. Plus, I didn't really want to draw attention to myself that way.

I made a list of my hobbies and talents, and ways to expand them. Singing was out. I no longer had the confidence to sing loudly in class, since I knew Naomi was listening and trying to make me sound bad. However, I could juggle, do rope tricks, paper tricks, and magic tricks, and I liked to write stories. I had acted, briefly, in last year's spring play. Although I had only been cast as a minor character, I really enjoyed the experience. I liked checkers (even if Matt always beat me) and I was a good sprinter. Surely I could fine-tune one of those talents in some significant way.

It took a few days to make my decision. But after deciding to concentrate on juggling and acting, I set my goal for the school year: Ignore as many people as possible, juggle during lunch hour, and try out for the school play.

Of course, try-outs weren't until the end of September, which, by now, was four weeks away. So I devoted my energies to juggling. I was actually starting to grow bored with my favorite hobby, because I had mastered all the tricks I knew and there was little hope of learning more, when a stroke of luck happened my way.

It was during lunchtime, naturally, on Friday. I made it alive through my first week as a sophomore! I was so grateful for the upcoming weekend that I juggled my little heart out. I was so absorbed in my patterns that I did not notice Miss Bjornson, the Physical Education teacher, sneak up behind me. She was carrying equipment up to the wrestling room, where she was going to hold the stretching and flexibility tests.

"You're pretty good with those," she said.

Frightened, I dropped all four beanbags and whirled around to face her.

"In fact, you're very good. Where did you learn to do that?"

My face flushed crimson. "I taught myself," I muttered, kneeling down to scoop up my fallen bags.

"You taught yourself? You're kidding. Be honest with me."

"I am. I...I do this every day."

She narrowed her eyes at me as if sizing me up, then flashed a huge smile at me. "Well, young lady, what grade are you in?"

"Tenth."

"That's perfect. You know that all tenth-graders learn to juggle, don't you? It's part of the winter curriculum."

"I heard something about that last year. I'm taking Phy Ed next semester."

"Well, you've already passed the final exam, by the looks of it. In any case, you're a better juggler than I am. What am I supposed to do with you for those six weeks, then?"

I shrugged. "Just let me juggle? I promise I won't go anywhere else."

She laughed. "I'm sure you wouldn't. Tell you what. I can't have my students roaming about in the hall while I'm teaching, but I could really use an assistant. Have you ever taught anyone how to juggle before?"

"Me? No, I hate people. That is, I... uh..."

She laughed again. She had a really easy laugh, the kind that made me want to join in. "Well, the world's full of us. You're going to have to learn how to get along with us, you know." She put her hand on my shoulder and walked me down the stairs to her office. "I've seen you every day this week at this time, so I'm assuming that it's your lunch hour right now."

I nodded.

"You're dedicated. I'm going to leave my office open for you, then. Look. I have clubs, rings, beanbags, boxes..." She opened a closet and began to sort through her various props.

I was in juggler's heaven. I had never seen so much equipment before!

She held out an object that looked like a bowling pin, except that it was covered in red foil and had an aluminum handle tipped with rubber. "Have you ever done clubs before?"

I shook my head and reached for it.

"I only have a few minutes, but let me show you how it's done." She took me back to my landing – indeed, it was _mine_ since I was the only one who used it – and demonstrated how to hold and flip the club. It looked so easy when she did it. "Now you try."

Of course I tried – and failed. Several times. But I was determined to master it. I knew that practice and patience were the only ingredients for success when it came to juggling. Skill has nothing to do with it. Matt is more skilled than I was, but I'm more determined.

She tapped her watch. "I have to go. You have until January to get good with those, and the rings and boxes too. Think you can do it?"

I grinned. "It won't take me until January."

"You're probably right. Be sure you put the props back in my office when you leave."

I grasped the clubs tightly. "Wow, Miss Bjornson, thanks so much! This is great!"

She chuckled and waved good-bye.

I almost missed my next class because I was so caught up in my new toys. It was hard to leave, but I would have another chance at them on Monday. At least, I hoped she would remember to leave her office unlocked for me. If nothing else, maybe I could use some of my money to buy a set of clubs for my own use.

It turned out that Erika and Margaret were on split-custody terms with their mother, who kept them on weekends. I saw, in graphic, up-close detail, what Erika meant by 'being used as ammunition.' Her mother liked to threaten Roger with not returning the girls if he didn't do specific things for them, or if she was unhappy with how they were being treated, or this, that, and the other. I only heard the angry phone calls, with ex-Mrs. Shenton's voice echoing through the earpiece on the other side of the room. At least Roger never yelled, not like that, and certainly not like Mom could.

I soon realized how lucky I was that my mother had sole custody of us. I would have felt like a yo-yo otherwise. What a stupid game. Couldn't their parents see that they were making Erika and Margaret miserable? They completely spoiled Margaret, giving her whatever she wanted for fear that she might be upset at being told 'no.' As for Erika, all she wanted was her parents to get back together; nothing less than that was good enough, so she was always unhappy.

I tried to avoid both of them as much as possible. I had enough misery to deal with of my own.

Three weeks before tryouts, on a crisp September morning, Roger woke us all up at the crack of dawn by bellowing "Wake up and smell the coffee!"

Matt, Peter, Becky, and I groggily made our way down the stairs to the kitchen, where we stood around looking at each other with sleep-heavy eyes. Even the tempting smell of Mom's buttery pancakes was not enough to wake us up completely.

"Why are we awake at six o'clock on a Saturday morning?" groaned Matt.

Roger was too perky for his own good. We wanted to strangle him. It wouldn't do to make Mom a widow, though, especially when she really seemed to like the guy.

"Your mother and I have a surprise for you," he beamed. "Today we're filling up the barn with animals."

"Horses?" I cried, instantly awake.

"Not quite. I've arranged for various breeders to drop off their animals and give you kids a quick crash-course in taking care of them. In an hour or so, Mr. Piekarski is going to drop off some rabbits. After he's done, Mr. Nelson will bring the sheep, and then Mr. Richter will show us the goats. The chickens aren't going to be coming today. I guess we have to hatch them from eggs, so I'll have to fix up the basement with a heat lamp so they don't freeze."

Becky could not contain herself. "Bunnies! We're getting bunnies!"

"I can't wait to tan their hides," Matt mused.

Peter rubbed his eyes. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We're teaching you responsibility," Roger replied, looking awfully pleased with himself. "You're going to have to feed and water these animals twice a day - early in the morning, and at night before you go to bed. Your mother and I have always wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible. These animals aren't pets, now. Remember that. We're raising them for meat."

He explained that these first animals were our trial run. If we handled them well, we would eventually get more, and maybe even be able to significantly cut back on our grocery bills. Feeding eight people can be expensive, you know.

Animals for food? It was gruesome, but also intriguing. We did live in a farmhouse, after all, even though we rented out the twenty acres of field to Mr. Piekarski, whose family raised corn and wheat. They were our nearest neighbors, even though they lived about a half-mile away.

"Sit down and eat before they get cold," said Mom, setting a plate full of pancakes on the table with a grin.

Matt took half the stack, and Peter almost took the other half. I grabbed one before they were completely gone, and set it on Becky's plate.

"I want more than just one!" she complained.

"They're coming. Be patient," I told her. "See? I'm waiting for the next round."

"But Matt's eating them all!"

"Shh." I put my hand over her mouth.

She screamed. My fingers muffled the sound.

"What are you doing to her?" asked Mom, turning her attention away from the frying pan.

I dropped my hand. Becky had done it now. Familiar shivers began to tingle my spine. I touched my now-faded bruise and prayed she wouldn't give me a new one.

"Matt's eating all the pancakes!" Becky tattled.

Mom looked at Matt, then swiftly crossed the room and smacked the back of his head, hard. He almost choked. "Shame on you. That's not good manners. You're supposed to let the girls eat first. You know there will be plenty. Now go to your room. No breakfast for you."

Anger flared in his eyes, and rebellion.

I shook my head slightly at him.

He set his jaw, threw down his napkin, and stamped upstairs – but only after shooting Becky a hate-filled glare.

Mom returned to the stove.

I glared at Becky. "There were more coming."

"Donna, was that necessary? He's just a hungry boy," said Roger, ever the good father-figure.

"He needs to learn good manners. I know what's best for my son. Don't question me."

"I'm not questioning you, but don't you think that was a little extreme?"

"Don't you think I know my own son?" she asked.

I knew what was coming. The honeymoon was over, and Mom, in all her splendid glory, was returning to her everyday self. Soon Roger and Mom started arguing in earnest, so I excused myself quickly, grabbed Matt's full plate, and ran upstairs.

Roger saw me take the plate. Our eyes met. He dropped his gaze first, so I proceeded with my dangerous task.

Matt was in his bedroom, lying flat on his back. He thumped his feet on the mattress. I entered quietly. "Go away," he muttered.

"I brought you something."

He looked at the pancakes and sat up quickly. "I said go away. I don't need you here."

"I know you're hungry. Come on, eat before it gets cold."

"I'm not touching those. I'd rather go hungry that eat her stupid pancakes. I hate her."

"I thought you might say that, which is why I brought two forks. I won't eat unless you eat. You're not going to keep me hungry, are you?"

He was still grumpy, but could not refuse my ultimatum. "You know we'll probably have to skip lunch for this."

"Dinner, too, I bet." I lowered my voice. "Don't worry, though. I have a stash."

"Of what?"

"Snacks. I hid them out in the barn, in case I get hungry out there. I can spend a whole day out there without coming in. Water, food, matches – I've got it all."

We could hear Mom and Roger shouting downstairs. I could not tell if my stomach was twisting because of the venom in Mom's voice, or because I was really hungry.

"We'd better hurry."

We barely chewed, swallowing the pancakes in their maple syrup as rapidly as possible without choking ourselves. I ate fewer pancakes than he did, partly because he could chew faster, and partly because I knew he was much hungrier that I.

When I was done, I sighed. "I suppose I'd better do the good big-sister thing, huh?"

"Stay out of it. You know it always comes back to you."

"Oh, well," I said, and then shouted down the stairs. "Peter! Becky! Get up here!"

My tone of voice was as shrill as Mom's. What can I say – I learned from the best. They did not dare defy me, and they scrambled up the stairs in seconds.

They looked really shaken up. "What?"

"Let's get dressed," I said in a quieter voice. "I don't think we should be downstairs when they're arguing."

"But what about my food?" asked Becky. "I only ate two."

"I have a few Twinkies in my bedroom. You can have them."

"What about me?" asked Peter.

"You can have some, too."

We used the back staircase to sneak downstairs and outside, where we waited on the lawn. It was almost a shock to me to notice that the leaves were turning crimson and brown. How could I have missed autumn in Minnesota? It was my favorite time of year. I guess stress makes a person miss a lot of good things. And boy, was I stressed, what with the new house, the new marriage, and my new name!

Becky and I sat on the lawn and talked about the changing season. Peter plucked some long blades of grass and made a whistle out of them by holding them between his thumbs and blowing. Mark disappeared into the thinning tree line, probably to check his snares as an excuse to be alone. Eventually, Mom came outside, scowling.

She put her hands on her hips. "Aren't you kids hungry? The food's getting cold."

We all shrugged.

"I make pancakes for you, and nobody wants them. That's a fine mutiny. See if I ever make pancakes again. I don't do these things for my health..." She continued her tirade as she withdrew inside. We could hear her through the walls.

When I grow up, I'm never yelling at my kids, I thought, and if I do, I'm going to apologize afterward. Or just never yell at them. And if I have to punish one of them, I'll make it appropriate, not extreme. I pulled my little black book from my pocket, shielded it from my siblings, and added my new rules to the List.

* * * * *

Mr. Piekarski was right on time. He brought his daughter Natalie with him, and she helped him unload the rabbits. She was Peter's age, which meant she was a potential girlfriend for him. He grinned at her the whole time.

Roger came outside to greet them, and then led Mr. Piekarski through a thorough question-and-answer session. We learned more about biology and breeding in fifteen minutes than we had in our entire school careers. By the time they left, we felt like near-experts in the care of our rabbits.

"What's this one's name?" asked Becky, holding a big white New Zealander.

"Dinner," replied Roger.

Matt and I snorted.

"That's not funny," Mom told him, directing her glare in his direction, still upset about breakfast. It always amazes me how long she can remain angry. Sometimes it takes days for her to get over her thunderstorms.

Roger took Mom in his arms – a brave maneuver, because she often hits when she's angry. To my surprise, she let him envelop her in his big crushing embrace. She even started to smile.

We breathed a collective sigh.

Mr. Nelson and Mr. Richter brought their sheep and goats, and gave us similar instructions. Feed and water twice a day, give plenty of love and attention, and ask lots of questions during breeding season. It turned out that the sheep and goats – two females of each – were already pregnant and would be due in February. The goats would be used for their milk, and the lambs were going to be raised for meat.

Mr. Richter also brought some paperwork with him – for 4-H. Roger insisted we had to attend meetings once a month, and keep paperwork on our animals. We might even get a chance to show them at the State Fair in August. Mr. Richter began to name some of the kids in the local 4-H club, and I was surprised to recognize some of them. We filled out our paperwork, and then thanked him for all his help.

"So, who wants what?" asked Roger when the men were gone.

I volunteered for a goat. I couldn't stand the idea of getting attached to something we would end up eating. Milking a goat didn't sound so bad in comparison to butchering a sheep.

Matt and Peter both wanted a sheep, and Becky wanted a rabbit. That left a rabbit for Margaret, and a goat for Erika. Wouldn't they be surprised when they got back on Monday!

Chapter 8: Not So Alone

Statistic: Girls whose parents divorce may grow up without the day-to-day experience of interacting with a man who is attentive, caring, and loving. Without this regular source of nourishment, a girl's sense of being valued as a female does not seem to thrive.

The charm of our new animals wore off quickly over the next three weeks as the reality of raising them took its toll. Nobody, including me, liked getting up twenty minutes early in order to feed and water the livestock. Even so, I looked forward to going into the barn. It was quiet and peaceful there, and it was a place that Mom rarely went. When I was there, and she was yelling at me to come do the dishes or some other distasteful task, I could either claim I was doing chores, or pretend to not hear her. Of course, I was certain that Mr. Piekarski, even though he lived half a mile away, could hear her, so I used that particular excuse as sparingly as possible.

If only I could get a part in the fall play! It didn't cost anything to participate, and it would give me an excuse to stay away from the house.

Not that I minded the house. Actually, I adored it. The barn was my personal domain. I sang to my animals, and juggled for them. Miss Bjornson even let me borrow some clubs to take home, once I got enough courage to ask her. It was Mom I was trying to avoid.

You've heard of the expression, "She was as moody as a spring day." Well, forget the spring day. Mom was as moody as Mother Nature herself. As a Minnesotan, from the land of the Frozen Chosen, I was quite conscious of changes in weather, and even more finely attuned to changes in Mom. Some days she could be weepy, like a rain shower. Other days she could be violent and frightening, like an electrical storm. She was often cold and uninviting, like a blizzard. And sometimes – the best but rarest mood of all – she was as warm, happy and affectionate as a fine spring day. On those days, we kids did everything we could to spend time with her. We played Scrabble, our favorite board game, and we watched movies together. We never did talk much; Mom always seemed awkward and never knew what to say. But we wished that those spring days would occur with more frequency. Roger seemed to bring them out of her. We were grateful for his effect.

Peter and Becky adored him. Peter did not remember his real father, and Becky was too young to remember never having a father, so they bonded quickly. On the other hand, Matt and I were almost adults. We had suffered through the worst part of our childhood without a father figure, and we certainly didn't need one now. Although Matt appreciated Roger's wrestling knowledge, he resented the fact that Roger constantly tried to impose his authority upon him. Matt only answered to Mom – and lately he had not been doing that – and Roger's 'father figure' ideals really rubbed the wrong way.

As for me, I thought he was a nice guy. He would never be a father to me, of course, but as my mother's husband, he was decent.

One night he decided to start singing with me. "I hear you're in choir," he said as I passed through the living room. He was playing his guitar.

I tried to be subtle about eavesdropping, but he must have known I was listening.

"Oh. Yeah, kind of."

"Kind of? Your mother said that you're in the top choir in the entire school."

"Not exactly."

He waited for me to explain, but I wasn't exactly the type to volunteer information. He had to prompt me to continue.

"Well, there's one level above A Cappella," I said after he gestured at me. "A Cappella has twenty people – ten guys and ten girls. But Chamber Singers only has eight. You have to audition from A Cappella to get into Chamber Singers."

"When did you audition?"

"I'm not going to," I flushed, thinking about Naomi. She was sure to get a position. I didn't know if I could stand singing so close to her; it was a rather intimate little group that traveled to different places and sang for special events. She surely wouldn't want me in her group. In her own words, I didn't belong.

"Really?" He seemed surprised. He surely sensed that there was something else I wasn't telling him, but he didn't push.

I didn't answer.

He thrummed some chords on his guitar, and then began to sing. It was a soothing, haunting little melody, one that I had never heard before. He really had an excellent singing voice. When he reached the chorus the second time, he looked at me. "Jump in any time," he offered.

I looked at the floor. "That's okay."

"Well, then Donna must have been wrong. She said you liked singing."

I was surprised that she knew what I liked, because she never asked and I never told her. We never really talked. "I don't know the song."

"Probably not, it's an old one. Most of the songs in my book are from the early bluegrass period."

I carefully flipped through the pages. He had obviously collected his songs over several decades. Some of the pages were yellow and brittle; others were white and new. He had a table of contents that was semi-alphabetical, except for the newest songs. I saw "Carolina in the Pines" and "Mountain Climber" and "One Tin Soldier." I didn't recognize any of them. But he was being so nice, I didn't want to offend him by refusing to sing with him.

I saw "Bridge over Troubled Water" and remembered it from eighth-grade choir. "I know this one," I pointed.

He played an introduction, and then began to sing the words. I hummed for a while, but got up some courage to join him on the chorus. I was too ashamed of my own voice to sing properly, so I ended up squeaking out the notes.

He looked at me. "This must be a bad key for you." In an easy transition, he changed chords and continued the song.

How tactful, I thought.

Actually, it _was_ a better key for me. I began to relax. He held the melody, since I was too shy to sing very loudly, so I began experimenting with different harmonies. I love to harmonize. There's nothing better in the world than enhancing a song with various overlays.

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked at the end of the song.

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just hear them in my head. Sometimes I hear three or four, but I can only sing one at a time."

"That's impressive." He smiled at me. "Let's try another one."

He sang "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain," another old song I had never heard, but I was quick to catch on to the chords. I followed them in a harmony until I knew the song, and then I sang the melody with him.

"I've never met anyone who learned songs so quickly," he said, smiling at me.

I blushed. It was not the humiliating crimson that was too familiar to my cheeks; this blush was a happy one. I was so flattered that I actually confided in him.

"I have to be quick, you see. All the other kids can read music, but I never learned. The only way to stay in A Cappella is to memorize my songs on the first day. The tunes are easy. It's the words that are a little bit harder." I leaned forward in my eagerness to explain. "Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll start dreaming the words. That's when I know I have them memorized. It's like my head figures them out for me, so I don't have to work so hard at it."

"You really like singing, don't you?"

I sat back. "I thought I did." My smile disappeared.

He watched me for a moment or two. I could tell that he was trying to decide what to say to me, or whether it was any of his business or not. "Let me guess. Trouble at school?"

My jaw dropped. Literally. I clamped it shut so hard that I knocked my teeth together. I was not used to discussing my problems with anyone, except Matt. And Mom never had time. When she did, she was always distracted. I looked at the carpet, unsure of where to begin.

I really wanted to tell him. Something inside me, however, stopped me. Why bother bonding with him if he wasn't going to stick around? After the divorce, if it happened, did I really want him knowing what went on in my life? He and Mom had been arguing a lot more lately. Sometimes the arguments ended in shouting matches. I even heard the words 'temporary separation' creep into their conversations – and they had only been married a month or so. No, it was best to keep Roger at arm's length, at least until I was sure he was really going to stick around.

"What's 'Please, Mr. Conductor'?" I asked, changing the topic.

He took the hint. "It's a story about a little boy who has to get home to his mother, who is dying. He can't afford the ticket, so the conductor wants to throw him off the train. A nice lady pays his ticket, and he gets to see his mom one last time before she dies." He strummed the chords and began to sing.

It was a touching song, but I was more relieved that I didn't have to talk to him. I struggled with my emotions. He seemed like he really cared, but it wouldn't have been right. My mother was the one who was supposed to care, not this stranger. He may have lived in our house, but he wasn't entitled to its intimacies. Yet.

My mind wandered off the song. What was Mom's problem, anyway? Why did she never talk to me? She was the Invisible Parent, the one who provided money and discipline – lots of discipline – but no emotional support. I wondered what I would have done if Mom asked the same question Roger did. I might have told her. But she wouldn't have asked. Erika said Mom didn't care, and it was true.

We sang for at least half an hour before going to bed. I started to feel better about myself. I had impressed two adults: Miss Bjornson with my juggling, and Roger with my singing. Somehow, Naomi's bitter insults seemed lessened by that fact. They still stung, of course, but at least the whole world didn't share her opinions. I had two people who seemed to like me. And Matt. That was three. I fell asleep feeling not-so-alone. It was a good feeling.

Chapter 9: Tryouts and Blow-Ups

Statistic: 18- to 22-year-olds from disrupted families were twice as likely to have poor relationships with their mothers and fathers, to show high levels of emotional distress or problem behavior, [and] to have received psychological help.

Tryouts finally came, on a Tuesday at the end of September, right after school. I was nervous about missing the bus, especially since I lied to Mom and told her I had to stay behind to talk to a teacher about an assignment. She never would have agreed to pick me up otherwise.

I spent most of the day trying to visualize myself in the lead role. My classes passed by too slowly, until English class, when Mrs. Putnam told us a story about her son as a baby. Apparently he was such a loud crier on the day he was born, and one of the nurses was married to a news reporter who was having a really slow week, so they decided to record his decibel levels. Turns out he really was louder than the other babies - by ten percent.

"We have both the newspaper clipping and the video," Mrs. Putnam boasted. "It was a historic event."

"An historic event," I mumbled.

She heard me and jerked her glance my way. "What did you say?"

I stared at the pencil on my desk. "Nothing," I mumbled.

"Yes, you did," she persisted. "You said 'an historic event.' Are you correcting me?"

I was in sheer and utter agony. It had been a reflex action. "Um..." My eyes flew to Mrs. Putnam's. "Yes, I guess I did, didn't I?"

"Real bright," called one of the students behind me. "You don't go correcting an English teacher!"

Mrs. Putnam looked at him. "How come none of you noticed it? This is an English course, isn't it? You're supposed to be learning good grammar here." She winked at me. "You're absolutely correct, Margaret. Er, Beverly, though nobody actually uses 'an' in front of 'h' words anymore. It's old-fashioned."

Nobody said anything. I had never heard the class so quiet before. If she had not stumbled over my name, I would have felt triumphant.

She bent over my desk. "See me after class," she said in a whisper so low I barely heard it. Then she returned to her story, and eventually the lesson.

See her after class? My hands grew sweaty. My heart pounded in my chest. What could she possibly want with me? I hadn't missed any assignments! I did well on our first quiz! What did I do?

Fortunately, English was the last class of the day, so I didn't have to suffer long. I sat at my desk until all the other students left the room, and then, with heavy feet, I approached her desk.

She held two of my stories in her hand. "I'm passing these back on Friday, but I wanted you to have yours now."

I took them from her. My shoulders slumped when I saw the grade – a C! I got a C! I had never gotten a C before in my entire life. I was an A student!

"I'm giving these back to you because I'm very impressed with them."

"You're impressed, but you gave me a C?"

She laughed. "You have the makings of an excellent author, but your characters are too unbelievable. They're so... perfect. I want you to rewrite these, but give the main character some bad flaws, like hubris or body odor or kleptomania. Anything to make them more human. Then turn them in to me before Friday so I can change your grade."

"Did... did you give anybody else back their stories?"

She fixed a steady, frank gaze on me. "No. None of the others have the raw talent you do. It wouldn't have been worth my time to mess with them."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Don't look so shocked, Beverly! You act as if nobody's ever given you a compliment before."

"Nobody's ever read my stories before. I usually tear them up into little bits when I'm done." I didn't tell her that I no longer ate them, as I did in sixth grade. Paper was just so hard to swallow.

"Don't do that. You need to keep them, maybe get a binder so you can see how much you're growing year to year." She stood up and walked over to me. Then she put her hand on my shoulder.

The touch sent a jolt through my body. Very few people ever invade my personal space. It was uncomfortable, but somehow it was right. It was friendly, honest, and accepting – an extension of Mrs. Putnam's opinion of me.

"I made some notations in the sidelines. I want you to read them. If you don't understand what I'm trying to say, ask me. That first story has a lot of potential. I'd hate to see a good writer go undeveloped, just because nobody was honest with her."

I hugged the stories to my chest. I could not repress a smile. I didn't even blush! "Thanks, Mrs. Putnam. I'll rewrite them tonight."

"Good. And Beverly? I don't care if you get an A in this class or not. But I do care, very much, about helping you write. I'm here after school if you want to talk."

I smiled even more broadly, nodded, and left the room. That was four people who believed in me. Four! Almost an entire handful!

My posture was absolutely perfect as I walked down the hall to the auditorium. Usually I shuffled and stayed to the left or right, as close to the lockers as possible, in order to stay out of everybody's way. Today I barely noticed that I was walking down the center of the hallway, and that people moved to avoid me.

Mrs. Putnam's glowing comments wrought a wondrous change in my attitude. I stepped completely outside my normal self and threw my heart into auditions. I had read the script the night before, and decided to try out for the part of Tatiana, a woman who wanted to be a ballerina but was more of a joke. A secret part of me had always wanted to be a ballerina. I always danced around in the barn whenever I had a chance, but I was about as graceful as a pregnant elephant. At least none of the goats laughed at me!

And, to my surprise, none of the other wanna-be actors laughed either. I attacked the role with enough false grace that it seemed practically designed for me. I would not know for sure until Friday, after callbacks and final auditions, but I felt sure that I had the part.

Mom and Roger picked me up around 5:30. By then, auditions had been over for at least an hour, so I had amused myself by juggling in front of the school until then.

"I didn't know you could juggle," said Mom as I climbed into the car next to Becky.

"Mom, I've been juggling for three years now. I'm the best juggler in town."

"Isn't that nice," she said, but she was not listening. "How did the meeting with your teacher go?"

I was glad that I actually had met with my teacher. It would have been hard to fake, and I knew that Mom would never approve of me doing another drama. Last year had been hard enough.

"It was wonderful! Mrs. Putnam gave me a C on my stories."

"That's wonderful?" asked Roger, turning around to look at me.

"No, no. She told me that I have a lot of natural talent, and that I need to work on my characters. She gave me 'til Friday to rewrite it."

"And you'll get an A this time," said Mom in her pushy, unsatisfied tone.

"Of course," I said, feeling my enthusiasm dwindle. "She gave me another chance because she believes in me."

"Grades are important," Mom continued. "You'll never get anywhere in life if you're just an average student. You know our slogan: C's are as bad as F's if you could have gotten an A."

She completely missed the point. The point was not that I got a C and could earn an A. The point was that somebody thought I was a good writer. I might never become a best-selling author, but somebody believed in me. That somebody was not my mother, though, so I clamped my mouth shut and rode home in silence.

I turned in my first story the next day, but I wanted to take time with the other one. Mrs. Putnam said she was glad I wasn't trying to rush.

Callbacks were on Thursday. I checked the list for my name.

It was not there.

Not as Margaret White, or Beverly Shenton, or Margaret Shenton, or any combination thereof.

My name simply was not there.

I was so depressed, I could barely breathe. I retreated to the bathroom to conceal my disappointment. I had about five minutes before the bus came, and I wasn't going to sit in public feeling sorry for myself when I could do it just as well behind the closed doors of a bathroom stall.

While I was trying to collect myself, Naomi and her noisy little troop entered the bathroom and took possession of the mirrors. They primped and gossiped. At least it was not targeted at me this time. I held very still and hoped they wouldn't suspect I was there.

"She probably has AIDS," Naomi was saying. "I mean, she's so obviously gay. Who else keeps their hair shorter than a boy's? Even her clothes are men's clothes."

From the description, I knew they were talking about Darcy Russell. She did indeed look gay – whatever that was supposed to look like – but I didn't think she was. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Naomi had no business to pick on Darcy, who was the quietest, most frightened mouse of a person I had ever met. She was even shyer than me. I had only seen her a few times in the hall, and I never talked to her, but I felt sorry for her to have attracted Naomi's venom.

"I know! Let's toilet paper her locker!"

Her friends chorused their agreement.

"I always see her at lunch, too. She sits alone. Maybe we can start a food fight, and blame it on her."

The childishness of Naomi's words made me snicker. As if anyone would believe that Darcy Russell would ever start a food fight! I could not stifle my laughter. It seemed so ridiculous!

"Who's that? Who's there?"

I clapped my hand over my mouth and held very still, regretting my snicker.

The girls were very quiet, and then suddenly Naomi said, "Margaret Beverly or whatever your name is, I know that's you. I can see your shoes. Nobody else wears shoes that are older than they are."

I was caught. Did I stay hidden, or did I face my opponent? Could I avoid her forever?

I opened the stall door, lifting my chin and straightening my shoulders as I presented myself to my adversary for the slaughter.

"Didn't your mommy teach you it's not nice to eavesdrop?" said Naomi in a condescending tone of voice.

"Didn't your mommy teach you it's not nice to gossip?" I countered. I was surprised at my boldness.

So was she. "It's only gossip if it's untrue. Everybody knows Darcy's a lesbian."

"Everybody except Darcy. Are you just spreading rumors, or did you actually talk to her and she confessed?"

"She doesn't have to confess. We all know."

"Since when were you omniscient, Naomi?" I had taken my stand, and it finally felt good to confront her. "You always talk about things you don't know. And what's worse," I said, glaring at her friends, "is that everyone agrees with you because they're afraid that you'll end up gossiping about them, too."

One of her friends dropped her gaze. I had struck a nerve.

Naomi's beautiful face turned almost as red as my hair. "At least I'm not subhuman! Look at you – your clothes don't even match! You face looks like a mountain range of zits! And your mother's a slut!"

I stepped in close to her face. "I won't argue that you're prettier than I am," I said in a quiet voice, "and your parents may be richer than mine, and you're more popular than I'll ever be. But you know what? I'd never trade places with you. You're more miserable than I'll ever be, too. At least I don't have to surround myself with false friends to make myself feel better about being so shallow."

"You don't have any friends," she hissed.

"And I'm fine with that. I'm happy being me, Naomi. _I am happy to be me_."

"You don't even have a name. You're nobody."

The bathroom door opened and one of her friends stuck her head in. "Josh is looking for you. He said he has something to give you." She noticed our tense standoff. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Nothing important," sniffed Naomi. "We were just doing our hair."

"We were discussing the importance of telling the truth," I corrected. "Leave Darcy alone."

"Whatever." She spun on her heel and left the bathroom.

I balanced my weight on the sink, drained. You don't even have a name. You're nobody. How could anyone say such hurtful words? And why did I bother to believe them?

A muffled sob caught my attention. We weren't alone. There was somebody else in the bathroom. I didn't even have to guess who it was. "Darcy?"

She opened her stall door. She looked awful. Her face was puffy and bloated, and her eyes were red with tears.

"You heard everything, huh?"

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. "Thanks for standing up for me. Nobody's ever done that before."

"Ignore them. It's what I always do." I looked at my watch. "I have to go catch my bus."

"Wait. There's something I want to tell you." She took a deep breath. "The reason I keep my hair short is because I have cancer. The chemotherapy made it all fall out. It's growing back now, though."

I raised my eyebrows.

"And the reason I wear boy's clothes is because they fit better." She untucked her shirt and pulled it up so I could see her stomach. She had a plastic bag taped there. "See? I'm not gay."

"You didn't have to explain," I mumbled.

"It's not something that I usually share, you were so... Thank you."

"I have to catch my bus," I repeated. "I'm late." I hurried away as if she were contagious somehow. It wasn't the cancer that bothered me; it was her instant faith in me that made me uneasy. I hated knowing people's most intimate secrets. It made me responsible somehow.

For example, last year after the spring play, a group of us had met at Alfredo's to celebrate our opening night. I felt really close to them. We had spent six weeks of our lives together, and it kind of felt like a little family. We were sharing stories, and it was my turn. "I'm not supposed to tell you this," I had said, "but I will." I proceeded to tell them a story that Matt had made me swear to keep secret. It was a funny story, and they enjoyed it. But the next day, someone who was not in our little group approached me. "I really liked that story you told about your brother. But it must suck to have your own sister spreading your secrets around." I didn't know who she was - some senior, I think - but she had overheard me at Alfredo's. Later, I confessed my deed to my brother, who forgave me, but it always left a bad taste in my mouth. I was untrustworthy. I was a bad secret-keeper.

And now Darcy was telling me hers. I didn't want to know!

I thought about her a lot during the bus ride home. I couldn't shake her from my mind. She was another victim of Naomi's evil clutches, and I knew exactly how she felt. We shared something. She didn't usually stand up for herself, either, and her clothes were as pathetic as mine. I wondered if we shared anything else.

On Friday, school really seemed to drag. I had been looking forward to this day for the past four weeks. I didn't even make the callback list. I saw Darcy in the hall, but she looked away before I could say anything. The only redemption was that both my stories got an A, and Mrs. Putnam seemed very pleased with the rewrites.

"So how are you going to find time to write, now that you'll be acting?" she said after class.

My brow creased in confusion. "Acting? I'm not acting. I have plenty of time to write."

"No, I'm sure I saw your name on the list," she said. "Didn't you try out for the part of Tatiana?"

"Yeah, but I didn't get called back."

She folded her arms. "Sometimes you don't need a callback to make a decision. If the actress is any good, it only takes one audition to know. I suggest you go check that list again."

I collected my folder, books, and pens and trudged down the hall. She must be mistaken.

There was a small crowd gathered around the list, all checking to see if they had received a part or not. Some people squealed in excitement, others slumped in disappointment. I waited for them to leave before I checked for my name in privacy.

"No way!" I breathed. There it was – my name, next to the part of Tatiana! I got it! I got it!

I would have done a pirouette right there in the hallway if I had been a real ballerina, but I didn't want to trip myself. Still, I walked – or floated, rather – out to the bus.

Only one thought tarnished my triumph – my mother. She would never let me do it. It was too much of a hassle to coordinate our schedules. I didn't know why, but picking me up from school after she got off work was always too much trouble.

I made an extra-special dinner that night, hoping to put me in good graces with the parents. I didn't want to play the manipulation game, but maybe if I could get one of them to say yes, they would talk the other one into saying yes, too. The one being Roger, the other being my mother.

Now, stepparents traditionally have a bad reputation. What I've discovered, however, is that sometimes the stepparent is the only one still trying to stay involved. A natural parent is too busy to be bothered, or too tired and overworked to care. A stepparent, however, comes into a marriage full of good intentions and zealous ideas, thinking that he is going to change the world, starting with you. Unfortunately, good intentions and zeal tend to die down after a while. Having been through several stepparents myself, I knew that there's a time limit on that sort of behavior. I intended to use "The Grace Period" to my advantage.

"Dinner is delicious," Mom said. "What do you want?"

Everyone laughed, as if I had made a good dinner just so I could get something.

They were right. I gathered my courage. "Actually, I do want something."

"Oh?" She stopped smiling.

"I... um... I auditioned for the fall play, and I got a part."

The silence made me even more nervous. Matt looked at me, Becky looked at Peter, and Roger watched us all. I was glad that Erika and Margaret were at their mother's house, because eight people staring at me would have been too much!

"Just when did you have time to audition?" Mom asked.

"After school on Tuesday. My meeting with Mrs. Putnam took less time than I expected."

"So you conveniently strolled over and auditioned. Just like that. No planning or anything."

I didn't answer.

"How were you going to get home?"

I gulped. "I thought maybe you could pick me up when you get off work, since Becky stays at her daycare until that time anyway."

"It's too far out of the way."

"It's only a few miles! Please, Mom?"

"I can't believe you weren't going to tell me. Don't you trust me? Do you think I'm such a witch that I wouldn't let you go?"

"Of course not. I just..."

"You what? Oh, wait – you weren't going to tell me. You probably planned the whole meeting with Mrs. Putnam just so you could audition."

I stared at my fork, avoiding her growing sarcasm.

Roger intervened. "Donna, it's no big deal. We can pick her up after work."

"That's not the issue. The issue is that she didn't tell me. She never tells me anything."

"It's not like you care," I heard myself say. I gasped. Did I really let that slip out of my mouth?

Mom's voice climbed up a notch. "What's that supposed to mean? How dare you? Do you know how hard I work for you kids?"

"It's just a school play, Mom."

"I told you that it was too much trouble last time. Didn't you listen to me? Of course not. You never listen!"

I threw my napkin on the table. "That's why I didn't tell you! I knew you'd say no. You never let me do anything. Why do I even bother asking you – you always say no."

"Don't raise your voice to me, young lady. I'm the adult here."

"It's not like you'd come to my play anyway. You never come to my concerts last year, or my performances. You didn't even come to the last play."

"I work. I'm always working."

"You... don't... care!" I screamed. It was that horrid, primal, uncivilized scream that had first touched my lips when I lost my identity. I hated her. I hated myself. Instead of behaving primly and with dignity, the way my heroine in _Rose in Bloom_ might have, I was behaving like an animal.

I ran out to my sanctuary in the barn. I flung myself into the sheep-pen, nestled in the hay, and let the tears sting at my eyes. I waited for my sobs to turn into a full-fledge wail, but they quieted themselves and refused to be expressed. The unshed tears only added to my frustration.

I dug in the hay and found my survival kit. I always kept a complete survival kit for the day when I was brave enough to finally run away from home. It had needles and thread to mend my clothes, a pup tent, a mess kit with some trail mix and dehydrated foods that I restocked every three months, a change of clothing including underwear and socks, a first aid kit, a flashlight, a mirror, a whistle, duct tape, an aluminum blanket, and a whole bunch of other necessities. I was so good at packing it that it all fit into a miniature duffle bag that was a quarter the size of my backpack. It was compact but thorough. Just the way I liked it.

I considered my options. Where would I run? Our property was thick with woods, and I knew where patches of berries were. They were going to be out of season so late in September, but I had drunk pine needle tea and eaten cattail roots before. I did not know if I could sustain myself, since winter was closing in soon, but I wanted to give it a try. Still, twenty acres is pretty small, and I would probably be found within a matter of hours, no matter how hard I tried to hide.

And then the old argument came back, that if I got caught as a runaway, I could be put in a foster home, which would probably be worse than my own home. I knew it was possible. It would be hard to be worse than my own home, but there was still the definite possibility!

Today would not be the day to put my survival kit to use. I stuffed it deep into the hay for another time of desperation. It was better to wait. Maybe when spring came, and edible plants started to bloom again. I would wait.

September in Minnesota can be pretty chilly sometimes, but my hay kept me warm. The sheep were pretty cuddly, too. The goats didn't offer any comfort, but their mere presence was soothing.

I told them all about my situation – my hopes, dreams, afflictions, and disappointments. Their liquid brown eyes seemed to be sympathetic from time to time. I talked myself out. I knew my throat would be raw in the morning. At least tomorrow was Saturday, and I would have the whole weekend to heal before singing in choir again.

I retreated into silence, organizing my thoughts as best I could so I could pinpoint the source of my tensions with Mom. She never let me do anything I wanted to do. Part of it was our finances – we never could afford tap dance lessons or art lessons, or uniforms or instruments. Our pleasures had to come from the freebies people threw at us. But part of it – the larger part – stemmed from her thirst for control. Of that I was convinced. Her archaic rules were designed to force us into submission. I wasn't allowed to date or wear makeup until I was sixteen – but I had turned sixteen months ago and I still wasn't allowed to date or wear makeup. I couldn't listen to any lyrical music, because somehow she always found fault with all the words, which were rebellious in one way or the other. I couldn't watch anything other than Disney movies because they were too violent or too sexual. In a word, I was repressed. Life in my house was nothing less than a dictatorship.

Fuming, I made mental notes for my List: When I grow up, I will only say 'no' to the things that are important. If my child wants to pierce their nose or dye their hair, I will let them. If they want to smoke, drink, or do drugs, I will say no. No's are important and should only be reserved for bad things. Even if what they want is inconvenient, I will find a way to let them do it, if it is beneficial and won't hurt anyone.

My solace was interrupted by a kick on the thin wooden door. The doorknob turned but I had bolted the lock from the inside. Plus I had put the wooden slab into place – a sort of double precaution against intruders. This intruder, however, refused to heed the silent warning, and continued rattling the knob.

"What do you want?" I called, hoping my voice sounded authoritative and no-nonsense.

"Let me in!"

It was Matt. He may have been my favorite brother, but I was in no mood to share my solitude with anyone right then. "What's the password?"

The doorknob stopped rattling. "What password?"

"You can't come in unless you guess." He would never, ever guess. Never. I was so clever!

"That's ridiculous. Just let me in."

"Password?"

"Come on, Beverly! It's cold out here. I thought you were lonely, maybe you wanted some company."

"I'm not lonely. Go away."

"See, that's your problem. You don't even know you're lonely." He must have pressed his eye against the little hole in the door, because the lone ray of sunshine was suddenly blotted out. It was restored when he backed away. "Let me ask you a question. Do you talk to the animals?"

I stroked the sheep's fur. "Of course. Everyone talks to animals."

"Do they talk back?"

"That's a stupid question!"

"Do they talk back?"

"Of course not!"

"So you're not crazy, just lonely. Look, get yourself a few friends. Gossip once in a while. Talking to human beings won't hurt you." He jiggled the doorknob again. "Please? Let me in?"

"Not tonight, Matt. You understand."

He kicked the door. "Fine. Be like that. At least tell me what the password is for next time."

I giggled. "You'll never remember it."

"Sure I will. I don't intend to stand out in the snow and give advice to you through a closed door ever again."

"You'll remember?"

"Try me."

I grinned. "It's pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis."

"What?"

I repeated it, proud of myself for having memorized the longest word in the English language. I could hear disbelief in his voice.

"What the heck sort of password is that?"

"It's a lung disease caused by volcanic ash or similar fine ash. Go away. I'm happy being alone."

"Get some friends," he muttered. He gave the door one final kick before leaving.

I don't know how long I was out there, but I knew it was late. The sun had long since set. I would have spent the entire night cuddled in my hay bale if Roger hadn't shown up. I couldn't send him away for not knowing the password – it was his barn, technically, and his paychecks that paid for my sanctuary. But I let him in and retreated back to my hay bales.

"Hey," he said quietly.

It was rude to ignore an adult. "Hey," I replied. But I turned my face away so he would know I didn't feel like talking.

He entered the sheep pen and shut the door behind him. "So."

He was quiet for so long that I couldn't resist looking at him. "So what?"

"Well, I've been talking to your mother. She's not evil, you know."

"I never said she was."

"You were thinking it, though."

Was he psychic? I narrowed my eyes at him.

"I was your age once, too," he grinned. "I think all teenagers go through the same things."

"Mom forgets what it was like."

"Yeah. Your mom's kind of preoccupied. She works hard."

"So hard that she doesn't pay attention to us. It's been months since I sat down and actually talked to her, you know?"

"Hmm." He twiddled a piece of hay, poking a sheep with it. The sheep, who was curled up next to my body, merely twitched an ear and continued to sleep. "So, are you a good actress?"

"No," I replied honestly, "but I really want to be in the play. And they wouldn't have given me that part if they didn't think I could do it."

"I told that to your mother."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "You did?"

"Sure. She's not upset that you got the part. She's upset because you didn't tell her you wanted to audition."

"You heard her say it herself. She would have said no anyway."

"You're missing the point, Beverly."

I studied the cobwebs. I didn't really want a lecture, especially from a substitute parent, a fake. "So where's Mom? Why didn't she come out to talk to me?"

"She doesn't know what to say. She's never raised teenagers before, and you're a mystery to her."

I scowled. "That's really stupid. Nobody's raised teenagers before, but the other mothers seem to be doing just fine."

"You scare her, though. She sees a lot of herself in you."

"I hope not. I don't want to be anything like her."

"You should give her a chance. Neither of you get along well with people, especially with each other. One of you has to bend."

"She's the adult! Let her be the role model!"

"Are you going to pout all night?"

"Maybe."

He smiled at me. "Honesty is so refreshing."

I had to chuckle at the sarcastic way he said that. He really was nicer than I gave him credit for. I hoped he would stick around for a few years.

"Look, Beverly, she didn't want me to tell you this, but one of the reasons she's so upset is because she thought you'd be home in the evenings. We were counting on you."

"What for? There's nothing to do."

A mischievous smile covered his face. "Well, she was planning on getting a horse."

I sat up so quickly it woke up the sheep, who bleated in protest. "A horse!"

"She's been searching through the newspapers. She has a couple lined up but she hasn't decided yet."

"She didn't tell me!"

"You didn't ask," he said, throwing my own words back at me. "You two really need to work on that communication barrier. It only gets worse as time goes by."

I evaded his point. "What kind of a horse?"

"Arabian, maybe. Probably a gelding. I guess it doesn't matter, since you'll be at school working on your play."

My brow wrinkled. "You mean..."

"I talked your mom into letting you do the play. I told you she wasn't evil."

I didn't know what to say. She had given me permission, but at what price? "Don't worry, I can do both things. Really I can. The play is only for six weeks. We can get the horse, and I'll exercise him and groom him and take good care of him. I have plenty of time – see? Like right now. I take care of the other animals anyway. What's one more?"

"A horse is a lot of work. More than any of the other animals combined."

"I know that. I've been dreaming about it for years. It's part of the fun."

He nodded. "You both like horses. She said you did."

"So I can do it? The play and the horse?"

"Why not? It could be a while before she decides which horse she wants."

Why not, indeed! My terrible day had just gotten much better! He walked me back to the farmhouse. By the time we reached the porch, I was even able to manage a smile for my mother. I could tell she was embarrassed about her reactions but didn't know how to make it right.

I'll be the first to bend, I thought. It was the noble thing to do. Plus, we were getting a horse. I could have given her a hug right then... if she had asked for one.

Chapter 10: Gallant Rose

Statistic: The average parent only spends six minutes per day in meaningful conversation with their children.

October kept me busy. Although I auditioned for Chamber Singers, despite my dislike for Naomi Bell, I didn't get a position because I couldn't read music. Naomi was thrilled and squashed me at every opportunity during choir. But it got easier to ignore her because I was busy with drama rehearsals after school, and juggling during lunch hour. I mastered the clubs pretty quick, and the rings too. So I turned my attention to doing my beanbag tricks with the clubs, which were much more difficult.

Not long after the talk with Roger, I overheard Mom say that they couldn't afford a horse. She decided it would be best to wait until next summer.

"Next summer?" I told Matt. "We'll be lucky if we're in the same house next summer. I'll never get a horse at this rate!"

"What about your seven hundred dollars? Or is it up to eight hundred now?"

"Nah, I haven't done any babysitting for a long time. And that summer job was only temporary. Although, they might hire me back next summer... You think she would take it?"

"It's your horse," he shrugged. "If you pay for it, she can't say no."

"The timing is perfect, too," I said. "We have the barn, the property, the other animals... and Roger."

Matt flinched when I mentioned Roger's name.

I noticed it. "What's wrong? You've got that look."

"I don't like him. I mean, he's nice and all, but he's really starting to get on my nerves. He keeps trying to be our dad."

"I think it's nice. The others didn't try very hard at all."

"Yeah, but we're sixteen. It's fine for Peter and Becky, 'cuz they're younger, but I'm too old for a father."

"I know what you mean. I hate it when he tries to get authoritative on me, but it's no big deal."

"You're just saying that because he sings with you. He's got you wrapped around his little finger."

"Does not."

"Does too."

"You don't like him because he won't take you hunting."

"I don't need a father," Matt huffed. He got angry all of a sudden, and left me in the barn alone.

He always had a temper, but it seemed to be growing lately. I knew that school bothered him, but I also knew it went deeper than that. Matt had been through too many marriages. He was resisting Roger as an authority figure, because Roger would probably be gone in a year or two anyway. Being a girl, I wasn't as violently inclined as he was, but I understood his behavior.

Mom didn't. She didn't even bother to talk to him about it. She just saw it as challenge after challenge, and doled out punishment freely. He was grounded for the slightest infraction. He didn't need punishment, he needed a listening ear – but Mom never had the time. And Matt didn't want to invest in Roger's time.

I ran upstairs for my money, which I kept in a sock underneath my mattress. A dirty sock, too, in case anybody even thought about investigating.

It was gone!

I reached my hand further, but it wasn't in its usual place. I tore off the sheets and pushed the mattress onto the floor. I even got on my knees and rummaged underneath the bed itself.

Gone.

It was gone.

Erika had stolen it!

I was sure of that. She was the only other person who knew about my secret money, aside from Matt. And he never would've stolen it. I felt absolutely sick. Erika was at her mother's for the weekend, giving her plenty of time to either spend or hide my money. I'd never be able to prove it – or to get it back.

I slumped to the floor and cradled my face in my hands. I would never get my horse, now. My last hopes had been torn away from me. Just like my name.

I heard the familiar putt-putt of Erika's 'new' car pulling down the driveway, the junker her mom gave her a few weeks ago so she wouldn't have to ride the bus.

My head shot up. She was coming home? What for?

Through the window, I could see her car come to a stop. Margaret got out and walked toward the car. I dashed down the staircase and out to the driveway.

"Erika! Have you seen an envelope full of money lying on my bedroom floor?" I gasped, running up to the driver's side window.

She screwed up her face. "No."

"But... you're the only one who could have seen it. It's gone."

"How much was in there?"

As if she didn't know! "A couple hundred dollars."

"Haven't seen it."

I stared at her, trying to tell if she was lying to me. If she was, she was very good at lying. "Are you sure?"

"Are you accusing me of stealing your money?"

"I... no! It's just that it's missing, and I need it today!"

"I'm not a thief." She rolled up her window and locked the door, as if I would physically search her car.

Margaret returned carrying some outfits. "I got 'em." She slid into the car, ghostlike, and quietly pulled the door shut.

I stepped back as Erika sped away, screeching her tires at me.

What now? What on earth was I going to do without my money? I kicked a pebble.

"Beverly, I need you to go into town for some groceries," shouted Mom from the porch. She held out her list, some cash, and the car keys. "Be back by lunchtime. I need those ingredients."

I stomped over to her and snatched the list from her hand without saying a word. Maybe a drive would do me some good.

"Can I come?" asked Becky.

"No. Go away." I brushed past her, almost knocking her down.

Mom saw it and yelled at me. "Beverly! That's no way to treat your sister."

"Sorry," I shouted back. I was, sort of.

Usually I loved shopping for groceries. It gave me a chance to pretend that I was running my own house. Today's list was pretty standard, except that it included sugar cubes, carrots, and apples. It reminded me of horse food, and my throat began to squeeze again. Shopping wasn't any fun today.

After an hour I returned home. Mom greeted me at the door and took the bags from me. "Help me unpack?"

I stuffed the boxes carelessly into the cupboard. Mom was being very chatty. It was too bad that I wasn't in a listening mood. When we were done, I started upstairs to go read a book.

She stopped me. "Have you done your chores today?"

"Yes ma'am."

"What about the stalls? Have you cleaned them out lately?"

"I did it last week."

"You should do it every week. Go clean the stalls."

"Mom! I can do it later. I wanted to read now."

"You can read later."

Arguing would probably get me grounded, so I changed direction and tramped out to the barn.

If you've never had a dream come true, you can't understand the emotions that coursed through every fiber of my being when I opened the door.

There, in the horse stalls beside the sheep pen, were two horses! Not one, but two!

I let out a high-pitched squeak of complete euphoria. "No way! No possible way!"

The dappled white one, a mix of some sort, was about sixteen hands high. He was much bigger in real life than I had imagined. I approached him first, since he had his nose over the gate.

Babbling incoherent sweet nothings, like "Who's my pretty horse" and "Look at you, you darling baby, you," I reached out and touched his nose. He did not pull away. I blew a breath into his nostril so he could get used to my scent.

That attracted the attention of the little black filly. I knew right away that she was a purebred Arabian, and I wondered how we could have afforded her. "What's your name?" I said, scratching her ear.

"That one's Gallant Rose."

I swiveled my head to see who had answered. It was my mother, who stood in the door frame with a shy, pleased smile on her face.

"I got her from a breeder who raises Arabians for show. Her father's a champion." She walked toward me. "See her top line? It should be perfectly straight. She dips a little too much. She'll never be able to show or breed."

"What about halter shows? Obedience doesn't depend on looks."

"Well, she's yours, so you decide. You can't ride her until she's two, and that's not until August, and we'll have to break her, but..."

I attacked her with a huge hug. She stood stiffly for a second or two – it had been a very long time since we had hugged – but she did eventually pat my pack awkwardly.

I thanked her and thanked her and thanked her again. She nodded, trying to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal.

"I found your savings fund a few days ago when I gathered your sheets for laundry," she explained, "and I knew right away what the money was for. I hope you don't mind that I used it."

I giggled. "For a horse, you can raid my hoarding fund any day!"

Suddenly we both grew quiet. We were still hugging each other. We broke away clumsily and turned our attention to the horses.

"That one's Charlie. I couldn't think of a better name for him. He's half-Arab, one quarter Thoroughbred, and nobody knows what else... We'll be riding him until your filly gets old enough."

I liked the way Mom said 'your filly.' I patted Gallant Rose with maternal pride. I could just imagine myself riding her now. After all, I only weighed one hundred and eighteen pounds. She looked sturdy enough to handle my weight... No, better not rush her. I had all the time in the world.

The next two hours were the best hours I ever spent with my mother. She showed me how to currycomb my new filly while she brushed Charlie. We picked their hooves and led them up and down the driveway. I learned how to saddle and bridle Charlie without making him fight me, and then we went for a ride. Mom steered, of course, while I hung on to her waist. Charlie had a really uncomfortable trot, but I didn't complain at all!

The best part about the horses was the fact that I was sharing them with my mother. Mom was always too busy before, so it was a unique experience to find myself telling her about school – about how the other kids picked on me because my clothes were old and unfashionable, how much choir meant to me and how hurt I was when Naomi ridiculed my voice, and about the friends I was making after school at rehearsals.

"You are coming to the play, right? It's in four weeks."

"Of course I'm coming." A slight edge returned to her voice. "Why wouldn't you think I'm coming?"

I started to remind her that she never came to any of my events, but we were having such a good time, I didn't want to spoil it. "I knew you'd say yes," I lied.

She relaxed instantly.

I was astonished at the effect my new attitude had on her! Right then and there, I decided to start being less quarrelsome and paranoid – an attitude that had been building over the past several months - and it paid off. I don't remember everything we talked about, but we covered more material in those two hours than we had in the past year. I found out that she had been a barrel rider when she was my age, and she had won many awards. Her own home life had been agonizing; her own mother never hugged her or said she was proud of her, and so she avoided being home as much as possible.

Sounds like us, I realized.

She told me that an older couple named John and Beverly had hired her to take care of their horses, and John had become a father figure to her, teaching her to barrel ride. Beverly was the surrogate mother, giving advice and encouragement. She made such an impact on my mom that I was named after her for remembrance.

I always hated the name Beverly; it was an old lady's name. But now, after Mom shared how special her Beverly had been to her, I decided it wasn't such an ugly name after all. Maybe not as pretty as Margaret, who was the oldest sister in _Little Women_ , but it was noble and dignified in its own way.

I wanted to ask Mom why she hadn't changed her mother's habits when she had us. It seemed so easy. If Grandma never hugged Mom, then Mom should have hugged us kids instead of passing along bad parenting strategies. I held my tongue, though, knowing that it would sound accusing instead of curious.

Reminiscing seemed to have a nostalgic effect on my mother. As we returned to the paddock, she began to talk about her father. He was her idol and her hero, but he never acknowledged her presence. She had always tried to please him but never seemed to succeed. She had gotten married and moved away, never to see him again until the week before he died. He knew he was dying, which is why he had called her home.

It was the first and only time he ever told her he loved her.

Matt and I were perhaps eight years old at the time, and I remember that my mother cried all the way home. He had never told her he loved her before, and he died a week later.

I felt injusticed somehow. It seemed to be the same story I had, except that Mom wasn't dying. She just never told me how she felt. I always believed that she was disappointed or ashamed of me, because she never told me otherwise.

I couldn't restrain my self any longer. "Didn't you have a List?"

"What kind of a list?"

"You know. A list of good and bad things you wanted to change about yourself when you grew up and became a mother and a wife."

"Why should I have had a list?" Although she was facing forward, I knew from her tone she was frowning at the question.

"Well, I have one. I thought everyone did."

She was silent. Too silent. Then, in a low, sad voice, she said, "You keep a list of all my mistakes so you don't make them when you grow up?"

I had never thought of the List that way before, but that was a good description. I didn't answer her.

Sometimes not answering is an answer enough.

Her shoulders slumped. She pulled Charlie to a stop and dismounted, leaving me up on him alone. She flipped the reins over his head, and led him the rest of the way.

I unsaddled him while she watched, but our conversation was terminated. I felt terrible. I meant to share something intimate with her, and ended up insulting her. And it had been such a pleasant time.

Why did everything always go sour?

Chapter 11: The Fall Play

Statistic: Mothers with custody typically are more depressed, less supportive, and have decreased parental authority within the first two years after divorce.

Singing with Roger before bedtime soon became a routine. I even taught him one of my choir songs. He found out that I was interested in sign language, and he took the time to teach me the signs to that song. One day, I found myself unconsciously performing the movements while we were singing.

"What on earth are you doing?" snapped Naomi. "You look ridiculous."

She had not bothered to keep her voice down, and she drew Mrs. Crofton's attention. "What were you doing, Beverly?"

"Sign language," I replied, kicking myself for being so careless.

She looked confused for a minute, as if considering some strange idea, and then her face burst into an unexpected smile. "That's what the song was missing! It's about unity, isn't it? What better way to include everybody in music – deaf people alike – than to sign! Come down here and teach us. We're going to do it in the performance."

I balked in disbelief. Stand in front of the entire class and teach them to sign? She must be kidding!

Naomi rolled her eyes and glared at me. "Like deaf people go to music concerts," she muttered.

I had no choice. Mrs. Crofton thought it was a great idea, and she loved to try new things. I shuffled to the front of the classroom and tried to hide behind the piano.

"Stand a little bit more up front. You'll be leading this when we do it," Mrs. Crofton instructed. She struck a chord, raised her hand, and said, "Go."

As my peers sang, I signed along. I felt humiliated, and yet strangely in control. It was obviously something that Mrs. Crofton wanted everyone to know, and I was the one who would have to teach it. After I had done it full speed to the music, Mrs. Crofton had everyone sit down and watch me.

"Well, the first sign is the word 'hand' which you do like this." I demonstrated. "Hand in hand we stand... all across the land..." Dozens of eyes were upon me, but not in their usual condescending manner. This time, they were watching me to learn. Naomi's eyes, of course, were distant and cold. She only did the motions because it would have been an obvious absence if she refused. But the others seemed to really like it.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Crofton let me return to my place, and we sang a few more songs. But I was to work with the class for a few minutes each day until the concert, so that we could all do it simultaneously.

"And don't forget our theme," she said just before the bell rang. "Girls, if you don't have a prom dress from last year, you need to buy or rent one. They're usually around seventy-five dollars or so. Guys, be sure your tuxedos have cummerbunds. See you tomorrow."

Prom dress? Mom never let me go to dances, much less to prom! And the only dress I owned was a church dress. A few skirts, a pair of slacks – but nothing that resembled prom wear. As for renting, I had just spent all my money on my horse. According to my mother, money didn't grow on trees, which meant that when it was gone, it was gone. Renting a dress would be expensive – and probably impossible.

However, Mom and I seemed to be on good terms lately. I mentioned it to her when she got home. I guess I forgot that life has a way of balancing itself out – if things are going well in one area, they're certain to bomb in another.

"I need to rent a prom dress for choir. It's for the concert. I have three weeks to find one."

"Okay. That's fine."

"It's expensive – maybe sixty bucks or more."

"We don't have the money."

"It's not an option. This is for my grade. Mrs. Crofton said I can't sing if I don't have a dress."

"So Mrs. Crofton can pay for your rental. The school shouldn't make people pay money for their own grade. That's wrong."

The argument was going exactly as I imagined it, so I knew it was hopeless. I tried one last shot. "Well, can I borrow the money, at least? I can get some babysitting jobs and pay you back."

"If I had the money, I'd give it to you," she sighed. She began to rub her temples, a sure sign that she was in for a bad migraine. It was never a good time to talk to her when she had one of her headaches. "I'm starting to think that blowing our money on those horses was a bad idea. Maybe we can sell them. We haven't had them for very long..."

"No! That's not necessary," I said hastily. "I'll find some way. Somebody has to have an old one they'll loan me."

"I'm going to get an aspirin," Mom said.

I didn't know if she heard me or not, or if she was serious about selling my horses, or what she was thinking. Probably she would forget all about the dress anyway.

I called everyone I could think of. Sometimes, not having any friends is a bad thing, especially when it comes to borrowing clothes. Nobody would loan me theirs. I knew Naomi might – we were the same size, after all – but the idea of asking her for anything made me nauseous.

I also tried to get some babysitting jobs so I could earn the money myself, but each time I obtained one, Mom refused to give me a ride into town or pick me up when I was done. I could have driven myself, except that she also refused to lend the car to me. It was a vicious, never-ending circle. No money meant no dress, and no dress meant I could not sing. Mrs. Crofton was very clear about that. Last year, one of the girls showed up before the concert without their poodle skirt costume (it had been a 50's theme) and wasn't allowed to sing. She got an F for the performance. I didn't want to risk flunking, just because I couldn't find a stupid prom dress!

The next day, at play rehearsal, the director noticed that I was not my usual self.

"What's up? You look depressed."

"Yeah. I'm supposed to have a fancy dress for the concert, and I can't afford one." I clamped my mouth shut. Did I just say that? Did I just admit my poverty? What was I thinking?

"Did you check the costume room? I'm sure there are plenty back there. Just be sure to sign it out if you take one. Hey, are you okay? What's wrong?"

I swallowed to keep that old lump from constricting my throat. "I... just didn't expect it to be so easy..."

She smiled. "Don't tell the other kids. I'd hate them to think they can just take costumes like that. But I know you're responsible. You've worked hard at this play. I trust you."

I grinned back at her. "I'll return it as soon as I'm done. Thanks."

"Break a leg, kid!"

That was her famous slogan – "Break a leg, kid." You could hear it halfway down the hall if you listened hard enough. With the burden of the dress off my shoulders, I could focus on drama rehearsal once again.

The two weeks to opening night passed quickly. I took a couple tests, wrote a few stories, and spent countless hours with my horse. I think Gallant Rose knew my lines as well as I did. I practiced them often enough in front of her.

Finally, it came. Opening Night, that glorious culmination of six week's daily painstaking rehearsals. The adrenaline levels were high in all of us.

As the audience filtered in and took their seats, I watched them from the curtained wings to see if Mom had arrived yet. The play began at seven o'clock, and I hadn't yet gone home. I had stayed after school, doing my pancake makeup and one final run-through. I didn't think she could have forgotten it, though – I talked about little else for the past six weeks. At breakfast she even talked about coming tonight – so I knew she couldn't have forgotten.

I didn't see her. That didn't mean she wasn't coming, though, so I withdrew from my hiding spot and took my place on stage.

The spotlight felt like a wall of white. I could feel the crowd beyond it, but I could not see past the wall. The music began, we did the first act, and then I darted out to the wing again while the second act began.

She still wasn't there! It wasn't a terribly large auditorium. I could see every seat, except for the balcony. Maybe she's up there, I told myself encouragingly, but I knew it wasn't true. She hadn't come. Something more important than I had stolen her attention yet again.

I wasn't ready to admit defeat, though, and I continued to search. With a sudden shock, I heard one of the other actors say his line – twice – and I knew I had missed my cue. I rushed onto stage, angry with myself for being so careless, and picked up where he left off. He was good at covering for me, and the scene continued without any further problems.

When I finished that scene, I rushed back to my wing to scold myself. I wasn't the only one. The director was waiting for me.

"What happened? Did you go blank?"

"No. I was just looking for my mother. I don't think she came."

Her tone changed from abrupt to sympathetic. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. Sometimes that happens. You just have to be sure to keep your mind focused on your job right now, though. You can feel angry at her later, okay?"

I nodded.

"I see it all the time," she continued. "Opening Night is just one night. She has other chances. I'm sure something important kept her away."

"Yeah, okay," I said, glancing around nervously.

She must have thought I didn't believe her, because she kept trying to make me feel better. It wasn't that – I had to get onto stage again, but it was rude to interrupt an adult.

The sudden silence onstage must have reminded her that I was not finished yet. She gasped in realization, and I darted out to join the others. They glared at me strangely, wondering what my problem was tonight, but were professional enough to wait until intermission.

The curtain fell, and I slinked away to a curtain-covered corner to nurse my wounds. Twice I had missed my cues, embarrassing the other actors, and it was all my mother's fault! I slumped to the floor and held my forehead in my hands.

I would have stayed there, feeling sorry for myself, if it had not been for Luke, one of the minor actors, and a tenor from A Cappella. He was a year older than me, with dark hair to match his brown eyes. He was also my dancing partner for the upcoming concert.

"What happened to you out there?"

"My mom isn't coming," I mumbled.

"Mine never comes. I don't let it get me down, though."

"Well, mine promised she'd come. She always forgets."

"You can't stay out here forever. We have five minutes to get you back to being your perky, bouncy self. The audience deserves it. They came to see a gracefully inept ballerina, and they're gonna get her, by golly."

I looked up into his face. "Stop trying to cheer me up. It won't work. I missed two cues."

"So what? Come here. Let me show you something."

He grabbed my hands and hauled me to my feet, and then began jumping up and down like an insane grasshopper.

"What are you doing," I said flatly, staring at him.

"Come on, you gotta try this. It'll make you feel better."

"I'm not bouncing around like an idiot."

"Just try it! It's fun!"

It didn't seem like he would be stopping his ridiculous hopping any time soon, so I thought, The sooner I join him, the sooner he'll stop.

I hopped, slowly at first, but then higher and quicker. He set the pace. After a few seconds, he stopped jumping. "You look ridiculous," he laughed.

I couldn't resist. I laughed at myself – for looking ridiculous, and for missing two cues.

"Feel better?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Luke."

He did his best director-imitation. "Break a leg, kid!"

I did just that. Not literally, of course, but I finished the play with more energy than I had ever given it before.

Mom did show up – at ten o'clock, an hour after the play was done. I sat outside the school, feeding myself self-pity and anger in order to keep my blood circulating against the frigid November evening.

"What happened tonight?" I asked through clenched teeth, slamming the door shut with way too much force.

Mom shrugged. "I have a headache. Keep the noise down."

"I thought you said you were coming to my play."

"There are other nights. I haven't missed it yet."

"But tonight was special. It's Opening Night. You could have at least sent a rose or a card or something."

"We can't afford that sort of thing. Roses die anyway."

"We can afford a four-dollar ticket, though, right? Tell me you at least bought a ticket."

She turned the windshield wipers on to dust away the falling snowflakes.

"Mom, I can get you a free ticket – a Parent's Pass. You can come see me for free if we don't have the money."

"We can afford a four-dollar ticket," she snapped. "We're not that poor."

"So you'll be there tomorrow?"

"We'll see. You should be thankful that I let you do this in the first place."

I stared out the window at the swirling snowflakes. They were beautiful against the black night. It was cozy and warm in the car. I tried to focus on the applause we had received. It was a nice sound. It had even gone up in volume as I took my bow, signaling the audience's pleasure with my role. I had done well. I wanted Mom to know that – for herself.

Tomorrow came, and the day after that, and our final three performances. She missed them all. And she didn't even apologize.

Chapter 12: The Concert

Statistic: Children whose parents divorced in their childhood or adolescence are likely to be afflicted with emotional problems such as depression or anxiety well into their twenties or early thirties.

Whatever boost to our relationship I got from our time in the barn together was quickly shattered after Mom's failure to attend my plays. I was more convinced than ever that I was nothing but a burden to her, and that she was ashamed of me. I was glad that I didn't have to trouble her with the prom dress. I just wondered if she would come to my concert.

The concert was on Thursday, so during my lunch hour that day I went to the costume room instead of juggling as usual. Two days before, I carefully perused the costume rack for something suitable. There were very few acceptable prom dresses, as most of the costumes were old and donated. I could not afford to be choosy, though, and the gown I ended up with was a hideous shade of yellow. At least it was my size, and it would stay up when I danced around.

I entered the costume room and flipped on the light. That's odd, I thought, I know I left it in that corner. I approached the rack but did not see it anywhere. Frantic, I checked the other racks. I found it – on the "To Be Dry Cleaned" rack.

I pulled it off – and immediately recoiled in horror. It was covered with pancake makeup. Somehow, somebody must have bumped into the makeup table and knocked a big poof of beige powder onto it.

I tried desperately to wipe the stains away, but the fabric seemed to absorb more the harder I tried. It was useless. There was nothing I could do. My dress was ruined.

There was no time to call the garment rental place to reserve a gown, and even if they had one, I had no money and knew that Mom would not be able to help me. Mrs. Crofton had made it clear that she, too, was unable to help any student, and that acquiring the proper clothing had been our responsibility, not hers.

Dejected, I stumbled blindly out into the auditorium to nurse my wounds. Usually it was empty. The only way to get in was if you had a key, which I did because I was claiming my dress. However, someone else had a key, too – Erika, who was making out heavily with her boyfriend in the first row.

She scowled at me when she saw me there. "How did you get in?"

I held up my key. I could have asked her the same thing, but I didn't care. I was too miserable.

She sat up, buttoning her shirt. Her boyfriend pulled away from her. They both noticed my wretched face. "What's wrong?"

I burst into tears. It was amazing. Whenever I had tried to cry before, the tears would not come; and now, in front of Erika and her boyfriend – both practical strangers - I couldn't stop.

The intensity must have alarmed Erika, because she got up right away and climbed onto the stage, where I crumpled.

Through salty bitterness, I managed to explain the situation, how I could not afford a dress and the only one I had been able to acquire was now destroyed. Worse, I blurted everything to her – Naomi, missing my cues, how Mom always skipped all my events, how lonely I was in school, how Darcy avoided me in the halls – and how that was embarrassing since she was even more unpopular than I was... everything. I mean everything, all the way back to second grade when someone spit their first spitball at me because I had freckles and stringy red hair.

It was ridiculous, all the petty things I shared with her. Somehow, once the dam broke, it could not be plugged. It was a good twenty minutes before I was able to gain control of myself. I was lucky that I had an entire lunch hour, because I never would have been able to return to class in that condition. I was so embarrassed when I was done that I almost started to cry again, but Erika was surprisingly mature and sympathetic. Just having her listen was an amazing balm of its own.

When my sobs had subsided, Erika pulled out a tissue from her pentagram purse. "Wipe your face."

I don't know when he left, but Erika's boyfriend had tactfully taken his leave and allowed me to expose my soul to her in complete privacy. I felt guilty for chasing him away.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you guys," I sniffled.

"We have a key. It's the Senior Key, that gets passed down to the next class when we graduate. You can't tell anybody about it, though, but I'll make sure you get it when your turn comes."

"I'm sorry for behaving like a big baby."

"You had a good reason. It sounds like you had lots of them."

I almost started crying again. "And I'm sorry I accused you of stealing my envelope of money."

"Oh, please!" she laughed. "Quit apologizing! You're making me nervous."

I wiped away my tears and prayed that my red, swollen skin would return to normal before my next class.

"Stand up real quick," said Erika. "I want to see something." She studied me critically. She even had me turn around so she could see my hips and rear end. "I was about your size in ninth grade. I think I have a dress that might fit you. You don't have to worry – I'll bring it to you before your concert. You'll have plenty of time to change."

"You'll do that for me?"

"Sure. It's just sitting in my closet. My mom wanted to sell it at a garage sale, but I wouldn't let her. I'm glad I didn't."

Erika's boyfriend returned and whispered something into her ear.

"Right now?" she frowned.

The serious look on his face was enough to make her hurry off the stage. "I have to go. It's another emergency. Don't worry, though. I'll bring you a dress before the concert."

When she was gone, I lay down on the stage and spread eagle. Only one light was on, so the atmosphere was pleasantly dim. I wondered what the dress would look like. Erika and I had completely different skin tones. Hers was a golden olive color that matched nicely with her hazel eyes. Mine was slightly pinkish due to all my sunburns. Very few colors looked good on me except for brown and dark green. From what I had seen of her wardrobe, I would probably end up doing the concert in a black miniskirt with pentagrams and garish silver sparkles. At that point, it made no difference. A prom dress was a prom dress, and Mrs. Crofton couldn't flunk me for trying.

* * * * *

The only bright spot in my day was fifth period, when Mrs. Putnam announced that she was entering one of my stories into a Young Writer's contest.

It was a complete surprise to me. I had never thought about entering contests, and I certainly would never have done it on my own. Mrs. Putnam was a surprise to me, too. None of my teachers had ever taken my grade so personally before. I would have gotten an A in her class anyway, but she spent a good deal of extra time 'developing' my writing talents. She assigned me extra homework, like keeping a journal every night or having me describe the way a tree would react if a squirrel bit it. Bizarre little assignments like that. They were like chocolate to me – I couldn't get enough of them. When I wasn't juggling or riding Charlie, I was writing.

I haunted the school halls like a depressed spirit until five o'clock. I juggled for an hour or so but even that could not shake my fears that Erika had forgotten me. I had not told her where to meet me, or when the concert started. I stayed in front of the choir room, hoping she would look for me there.

Mrs. Crofton arrived promptly at six. "You're early. Did you leave your dress in the room?"

"No, it's on its way," I said with false confidence. "I'm just waiting for it."

She nodded and passed into her room.

Moments later, right before I grew really panicky, Erika sauntered toward me. She stopped several yards away. "Let's go to the bathroom," she called. "I've got everything set up in there."

Curious, I rose to my feet. What had she set up? I hoped that she didn't want me to wear her silver Pentagram earrings to match the devil dress, I wouldn't offend her by rejecting them. She was bailing me out of a desperate situation, after all.

"It wasn't in my closet, or I'd have been here sooner," she said once we were together. "Mom packed it away in a box. It took me a while to find it. What do you think? Here, step into it, like this."

It was gorgeous! It had black in it, yes, but only as trim. It was made of a vibrant royal purple material. The neck was cut deeply in a V, and the waist was tight and clung to the upper part of my derriere. Then the skirt flared out gracefully, stopping just above the ground.

The V-neck dipped low. I had never seen myself so plainly before. I covered my chest with my hands. "I can't wear this. It's immodest. Mom would kill me."

"It's charming. You have a nice figure. You shouldn't hide it behind those bulky sweaters you always wear." She had to forcefully tug my arms down so that she could adjust the gown properly. "Stop being such a prude. It's not immodest. Besides, this dress doesn't show half of what the other girls are gonna show tonight." She clucked her tongue. "Oh, man! I forgot to bring you shoes. Do you have any? Other than tennis shoes?"

Mercifully, I had a pair of black pumps. I knew everyone else would be wearing high heels, but I also knew that I would fall flat on my face if I even tried them.

I twisted around to catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, but Erika caught me. "Oh, no, you don't. We're not done yet."

My eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. Here came the Pentagram earrings.

"Sit down right there. Let's see, you look like an autumn. Let's try browns and greens, then..." Humming to herself, Erika rummaged through a huge makeup kit. I had never seen so much makeup. She had brushes, nail polish, nail files, eyeliner, mascara, and numerous lipsticks. She also had several magazines. She pulled out a magazine and handed to me. "Is there any particular style you see yourself in? Dark and sultry, or light and waiflike?"

I raised an eyebrow at the magazine. "I... uh... I'm not really good at makeup. You're probably better at it than me. You decide what to do." I flipped it open and saw a woman who could have doubled for a Hollywood prostitute. "On second thought, don't make it too dramatic. My mom still might come to this, you know."

She noticed my absorbed interest in the magazine. "You don't read these much, do you." It was more of a statement than a question, and she already knew the answer.

I chuckled. "Nope. I try not to. I mean, the women in here are so beautiful, and I'm so... Well... I always feel kind of inadequate after reading them. Look at this one. She's flawless – perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect taste in clothes, perfect figure..."

"Perfect airbrush job," muttered Erika. "They don't look like that in real life."

"But they make me feel like I should."

She tilted my chin toward the ceiling, so the light could strike my face at a better angle. "You have a different kind of beauty. Red hair and green eyes aren't that common, you know. And you have a nice figure. Slender but full." She fumbled in her bag and withdrew a dark brown eyeliner. "This should be good."

"I love being a redhead," I confessed, "but my eyes are so small. And I'm always pink. Nobody else is pink – they're nice and tan. I hate being pink. And I always feel fat."

"Everyone feels fat," she mumbled. Her hand flew to her own belly for a minute. She squeezed it subconsciously, then steadied my head. "Hold still. This may feel funny if you're not used to it."

It felt like she was taking a pin to the outside of my eyes. I tried hard to not blink. It was awkward to let her apply so much paint, but the gown was so lovely that I didn't dare dishonor it by having a naked face. I hoped she wouldn't paint too strongly - but if she did, I would be gracious about it. "I really appreciate this, Erika."

"Shh." She was the picture of absolute concentration as she switched to my other eye. When she was done, she withdrew a small compact and some face lotion. "You said you don't like being pink. That's what makeup is for – to cover up your bad features and to enhance the good ones. Your hair, lips, and eyes are good. Your skin needs some work." She smeared the lotion onto my face.

I was chagrined to realize that she was touching my zits, but I didn't stop her.

"When you go shopping next, I'll show you some good creams to clear up your acne. Um... nope... here we go..." She muttered as she rummaged through that huge makeup kit. "I didn't know I had a foundation so pale! I wonder where it came from..." She continued to talk to herself as she applied the pale foundation to my skin. It felt nothing like the pancake makeup I had worn in abundance for the play. This, combined with the lotion underneath, felt airy and almost nonexistent, and I could tell it was moisturizing my dry skin.

"Won't it cause more zits?"

"Nah. It's comodogenic. You really haven't ever done this before? Not even at slumber parties?"

"I never get invited to slumber parties."

She was quiet for several minutes. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she felt sorry for me. Her own mother probably taught her how to do her makeup when she was ten. Mine always threatened that I would look like a slut if I ever tried it.

I flinched when she smeared the eye shadow onto my lids with the hard little brush. She applied some blush and lined my lips with the same brown liner she had used for my eyes. Then she filled the outline with liquid lipstick, followed by some sort of a lip moisturizer.

"You seem like an expert," I joked.

"You could learn to do this, you know," she said presently. "It just takes practice. How long did it take you to learn to put your contacts in?"

"A few weeks," I groaned.

"And don't you like them better than wearing glasses? Makeup is much easier. Trust me. Tell you what. You look through that magazine while I do your hair. Do you want it up or down?"

"Whatever's easiest. I don't care, really. It never behaves anyway."

"You're hilarious. That's what hair spray and mousse are for."

She reached for my hair, but I grabbed her wrist. I looked up into her eyes, searching. "Erika, why are you being so nice to me?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm a nice person, you know. I don't have anything against you. It's just your mom that I hate." She grinned at me.

I smiled back. "Sometimes I feel that way, too," I muttered. "Divorce sucks."

"Yeah, it does. The worst part is, they don't seem to notice. They think it's all about them, you know?"

While she worked, she explained each item to me as if I were a little kid. It would have sounded condescending, except for my pitiful ignorance. I actually _needed_ her to explain the function of mousse to me.

At six-thirty she finally put her tools away. "Okay. What do you think?"

She gestured toward the mirror. I walked over with my eyes closed, and then opened them.

It wasn't me. The stranger in the mirror was elegant and sophisticated. It took a few seconds for me to adjust to the change. The first thing I noticed was my figure. The dress clung to my every curve. I was embarrassed, but at the same time very proud of my womanliness. My hair had been arranged in such a way that several loose, wispy strands framed my face, drawing attention to my eyes. They were the highlight of the whole makeover. My yellow eyelashes had been coated in auburn mascara, which made them even longer and fuller than before. Plus, the dark lashes fringed my eyes, which were not as small and beady as I thought. The choice of shadowing Erika had used made the emerald color more vibrant, and emphasized the orange and gold flecks that surrounded my pupils. Not to sound snobbish or anything, but I had no idea that my eyes could be so exquisite.

"Do I really look like that?" I gasped.

"Everyone can, with a little help. Keep that magazine. It has some great pointers."

"Oh, Erika! Thanks. You don't know what this means to me."

She hugged me, a compassionate, motherly hug. "I think I do. Good luck tonight."

She gathered her brushes, makeup, and sprays. "Oh! I forgot. One last thing." She tossed me a miniature sample of Champs Elysees, an expensive French perfume. "I picked that up at the mall. Every true lady has a signature scent. I thought that one was perfect for you." She lowered her voice. "You're supposed to put a dab every place you want to be kissed."

I smelled it, liked it, and dabbed my wrists and behind my ears. I wasn't ready to put it anywhere else.

She laughed at me. "That's a start, at least. Okay. Well. Good night."

"You're not staying for the concert?"

"I have a date with Jason." Her hand flew to her belly again. "We have some things to discuss."

"Thanks again. I really appreciate this."

We parted ways, she to her date and I to the choir room. Everyone was supposed to be there at six-twenty, so I was a few minutes late. Mrs. Crofton was busy reminding everyone of how she wanted us to lift our eyebrows, smile, and stand with good posture.

I tried to sneak in as unobtrusively as possible, and was relieved to notice that I wasn't the only late arrival. We were still missing two altos and a few tenors.

I took my place next to Naomi for some warm-ups.

"What did you do, rob a bank?" she smirked. "You can't possibly afford a dress like that. Even if you were on welfare."

I heard the jealousy in her voice. It made me confident enough to look at her, smile, and say, "Good luck tonight with your solo."

It was not the answer she had been expecting. She snickered at me and turned her attention to the warm-ups.

At six-fifty we lined up in the hallway to make our entrance onto the stage.

Mrs. Crofton paced back and forth. "Remember, gentlemen, stay on the right. Ladies, take their arms. Try to walk in unison if you can. Get onstage as quietly as possible and..."

Luke, dressed in a black tuxedo with a lavender cummerbund, offered his arm. "You look great," he said. "All the other guys are staring at you."

"No, they're not," I protested, but it was true. Actually, everyone had stared at me at one point during the last twenty minutes. My transformation had been complete and amazing. I felt like Cinderella. I just hoped I wouldn't blush or trip over anything!

He looked down at me. "I got lucky to have the prettiest girl in the whole choir as my partner."

I looked up into his brown eyes, which I noticed were staring at me in a way I'd never seen before. I felt it coming, but I was unable to control that darned blush. I had to break away from his gaze, so I smoothed away an imaginary wrinkle in my gown.

He was so close! And tall and handsome in his tuxedo. Still blushing, I sneaked a look at him again. He had combed and gelled his normally shaggy brown hair, though some curls still poked out in random wisps at the back of his neck. I noticed that his cummerbund matched my gown, and I marveled at our stroke of luck. It seemed like we belonged together.

I suspected that he had feelings for me. Ever since the night when I missed my two cues, he had taken deliberate steps to talk to me or stand near me in choir. He was a wonderful person, too – athletic, intelligent, musical... He had many of the qualities on my List.

The way he looked at me that night made me reconsider my List. Did I really want to wait until I was out of college to start dating? Was I going to stick to my resolution of observing and analyzing before developing a crush? Could love really be handled in such a scientific manner?

I didn't get a chance to dwell on my questions. It was time. We filed into the auditorium and took our places on stage. And then we began to sing.

We only sang a few songs before retreating to the back room to wait for the other choirs. The lesser choirs, as we called them. They were comprised of the students who had auditioned for A Cappella and failed, but still wanted to sing. They looked up to us, actually. It always made us feel slightly smug.

While they were singing, I haunted the curtained wings, searching the audience for my mother. There was nobody in the balcony, so she couldn't be up there – and since I didn't see her in the audience, it was safe to assume she hadn't come at all.

You're going to think I'm a certifiable loon when I tell you this, but I always play a sick, twisted little game with myself. I set myself up for failure. I know she won't show, and yet I talk myself into believing that she just might. And when it turns out that I'm right, then I hate myself for giving her the benefit of the doubt. Each event, year after year, I hope and am disappointed but always hope again. Tonight it occurred to me that I should grow up and learn to not expect anything from her.

I did see Roger, however, and wondered why he was there. His own Margaret was in the middle-school choir, but this was a high-school performance. Her performance was tomorrow. I wondered if he accidentally came to the wrong concert.

I stayed in my own little corner, trying hard to not move because the dress was so tight and I felt uncomfortable, especially when the breeze from the ventilation system tickled my exposed skin. Erika had been right, however, when she said that my dress was modest in comparison to some of the others.

Naomi and her little clique kept glancing my way. I knew they were talking about me, but I didn't care. She couldn't touch me tonight.

Luke decided to get chatty and struck up a conversation about the economic state in Morocco. It wasn't a subject I was fluent in, but he explained it so well that I told him he should become a professor someday.

Finally, our turn arrived again. We danced. We did our Christmas carols even though they were a few weeks early. Naomi even brought the audience to tears with her solo, she was so bad. Just kidding. She had a gorgeous voice. We all wondered why the record companies hadn't snatched her up yet, but nobody ever gets scouted in small towns in Minnesota.

Anyway, my song was the finale. I carefully stepped onto the podium beside Mrs. Crofton and began to lead my peers in the sign language movements we had learned. I was nervous, and I think I went too quickly, but nobody noticed. They were too involved in their own movements to worry about me. When it was over, I curtsied to the audience and accepted my applause like a pro before returning to my place.

It was over.

Mom had missed another milestone in my life.

At least Roger was there, so I could get a ride home immediately instead of having to wait for Mom to drive into town whenever it was convenient.

Parents and friends flooded the stage, congratulating my choir on a job well done. Many of them had roses for their daughters and compliments for their sons. I saw Roger make his way to the front as well. He tried to catch my attention, but I ignored him. Deliberately. Other parents told me what a nice job I had done with the sign language portion, but I did not want to talk to Roger.

When the crowd had dwindled to only a few adults, I stiffly approached Roger, who had taken the hint and sat down in a front row seat.

"Where's Mom?"

He stood. "She couldn't come, honey. She had a really bad migraine. She sent me in her place."

I could not control myself. I may have looked beautiful in my gown and makeup, but my heart was ugly. "You don't count! How could you possibly take her place? You're not my real parent." I knew my words sliced him, but I continued to rant and rave for several minutes before storming out to the car.

It was bitterly cold. Although the snow was not falling, the wind blew hard. I refused to put my coat on, hoping to catch pneumonia and die. It was easy to find our car, since the parking lot was now semi-deserted. I stood and waited for him to unlock the car.

I was surprised when he opened my door for me first. It was something a gentleman might have done. I was not used to receiving good manners, and I'm afraid I slammed the door before he could close it himself.

Part of me really wanted to show Mom how pretty I looked in Erika's evening gown, but I didn't feel that she deserved to share in something so special. I hurried up to the bathroom before Mom had a chance to ask how the concert went. I took one last, fond look at my made-up face, and then washed all the falseness away. I was still me – ugly, miserable, and ignored. Then I retreated to the safety of my bedroom.

I flipped on the light switch and kicked my pumps across the room. "Witch."

"Turn the light off," Erika groaned, rolling in her bed.

I hastily obliged. "I thought you had a date."

"It ended early. How was the concert?"

"She missed it." I didn't have to explain who 'she' was. Erika knew.

I carefully removed the elegant gown and hung it up on a hanger on the handle of Erika's dresser. I didn't bother to put my own clothes away. Nylons, underwear, shoes... they all stayed where I dropped them. I was too angry to be organized. It was too dark to have put them away anyhow. At least I knew where my nightgown was. I donned it and flung myself into bed.

When my head hit the pillow, it struck something hard. "What's this?" I muttered, flipping on my bedside lamp.

Erika rotated her head in my direction. "Open it."

It was a present of some sort, wrapped in shiny gold paper and sealed with a bow. I tore into it with eager fingers. It was a small, embroidered fabric bag with a zipper. I unzipped it. There was a mirror inside.

I frowned. "What is it?"

"It's a makeup bag."

"I don't have any makeup," I murmured, embarrassed.

"You will," she replied maturely. She smiled at me and rolled over again. "Turn the light off."

"Sorry."

"Good night."

"Erika?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for everything tonight. You've been just wonderful."

"Hmm."

"I mean it."

She yawned. "Okay already. Go to sleep. And, Beverly? Consider making some friends. If you only have one person who can disappoint you, she probably will. But if you have a network of friends, somebody will always be there for you." She turned her back to me, signaling that she was done for the night.

I swallowed hard to quell the rising lump in my throat. My mouth was dry, and my throat constricted so I could barely breathe. Erika's kindness was completely unexpected. I had targeted her as a bad person, someone who cared only for herself and caused as much trouble as possible. She was not only human, I discovered that night, but she was also a very wonderful person. I had misjudged her, wrongly and severely.

It wasn't fair. My mother should be the wonderful person, and she didn't have time for me. I tried to induce a sob – anything to purge the unpleasant emotions rising in my chest – but my body had cried enough for one day.

My last thought before falling asleep was one of desperation. If being in a play and leading a concert were not enough to attract my mother's attention, then nothing I did would ever get it. She must really be embarrassed of me if she felt it so necessary to keep her distance, to disassociate herself from me – to deny any connection to me.

I hated myself more than ever.

Chapter 13: Confrontations

Statistic: Children of divorce, especially boys, tend to be more aggressive than children whose parents stayed married.

I took Erika's advice to heart and set out on the unpleasant task of making friends. I felt like Mary Lennox from _The Secret Garden_ who was notorious for being antisocial. In the end of that book, however, she made several friends. Although my life was not as neatly arranged as a book, I wondered how my school year would end. In any case, if Mary Lennox could make friends, then certainly I could too.

The next day, I ran into Darcy in the hall. As usual, when our eyes connected, she looked down and tried to become invisible. I was already in a bad mood from the night before, and Darcy made me feel worse. She, the most unpopular girl in the entire school, was ignoring me! I was tired of it. I stopped her.

"Darcy, how's it going?"

The shock in her eyes made me think she was going to have a heart attack right then and there. She looked behind her, as if there were another Darcy in school. "I'm fine?" she replied, as if it were a question that had multiple answers and she had to choose the correct one.

I got straight to the point. There were only a few minutes between classes before the bell rang, and I didn't want to be late. "Why are you always avoiding me?"

"Avoiding you? I thought you were avoiding me!"

"That's crazy. What gave you that idea?"

She studied the tiles on the floor. "I don't know... everybody else does... and you seemed kind of... I don't know... put off by the fact that I have cancer..."

I remembered my sudden departure, that day in the bathroom, right after she showed me her stomach pack. "No, that's not it. I really truly had to catch the bus."

We stood there, uneasy, neither of us knowing what to say.

"Okay," she shrugged. "Bye."

"No, wait." I took a deep breath. "I'm lonely, and you seem lonely too. I don't really have any friends. You're in several of my classes... I wanted to invite you over for a slumber party sometime."

She bristled. "Is this a joke?"

"No, it's not. I know it sounds really stupid. I don't care what you think." I grew angry with myself for exposing my most private feelings. "Never mind. I don't know what I was thinking."

I brushed past her, but she caught my sleeve. Her eyes had the same hungry, longing look as mine. "A slumber party? I've never been to one."

"I've never had one."

"How many people will be there?" she asked, releasing her hold on me.

"Just you, I'm afraid. I don't know anyone else to ask."

"Why are you asking me?"

I sighed. "I don't know. I'm just... so... I hate my life. Somebody told me to go make some friends, so that's what I'm doing."

She gawked at me. "Just like that. You're going out and making friends."

"Well, this is my first attempt."

She snorted – a cross between a laugh and a snicker. It turned into a full-fledged giggle after a few seconds. "You're even worse at it than I am!"

"At least I'm trying," I huffed, offended.

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that." She stopped laughing, but the grin remained. "Why did you choose me?"

Brutal honesty gripped me. "I didn't think you'd make fun of me, since everyone picks on you anyway."

"Ah." She grew pensive, and then made her decision. "You know what? I'd love to do a slumber party with you. When were you thinking?"

We decided on Wednesday. It would be short, but it wouldn't interfere with the parents' driving schedule or school. We could take the bus to my house, and she could return with me the next day for school again.

She did warn me that she had to take lots of medication, and that some of the things she had to do were pretty gross. She seemed very concerned with me being okay with her illness. It truly didn't bother me. I knew cancer wasn't contagious.

And there it was - I had taken the first steps toward cracking out of my self-imposed, introverted little shell. It was much easier than I had expected. I just wondered how I was going to ask Mom for permission to have a slumber party!

I had just finished setting the plates on the table for the dreaded family-style meal when Mom came home from work. I didn't have to look at her to know she was in a bad mood – I could feel it as soon as she walked inside. My first tip-off was the fact that she slammed the door and strode into the kitchen, stopping within inches of my nose.

"I just heard that my daughter gave the performance of her life last night. Do you know who I heard it from? My boss! He was there to see his son, and he recognized you!"

I tried hard to think who her boss's son might be. She worked for Mr. Overland... it must be Luke.

"He said he was impressed with your choreography. Supposedly you and his son danced better than any of the other couples. And then, he told me about how you led the choir – the whole choir – in a sign language version of your song."

She was so angry she was spitting. I wondered why she was so upset. Was it because I had danced with a boy? I knew she didn't want me near boys until I was thirty, but this was only for a school concert!

She grabbed me by the shoulders and began to shake me, lightly at first, but then with more intensity. "Do you know how embarrassing it was for me? I had to pretend to know what you had done. I had to fake it! You never told me you were doing anything special for your concert!"

So that was her problem! She wasn't sorry she had missed the concert – she was upset because someone else had embarrassed her for being a bad mother! My temper ignited instantly. "You wouldn't have come anyway," I said, knocking her hands away from my shoulders.

"Don't you get physical with me," she hissed. "I'm your mother. You show me some respect."

"Show me some, and I'll show you some," I shouted. "I get my behavior from you. You taught me well!"

She slapped me.

I knew I deserved it for sassing her, but I didn't care.

"How dare you talk to me like that? You know I go to your events every chance I get."

I couldn't stop myself. "That's a lie! You always have a headache. You don't care one bit. You're the worst mother that ever existed!"

That earned me another slap, and another, and another. I put my hands up to defend myself, but I knew the rules well enough to know I was breaking them and making the punishment worse.

"Put your hands down," she screamed. "You don't defend yourself when you're being punished. Or do you want a beating with the wooden spoon?"

I forced myself to hold my hands at my side while she smacked me again. I was just considering playing unconscious, so she would stop, when my protector and hero came to my rescue.

Matt, with gentle strength, grabbed her arms. "That's enough," he growled.

I had never seen him so angry. It was a cold, calm anger that made me fear for him worse than I feared for myself.

"Let go of me," Mom shouted. "Stay out of this. It's none of your business."

"Physical abuse is everyone's business."

That made her mad. She began to kick and squirm to get out of his grasp, but he held her tight and evaded her blows. He wasn't even hurting her, but she made it seem as if he was trying to kill her.

At that moment, Roger and Becky entered the house, carrying groceries in their arms. Roger saw Matt and dropped his bags. "You let go of her, right now!"

"Not until she stops beating us," he said.

Roger crossed the room in two steps and practically threw Matt to the floor.

Matt, ever the quick wrestler, was up in an instant, sparks shooting from his eyes. "You don't know what you're getting into."

"You will never touch your mother like that again, ever," said Roger, drawing himself up to his full six feet, two inches. "No matter what she's done to you. She's your mother. You need to respect her."

I stepped between them. "She's nobody's mother. She's never around!"

"You ungrateful little witch!" shouted Mom.

"You want to challenge me?" asked Roger, noticing how tense Matt was.

I put my hand on Matt's arm. I had never felt it so tense before. His muscles bulged. He was ready to spring into action. "I'm ready right now," he said. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Stop, Matt," I pleaded. "He's bigger than you are." My touch kept him from advancing.

"Apologize to your mother. Apologize!"

Matt glared at Roger. "You're not my father! Don't tell me what to do!"

Mom reached in and smacked Matt. "Don't talk to him like that!"

The only thing preventing us from getting into an all-out tumble, me included, was Becky, who stood in the middle of us. If we had started beating on each other, she would have gotten punched, too. She started to cry. "Stop it, you guys! Don't fight with each other!"

Matt sneered at Mom. "You think you can hurt me? You're too weak. If you touch me ever again – or Beverly, or any of us kids - I'll kill you. Do you hear me? I'll kill you!"

"Get out! GET... OUT... get out!" she shouted. She would have attacked him if Roger hadn't held her.

We did get out. Fast. We both ran to the barn and locked the door. I was glad to escape.

My cheek, bright red, still stung from the slapping. I wondered if it would bruise like last time.

"Do you still have your survival kit?" asked Matt.

I nodded.

"I want to use it. You'll never use it. You don't have the guts. But I'm leaving. Right now."

"Don't say that, Matt. We need you. If you hadn't shown up, she'd have given me a black eye. I've never seen her so angry."

"She gets worse every year. I can't take it any more."

"Me neither, but we have to. Where will we go? Nobody will take us. I don't want to end up in a foster home. They're worse than Mom is."

"Nothing's as bad as she is. I hate her. I hate her."

My hands - in fact, my whole body – trembled from fear and anger. "What are we gonna do?"

"I know what I'm doing. I'm leaving. Give me your kit."

"Matt, no! Please don't leave me. I can't handle her alone!"

"You can come with me. You don't have to stay. Foster homes? That's just a lie she told us. They'll never catch us. We can be free. What do you want to do, stay here or be free?"

"Those aren't our only options. We can avoid her, too, you know. I usually do."

"You didn't today. You got caught. And you didn't do anything wrong."

"I should have been quicker with setting the plates out. Usually I do the chores, then come out here until dinner. After dinner, I come back 'til bedtime. I only stayed because I wanted to ask if I could have a slumber party."

"You're bringing another human being into this Circus Maximus? What are you thinking?"

Suddenly, inviting Darcy over seemed to be a really bad idea. The chances of Mom blowing up over the slightest provocation were very high. Did I really want a new friend to be exposed to that?

"Give me the kit, Beverly."

"No."

"Then I'll find it myself." He began to dig in the straw, and he seemed to know right where it was hidden.

"No! Come on, Matt! You can't leave. Please. There has to be another solution."

"Aside from murdering her, I don't see any alternatives."

"Wait! There is one – there is! You know that we can graduate with our associate's degree when we get our high school diplomas, right?"

"What are you talking about?" He slowed his frantic digging.

"Don't get impatient yet. I have a point. You know how some of the juniors go out to the community college instead of doing their junior year at the high school? Well, I heard that the State Hospital offers free room and board to college freshmen and sophomores, as long as they're taking full-time courses and they work two hours a day at the hospital."

"Work in the loony bin? Never. And you have to have the grades to substitute college for high school."

"You have good grades. Talk to the counselor – she'll sign you up for summer courses. They start in June. You'd only have to stick around until June."

I had his attention. I could see him weighing the pros and cons.

"Free room and board?"

"In exchange for two hours of work a day. You clean toilets and peel potatoes. Plus you'd have a college degree by the time you turn eighteen. You get a head start on life."

"Are you going to do it?"

I shrugged. "I've been thinking about it. But I don't have a car. I don't know how I'd get myself from the hospital to the college. That's ten miles. Plus I'd want to get a job, you know? I don't want to just exist on hospital food every day. I'd want some spending money too."

"Cory offered to sell me his car for five hundred bucks. If I had a car, I could get a job to pay for the gas and insurance."

"You could give me a ride to college and work, maybe. I'd split gas and insurance with you."

"It will never work. Mom will never agree to this. We're sixteen. She'll say we're too young."

We slumped into the hay. "I gotta be honest with you, Matt. I've always wanted a horse. I love our animals, and I love living here. This is the best house we've ever had. I'm not sure if I want to leave – even if it means putting up with Mom."

"Well, I have no ties," he shrugged. "I hate coming home."

I pushed my advantage. "So it's settled, then. You'll stay until June."

He worked his jaw muscles for a while. "Yeah. I suppose. I'm buying a car, though. I have some money. Maybe I can talk Cory into letting me have the car now, and I'll pay him off when I get a job. Mom can't object to me getting a job. It's better than wasting the evenings here at home."

"You know her rules. No working during the school year. We can work during the summer, but not during classes."

"Screw her and screw her rules. You think I care? You think she can stop me?"

He was starting to grow angry again, so I switched the topic. I made him see that it would be better to wait until he was fully prepared, instead of doing something he might regret. I had just gotten him calmed down when Roger broke our sanctuary.

"Matt, I want to talk to you."

Matt stood up. I joined him. What happened to him, happened to me. We were twins. We shared everything.

"Your behavior is unacceptable. You've got your mother fearing for her life. What are we supposed to do, report you to the police?"

"If you do, they'll investigate, and they'll find out that she's abusive," he countered. "You wanna go through all those hoops, just to get me into trouble?"

I could see that Roger knew full well that Mom was out of control. There was no way to stop her. He drew near to us and spoke in a hushed voice. "I'm going to tell you something that I don't want you sharing with your mom. I think she's manic depressive. She displays all the signs – mood swings, uncontrollable outbursts... I've tried talking her into seeing a specialist, but she refuses to acknowledge that she has a problem."

A shudder ran down my spine. We had studied that in Health and Wellness class. It could be controlled with medication, to the point that the afflicted person could live a normal life. Wouldn't that be nice, I thought sarcastically. With horror, I realized it could also be genetic. I remembered stories about Grandma, how she treated her own kids... did that mean that I was next in line? Would I turn out to be exactly like my mother?

Quickly, I made a new rule for my List. Seek help if you suspect you're out of control. Never be too proud to admit failure. Get input from other people, and believe them if they tell you there's a problem...

"I'm grounding you for your behavior, Matt. Physically restraining anyone is a form of abuse in its own right."

"But she was beating up on Beverly! Someone had to stop her!"

"You didn't let me finish. What you did was also commendable, stepping in and helping your sister, so I'm lifting the punishment. Just don't touch your mother again."

Rebellion burned in Matt's eyes, but he kept silent. I knew he was thinking about June.

"What about me?" I asked.

"You should have told your mother about your special part in the concert. She's upset that she missed it."

"She wouldn't have come anyway! It wouldn't have made a difference. And it was her choice to miss my concert. She could have swallowed a bottle of aspirin so her migraine wasn't an excuse."

"She complains that you never tell her anything. She wouldn't have had an excuse if you had told her."

"That's so stupid," I muttered. I got sarcastic. "And what about her? Are you punishing her?"

"Your mother is her own worst punishment," he sighed. "She loathes herself. She wants to be a good mother but she doesn't know how. She's in her room right now, hating herself for what she just did to you two."

That was a new concept. I had never thought about Mom's emotions before. I thought she enjoyed yelling at us. "So why doesn't she stop?"

"I don't think she can, Beverly."

Matt folded his arms across his chest. "So when are you leaving?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Leaving. Departing. Going away. Quitting. Filing for divorce."

Roger was taken aback. "I have no intentions of going anywhere. I love your mother."

Matt sneered at him. "You must be crazier than she is, then."

Roger smiled. "You can't get rid of me that easily. I've seen worse. Much worse. I'm here to stay, son."

"I'm not your son."

He sighed. "I know that. I just like to pretend. I only had daughters, you know. I always wanted a boy."

"Well, you'll never be my father. Take out your fantasies on Peter."

"Fair enough. But you don't need to get so rude with me, Matt. I'm not your enemy. And neither is your mother." He turned to me. "I know I don't count as a father to you, either, but I thought you did well at your concert. I was proud of you. Good night." He hurried back to the house.

"I can't wait until June," said Matt.

Chapter 14: Darcy

Statistic: Children in repeat divorces have lower grades and their peers find them less pleasant to be around

I didn't ask Mom if I could have Darcy over next Wednesday. I simply told Roger I'd be holding a slumber party, and he said he'd pass it along.

"How many people?" he asked, as if having a friend over to the house were perfectly normal.

"Just one," I had said. Since he didn't object, I took it as a sort of approval. Just to be on the safe side, I made sure that the house was extra clean on Tuesday, since a dirty house made Mom even more irritable.

I had never seen Darcy so excited. It turned out that nobody had ever invited her anywhere before, not even to a birthday party, and she was extremely grateful.

We talked during the entire bus ride home. It was a new experience for both of us, since we were both bookworms and introverts. We had a lot in common, actually – more than I realized. Darcy liked to sing as much as I did, but didn't try out for any of the choirs because of their evening performance schedules.

"I never know when I'm going to have to make a trip to the hospital," she confessed. "So I try to avoid any extracurricular activities where somebody would depend on me. I could never be in a play. You did really well, by the way. How long have you taken ballet lessons?"

"Lessons? Never."

"Really? That was raw talent? Wow. I wish I had your skill. I have to work at dancing."

"You dance?"

"Sure. Tap dance."

She was my instant idol. "Oh, man! I've always wanted to learn how to tap dance."

"Why don't you take lessons?"

"We can't afford them. We can never afford anything. You know what I do, though? I watch all those old black-and white Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, and sometimes I copy the routines."

"You'll have to show me. Maybe I can give you some pointers."

"That would be cool."

When we got home, we dropped Darcy's bag on my bed. For once, I managed to talk Peter and Becky into doing their chores so I wouldn't have to – all their sweeping, dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing – and as for dinner, I put two frozen pot pies in the oven. I often made large batches and froze them for times when I didn't feel like baking. Tonight was one of those times. I prided myself on my foresight.

When that was done, I introduced Darcy to my sanctuary. She had never been in a barn before, either.

"My parents were kind of worried that I might be allergic to the animals, but they laughed when I told them how stupid that sounded." At my blank look, she explained. "What are allergies compared to cancer? I can handle a couple sneezes! It's the chemotherapy that I despise!"

"What's it like, having cancer?" I realized how brutal the question sounded, and rushed to cover it up. "Oh, my gosh. I'm so sorry. That was an awful question."

She shrugged. "It's actually a good question. Most kids are afraid of me. I don't know. It's different from your life, I guess, but it's normal to me. I spend a lot of time in the hospital, and my parents worry a lot. I also think about dying more than you probably do."

"Are you scared?"

"Yeah, sometimes. I really like living. I'm going to miss this world when I go."

"Isn't there a cure?"

"Not for what I have. I went into remission last year, but it came back a few months ago. Different form, much more aggressive."

I gulped. "But you're not going to drop dead right here in my barn, though."

She giggled, clutched her throat, and fell into the hay. "Nah. I haven't had a chance to ride your horse yet."

"Well, saddle up, then! You're in for a treat!"

"Isn't it too cold to go for a ride?"

"Sissy. This is Minnesota. It's not cold until the thermometer shatters."

"No, really. I can't be out in this weather." She looked at me anxiously, as if hoping that she wasn't spoiling anything.

"I usually don't go out in this weather either. But the horses need to be exercised, so I take them to the paddock, which has a covered area. There, see? It's like going outside without having to face the elements. No wind. It's almost warm." I pointed out the window.

She smiled in relief as she looked at the huge garage-like building that had been built on top of the hill beside the paddock. It was where we kept our chickens, geese, ducks, and rabbits. Instead of having a complete basement, however, the building took advantage of the hill and had a three-walled area that the horses could just walk in to whenever they needed a respite from the elements. In the summer, it was cool. In the winter, it was relatively warm. The ceiling was high enough that I could ride Charlie, and it was big enough to provide adequate exercising room.

Although we'd only had the horses for a few months, I'd become somewhat an expert on their care. I showed Darcy what my mother had shown me: how to saddle and bridle Charlie, and how to mount him. She squealed when I got her up in the saddle, and held onto his mane for dear life.

"Use your knees to grip him, instead of holding his mane."

"Does it hurt him?"

"No, but it's a bad habit. And don't hold the saddle horn, either. Keep yourself upright. Good. Ready? Let's go."

"Wait. Take a picture first." She withdrew a small camera from her coat pocket. "I'm a big believer in pictures."

I obliged and was glad that Charlie did not spook at the flash.

We walked out to the paddock. I had Charlie on a long lead. I stood in the center of the shelter and whistled to him. He began to trot in a slow, easy manner. Gallant Rose knew that her turn was coming and stayed out of the way, toward the back of the building where it was warmest.

"I can't believe I'm doing this!" Darcy said more than once. "It's on my list, but I didn't think I'd ever do it!"

"What list?"

"I keep a to-do list. Things I want to do before I die. That might be in twenty years or fifty, but I don't want to waste a single day. So I made a list."

"I have a list, too, but it's different." I told her about the New Me Project and how I was trying to remake myself, especially since my original name had been taken from me.

"So that's why they call you Margaret Beverly."

"Among other things, yeah." I explained that I tried to identify flaws or faults or bad habits in myself, and how I worked on them. Like my temper. I had a bad temper, but I fought to keep it under control – especially since I had seen what it did to my mom. I told her about my 'Rules for Happy Living' section, and the 'When I Grow Up' section – things I couldn't work on now but kept in mind for the future. I even had the guts to tell her about my 'Romance' section and my odd ideas on love and marriage.

"Have you ever had a boyfriend?" she asked.

"Nope. I don't plan to have one until I find someone who's worthy. What's the point of losing your heart and having it smooshed, especially when you can't do anything about it?"

"Well, I've had a boyfriend and I thought it was worth the trouble."

I looked at her curiously. "Where is he?"

She licked her lips. "He died last year. Leukemia."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I'm glad I got to know him. You're right, we were too young to 'do anything about it,' as you said, especially the getting married part, but it was nice. Especially the kissing." She stifled a mischievous grin.

I was intrigued. Mom never talked this frankly to me about boys and girls, and birds and bees. I had to ask: "Did you have sex?"

"Nah. We made out a lot, though. I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance again. That was two years ago, just before the cancer was at its worst. The doctors all said I was gonna die. I pulled through, though."

"I guess I have old-fashioned views on relationships. I'm gonna be a virgin when I get married. And I don't want him to have any weird diseases, or ever having gotten anyone pregnant."

"Oh, I'll still be a virgin," she said. "But I don't know if I'll expect him to be one. I think I'm gonna want someone with a little experience, so at least one of us knows what we're doing."

It felt strange to talk about something as intimate as sex with someone who was a relative stranger. For some reason, however, it felt as if I had known Darcy my whole life. She was easy to talk to. We bonded almost immediately.

I think it was our common bond of utter loneliness that drew us together at first, but it was our common interests that forged the friendship. We both liked the same books and the same style of music. We both liked to discuss intellectual things like the origin of the universe and ways to revolutionize society.

After dinner – which, by the way, Darcy kept telling me was the best pot pie she had ever eaten, thank you! – we went upstairs to my bedroom. Erika had decided to stay at her mother's for the evening, so we had the room to ourselves. Matt took a few pictures of us making goofy faces and then retreated to his own bedroom, where he was spending a good deal of time lately in his effort to avoid Mom.

Darcy brought a photo album with her, which was a great way of talking about memories. She told me that she would be adding today's photos to her album. I was flattered.

I brought my own album from downstairs and we traded stories.

"My most embarrassing moment?" I had to think about that one. There were so many. "I've got it. Last year, after the school play, we watched the videotape at Paul's house. His parents were really great, they had a nice house, but they had a rule about no shoes in the house. It kept the house cleaner, especially with all the snow and gravel, but the problem is that I have smelly feet. Really stinky, you know? I pleaded with them to let me keep my shoes on, but Mrs. Gossman was pretty insistent. She made me take my shoes off."

"What's so embarrassing about that?"

"Ten minutes later she asked me to put them back on – because so many people were complaining about the smell! I could have died of shame!"

We laughed, and then I asked her what hers was.

She got very quiet, and looked down at the carpet. "It was that moment in the bathroom when Naomi was telling everyone I was gay."

"I'd be embarrassed, too."

"No, the worst part was when I showed you my stomach pack and you ran away. At least, that's what it felt like. I was really mad at myself for telling you my secret. I just wanted you to understand why I look the way I do. That's what was embarrassing."

"Well, you didn't scare me, not then, not now. And now you know better."

We smiled at each other.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I said. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

"I'm good at secrets," she said.

I trusted her. "The reason I keep my List is because I'm terrified of becoming a statistic. I see so many other kids going through the same thing, and they all end up alcoholics, or pregnant, or committing suicide... I just want to live a normal life. I want to make good decisions and be a happy, successful adult."

"I believe you will. If that's what you want, then it'll happen. You're already proactive instead of reactive."

"Huh?"

"Like my cancer. I've been fighting statistics, too. I was supposed to be dead by the time I was ten. I'm already sixteen. I'm defying the odds. The thing with you and me is that we plan for the worst possible scenario and then take steps to avoid it. You keep your list, I do my meditations. The key is planning. You're pretty mature for your age, by the way."

I flushed at the compliment. "You are, too. Though some people call me an old lady because I don't act my age."

"I'm an old lady, too," she replied. "I've seen a lot of things that most adults never have."

"Yeah. Me too. Except that most of my 'life experience' is by proxy. I watch."

"That's your strategy, then. I mean, we're teenagers," she continued. "We're still defining ourselves. We're supposed to make mistakes, and learn from them, and learn from other people's mistakes if we can."

"You know that, and I know that, but why can't anyone else seem to understand? I mean, what makes me so special that I can see what to avoid, when everyone else in my situation seems to fall apart?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you think about things more. Look at Naomi Bell, for example."

"What about Naomi?"

"She's a statistic. Her mom's an alcoholic, and her dad cheats all the time. He even got a young woman pregnant. Naomi has a half-sister she's never met, and the baby's mother is on welfare. That's why Naomi hates you so much – you represent all the things she fears."

"But my mom's never been on welfare."

"Your mom's divorced. What's to keep Naomi's parents from divorcing? Then Naomi will be just like you. She's terrified of that."

"And that makes her a statistic?"

"Yep. She's already had two abortions."

I was shocked. "You're making that up."

"My dad works with hers. They play golf together sometimes. I swear it's true – her dad told my dad everything."

"Wow. I didn't know."

"She hides it well." Darcy narrowed her eyes at me. "You know, the ancient Guarani Indians of South America used to be cannibals. They captured their enemies instead of killing them, so they could eat them at a victory celebration."

I furrowed my eyebrows, disgusted. "What does that have to do with Naomi?"

"The Guarani had a special ritual with the enemy's eyeballs. It was an honor to eat an enemy's eyeballs. Guess why."

"They were the tastiest part?"

She laughed. "Nope. It was considered a special blessing to be able to see the world through an enemy's eyes."

"Ah. I see where you're going with all this."

"Maybe it's none of my business," she shrugged, "but I used to be like you. I used to think about things from my own little point of view, until I learned to think like other people. I used to hate my doctors and their endless injections. Therapy hurt. But then I realized that the people who hurt me the most were really trying to save my life. They wanted to help me." She leaned back. "I'm sorry. I'm starting to sound preachy. I don't mean to offend you."

I shook my head. "I'm not offended at all. It's nice to talk to someone about these things." Even so, the atmosphere had grown a little too tense for comfort, so I tried to crack a joke. "Well, Naomi's convinced that you're gay. So when she sees us together tomorrow, she's gonna say we're lesbians."

Darcy laughed. "I don't care what she thinks. A wise teenager once told me to ignore her. It seems to work."

I laughed, too.

Around ten o'clock, Darcy swallowed a handful of pills. I joked about them being the size of horse vitamins, and she said that's what they felt like. Mom knocked on the door. "It's bedtime," she reminded us. "Roger and I are going to sleep. You can stay up for a while, but don't let us hear you."

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"Good night, Mrs. Shenton."

"Good night, you two." She actually smiled at us. I wondered if she thought it was about time I met another girl my age or what.

Aside from the photo album, Darcy also had brought a chess board with her. It was more of a box that unfolded into a chess board, and the pieces could be stored inside. It was made of mahogany wood and glass. It was beautiful, and obviously frequently used.

"This is my favorite game," she said. "I wanted to share it with you."

"I don't know how to play."

"That's okay. It took me a long time to learn. But since you're a juggler, I figured you're both intelligent and persistent, and those are the qualities you need to play chess."

With a subtle challenge like that, who could refuse? "Bring it on," I said, smoothing out the sheet on my bed so we could play up there.

Darcy explained the pieces to me, and then ran me through a couple practice scenarios. It was easy enough to remember which pieces moved in what way, but trying to develop a strategy with them was almost impossible. Games were swift – they lasted about three minutes before I was checkmated. I lost twenty-nine games before I finally caught on to the strategy, and then it was another six before I put her in check for the first time. She was merciless. She didn't give me anything; I had to work for everything. On my forty-second game, I managed to squeeze her into checkmate. It was an exhilarating feeling! I had learned to play chess – and I won!

It was about time, too. We had played for four hours straight. "Oh, my gosh," I said. "I can't believe it's two in the morning."

"I've never stayed up this late. Deliberately, that is. This is kind of fun, isn't it?"

"It seems so still and quiet. No wonder they call these the magical hours."

"Yeah, but we have to get up at five-thirty. I have to feed and water my animals, and the bus comes early when you live in the country."

She rolled off my bed onto the floor. The last item in her duffel bag was a sleeping bag.

"Oh, you won't need that," I said. "Erika's bed is empty. You can sleep there."

A mischievous grin covered her face. "This is a slumber party, right? I've never gotten to sleep in a sleeping bag before. This is probably the closest I'll ever come to camping, since my mom hates bugs. It's one of the items to do on my list, though."

"You're sure? A mattress is more comfortable than the floor any day."

"But it's not as much of an adventure," she said, unrolling her sleeping bag.

"Adventures are overrated," I replied. "I mean, an adventure is a condensed version of real life that sounds more glamorous than it really is, and takes less time to recount than what really happened."

"Whoa. Say that again?"

I laughed. "Basically, anything can be an adventure. Going to the grocery store can be an adventure, if you tell it right. But when it's happening, it doesn't seem like an adventure."

"You're making my head hurt. I don't think we should get into another discussion this late at night..."

I giggled. "Why not? I've never stayed awake the whole night before!"

She groaned. "I don't think I have the energy." As she snuggled down into her sleeping bag, she slipped a hand inside her pillow case. A fuzzy corner with loose threads spilled out.

I pointed at it. "What's that?"

She looked guilty. "It's a secret."

"I told you mine. Your turn to confess."

"It's my baby blanket," she grinned. "I admit. I sleep with a baby blanket."

"That's awful!"

"I know. It's just that I take it with me everywhere. Whenever I end up in the hospital, I take it with me so it feels like home. I can't seem to leave it behind. It's my one addiction."

"At least you don't suck your thumb," I chortled.

"As far as you know. Wait 'til the lights go out!"

"I've got a flashlight. This I've gotta see."

I flipped the light out. We were so exhausted that we both fell asleep moments later.

I never did find out if she sucked her thumb or not.

Chapter 15: Friends Forever

" _It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all." –Samuel Butler_

Mom made pancakes for us in the morning. She had gotten up earlier than usual, just for me. I bragged about Mom's amazing pancakes, and Darcy had to agree after tasting them. Mom seemed to enjoy the compliments.

Darcy helped me do my morning chores, even though she had decided to wear a 'girlie' outfit that day and her slip-on shoes were not barn-wear material. They clicked nicely on the cement, though, and she did a routine from her tap dance lessons. We had some extra time, so she taught me a few rhythms.

"You're a fast learner," she commented.

"I love dancing. Show me another move."

Before we exited the barn, she kissed my horses good-bye. "I wish I had more time with them," she sighed.

"Yeah. An overnighter isn't enough time. We have to plan for a weekend."

"You mean you want me back?"

"Of course! I had the best time last night. I can't remember when I've had so much fun. It's nice to have a friend."

She beamed at me. "It is nice to have a friend. You're a good one."

"You are, too. I'm really glad you decided to come."

"I'm glad you asked me. You were pretty brave."

"Yeah, you're so frightening I had to work up a lot of courage to ask!"

The bus ride was over too quickly, and then we were at school. I carried her backpack to her locker for her, since she had her heavy duffel bag to deal with.

"Okay, well, see you later," she said.

I couldn't resist hugging her. She really filled an empty spot in my heart. I was grateful more than I could possibly express. "Thanks for coming over."

Who should happen by but Naomi Bell, and of course she saw the hug. "Ooh, lesbians!" she said loudly enough for everyone to hear. They immediately turned and stared at us.

We caught each other's eyes and burst into laughter. Naomi was so predictable.

"See you later," we said.

I did not see her later. She went home before lunch and didn't return. She was gone on Friday, too. And on Monday. I thought about calling or emailing her, but I didn't have her email address or phone number.

I began to worry. Maybe riding Charlie had overexerted her and made her sick. It hadn't been very cold in the exercise area, but if she wasn't used to it, maybe it had given her pneumonia or something fatal.

My fears were increased on Tuesday, when the school nurse came to my choir practice. She had a note in her hand. "It's from Darcy's parents," she said, and left. The whole class heard her.

I took the note back to my seat and read it quietly.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Notes from your gay lover?" inquired Naomi.

Her friends tittered.

I could not answer. I was stunned by the note.

"Planning an orgy with other lesbians?" she persisted. "Or did your friend give you AIDS and the nurse had to bring you the test results?"

I faced her. My voice trembled and rose in pitch. "You little witch! Darcy's not gay. She has cancer. And she's dying! You don't know when to quit, do you?"

Her face turned white.

Mrs. Crofton jerked her head over in our direction to see what was happening. In fact, the entire class watched the exchange.

I threw the note on at her feet. "What does the note say, Naomi? You read it for yourself and see if I'm making it up." Tears flooded my eyes. I collected my book bag and ran out of the room.

The hospital was only a few blocks away. I signed out at the front office and walked as fast as I could. Someone at the nurse's station gave me directions to her room. It seemed surreal. The stale odor of urine filled my nose as I hurried past the Dialysis room, even though smell of disinfectants was strong too. I was aware of the way my shoes clicked on the linoleum and echoed off the bare walls. The air was slightly chilly, causing my goosebumps to prickle even more.

I arrived at her room. The door was open. Her mother and father – I recognized them from her photo album – and older sister were clustered around her bed. A doctor stood at the head of her bed, and a chaplain sat quietly in a corner.

She looked worse than ever, especially attached to so many tubes and devices. She saw me standing in the doorway and sat up, smiling at me.

"Hey, Margerly," she called, using my secret nickname. "Glad you came!"

The effort of sitting must have been too much for her. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She collapsed, stretching flat on her back.

A flurry of activity erupted in the room. Monitors went off, the priest began to pray, and the doctor didn't seem to be doing much to help.

A nurse tugged me away and closed the door. I was really scared.

"You need to stay in the hall," she said.

"But... I'm here to see Darcy... her parents sent for me..."

She looked sympathetic but very professional. "I'm sorry, honey. Darcy just passed away."

My breath swooshed out of my lungs. "What?"

"Sit down, sweetie. You don't look so well."

"No! She can't be... she can't..."

"I'm going to bring you some water. You stay here." The nurse walked away, her cushioned feet treading soundlessly on the cold floor.

There was no sound, but I heard the footsteps. And then I realized that I was hearing my heart beat. I held my head in my hands, trembling. It wasn't possible!

A dreadful thought entered my head. It was my fault. I should never have invited her out to my house and let her ride my horse. I had killed her.

Panic gripped me. When Grandpa had died, I was only eight years old and didn't really understand death. Plus, I never really knew the man, and Mom never talked about him.

I didn't know Darcy that well, either, but we had been friends. Honest, affectionate, intimate friends. We had bonded. And now she was gone. It was my fault.

I must have sat there for at least half an hour before anyone noticed me. The nurse never did return with that water. Eventually, Darcy's parents left her room and stood around in the hallway. Mr. Russell noticed me first.

"You must be Beverly," he said in a strangled but kind voice.

I nodded, mute, and stood up.

Mrs. Russell hugged me. "Darcy talked about you so much this last week. It's nice to finally meet you."

Christie, the older sister, did not look at me. She just leaned against the wall for support.

"I don't know what to say," I gasped. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault. She's been fighting this for a long time."

"But I let her ride my horse in the cold weather. I must have made her sick somehow."

Mr. Russell looked at me sharply. "No. You stop thinking like that right now. It's not your fault. Do you hear me? Darcy had so much fun with you that she almost considered you a sister. You didn't do anything wrong." Tears flowed down his cheeks. He made no attempt to stop them. "You're all she talked about. You're the best thing that happened to her in a long time." He joined Mrs. Russell in the embrace.

Salty drops stung my eyes. Another dam burst within me. "She was my only friend," I sobbed.

We cried for a while, the three of us, while Christie rocked back and forth in stoic silence. She got up, suddenly, and walked toward the elevator.

When the tears subsided, we relaxed our embrace. It was kind of awkward, being among strangers, but we shared a strong common love: Darcy.

Christie returned moments later carrying a plastic bag by the handles. "Darcy wanted me to give you this," she said, withdrawing the chessboard. "She said that you make your own strategies in life, and that you don't have to be a statistic. She wanted you to remember that. And she said you're not a quitter and that she's proud of you for playing chess with her. It's a hard game but so is life." She thrust the board into my hand almost angrily, and then tramped away to the waiting room.

I held the board gently, reverently. A fresh wave of grief overwhelmed me. "I only spent a day with her."

"She appreciated it. We do, too." Mrs. Russell's face screwed up in an agonizing expression but she caught herself. "Will you be coming to her funeral?"

I nodded.

After a while, I took the elevator downstairs and called my mother from the courtesy phone. It was hard to keep my voice steady. "Mom? I need to talk to you about Darcy."

"Who's Darcy? Oh, yes. That girl from the sleepover. Are you all right? You sound like you've been crying."

"I'm at the hospital. Darcy just died."

"Died?" There was a sudden silence as Mom registered that information. "Oh, Beverly. I'll be there in a few minutes. Wait for me in the lobby."

I sniffled an answer and hung up.

I was not cold, but I pulled my coat around me tightly as I waited. Mom found me huddled in a corner, as squished in between the two protective walls as I could make myself without being obvious. What I really wanted to do was to go to sleep and crunch way down underneath the covers, where imagined boogiemen could not reach me.

Mom stood right in front of me, a worried expression on her face. "What happened?"

I thought she was angry with me for skipping school. "The nurse gave me a permission slip. I signed out at the office," I said, somewhat defensively.

She sat down beside me. "No," she said more gently, "I meant what happened with Darcy."

I held out my hands, palms up, in despair. "Her cancer returned so fast there was nothing they could do about it. Mr. Russell told me it wasn't my fault... but I feel so guilty... I let her ride in the cold air..." I turned my agonized eyes up to her blue ones and was surprised at the depth of sympathy in them. The support I found there encouraged me to admit everything to her. "And I'm so afraid! She was only sixteen. She's my age. What if I get cancer? What if I die tomorrow? There are so many things I wanted to do! She'll never be able to finish the things on her list... And I'll never, ever, never be able to find another friend like Darcy..."

"Shh," Mom said, taking me in her arms.

"And Grandpa died of cancer... What if I'm next?"

"That's ridiculous. You don't have cancer. Grandpa was a smoker. He died from lung cancer. You don't inherit lung cancer."

Her logic was sound, but I was inconsolable.

For a girl who had only cried a handful of times in her life before, I seemed to be doing it as often as a newborn baby. Mom let me sob myself dry, and then she took me home. She called the school and excused my absence. She fixed me hot tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Before she left, she hugged me again. She _hugged_ me. I never knew she could be so sensitive and supportive, but she was just perfect. Everything she did was perfect.

"It hurts now, and it probably will for a while. If you want to talk about it, you can call me." Then she returned to work.

The blizzard that was beginning to brew outside seemed symbolic of my swirling emotions. I meandered out to the barn anyway, letting the snowflakes bite at my cheeks and nose.

Why did all my friends have to go away? In all the houses I had lived in, I made friends with the neighbor kids and then we had to leave. I never saw them again, usually. Saying goodbye always tore my heart out and made it feel like I was just giving chunks away. That was the primary reason I avoided getting close to anyone. It was too painful to undergo the inevitable goodbye.

The New Me project was a big waste of time; right then and there I vowed to remain isolated from society for the rest of my life. It would hurt less that way.

Chapter 16: Inward, Not Onward

Statistic: Children of divorced parents tend to be "impulsive, irritable and socially withdrawn" as well as "lonely, unhappy, anxious, and insecure."

With the school play and fall concert over and finished, I had little distraction from my somber thoughts. Darcy's funeral reminded me of how futile my efforts had been. I had really liked her. True, I only knew her for a few days, but we had discussed the most intimate secrets from the deepest parts of our hearts. And now my secrets were buried with her.

I decided to focus my energies on my animals. They were all going to die anyway, since they were being raised for food, except for the milk goats and the horses. I devoted myself to Zia, my goat, and to my filly.

Although they took up a good deal of time and affection, it wasn't the same. Darcy had needed me as much as I needed her. The goat could care less, and Gallant Rose wasn't very cuddly. Often I would stand underneath her neck with my arms draped around her in a sort of hug, but she didn't like to hold still for very long and usually pulled away before I had extracted any comfort from her.

Having a horse of my own wasn't quite what I had envisioned. Somewhere in my dreams, we were supposed to be able to run in a flower-covered meadow, my hair waving in the breeze. We would drink fresh water from a stream. We would go all over the countryside, sleeping out under the stars in front of the campfire, taking body heat from each other and being absolutely free. That's what a horse was supposed to be for.

Reality was completely different. In the first place, Minnesotan winters are far from being romantic. I doubted if any of the flowers in the snow-covered meadow had survived the first frost. It was impossible to roam free across the countryside, because people always got upset about trespassing on their land. And if you've ever had your hair wave wildly in the breeze, you know that if it's as long as mine, it gets tangled easily and takes hours to brush out. So much for the adventure.

Even so, I loved Gallant Rose and Charlie. Charlie was Mom's horse, so I wasn't terribly fond of him, but he was the only one I could ride. Galli and I worked on obedience courses in preparation for the State Fair in August. One way or the other, I wanted the blue ribbon.

I also threw myself into being the busiest little me I could possibly be, since being busy kept me from excessive grief. I did keep Darcy close by checking out a book of chess strategies from the library to study. Sometimes I would pretend that Gallant Rose was the stereotypical evil Russian opponent, and I was the American defender – the last hope to bring honor to my country and win the world chess tournament. Sometimes I imagined her as a child genius, and I was the old chess master trying to teach her new moves so she could defend herself against the adults at tournaments. It sounds corny, huh? I knew I was too old for imaginary friends, but real people and real life were too taxing.

I have an overactive imagination. I'll be the first to admit it. It often gets me into trouble, too. For example, in early December, Mom and Roger enrolled Matt in tae kwon do classes so he could learn how to control his anger. He was forced to go twice a week, like it or not. At first he was upset because he hated being around other kids even more than I did, but once he realized that he would soon be a lethal weapon and could murder someone in their sleep, he applied himself whole-heartedly. He used me as a punching bag, too.

"Stand here, like this... no, spread your feet more. You're trying to get a solid stance so I can't knock you over."

"Matt, I don't think this is such a good idea."

"No, trust me. Let me show you what I learned today..."

He would proceed to try to knock me over, which was usually successful. In turn, he expected me to push him as hard as I could to test his stance and see if he had balance or not. Both of us could be violent when the occasion arose. For me, it was easier to repress my anger instead of letting it get the best of me. I knew that once I started hitting, it was harder to stop. Quite unfeminine, I know – but I did enjoy giving a good kick or two from time to time. The authors of my favorite books would certainly have been chagrined at my unladylike behavior. For Matt, however, the quickest way to deal with stress was to knock his opponent flat on the ground and pummel them into oblivion, which was not exactly a good strategy for dealing with future employers and co-workers.

You're probably wondering how that got me into trouble. Well, combine an active imagination with the desire to tear someone's arms off, and you get a thwarted ninja. Yes, I considered myself a thwarted ninja.

I practiced stealth in the secrecy of my sanctuary. I became so good that the horses never heard me coming until I poured their oats into their buckets. The sheep hated me. They startled easily, and it was always a riot to get them to bleat from sheer terror. I walked on the dividers between the stalls as if they were a tightrope so I could practice my balance. In my own limited way, I did stretching and breathing exercises, trying to copy what Matt showed me each week.

Toward the middle of December, I was standing in front of my horses, knees bent the way Matt had shown me to afford me a solid stance, pretending that I was about to face an army of samurai on my own. The scenario was dismal; if I were killed, the city would be burned to the ground along with all the citizens, whose lives depended upon me alone.

I am calm, I thought. I cannot be frightened. I am aware of everything around me.

A tap on my shoulder made me scream like a three-year old girl. The horses bolted but had very little room to run, so they ended up knocking a hole through the divider.

I turned around. It was Matt. He laughed so hard I thought he would pass out from lack of oxygen.

Of course, I was furious. With him, for disrupting my secret thoughts and figuring out what I was doing, and with myself, for being a bad ninja. Especially, ninjas did not scream.

The parents never found out what made the horses kick the hole through the wall, and I never told them.

Well, that did not deter me from my daydreams. The next day I meditated again, listening to everything around me. I felt steady on my feet. Nothing could knock me over. With my eyes closed, I found I could concentrate better on the sounds around me. I heard a drop of water echo off the barn walls, and I was able to gauge the distance to the nearest wall. Nothing got past me. I was ready for anything.

A tap on my shoulder resulted in swift action. See if Matt would get away with that twice in a row! I whirled around and delivered a full-force punch into my opponent's stomach.

It was Roger, not Matt.

Oops!

I covered my mouth with both hands, apologetic beyond expression. "Oh, my gosh! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!"

He regained his breath within seconds, but I noticed he did keep his distance from me. "Looks like we put the wrong twin in tae kwon do," he grunted.

Most of my other fantasies were not as drastic, but I took extra care to make sure that they stayed private. I found fulfillment in creating my own world, of which I was always in control. I was always the heroine who saved the damsel in distress (or the knight in distress, rather, since I was something of a feminist). In my kingdom, my word was law and nobody challenged me. Nobody raised their voices or hit another human being. Everyone said "I love you" twice a day, and meant it, too.

I suppose that daydreaming was a natural progression of the List, but it started to affect my schoolwork. Just before Christmas vacation, I emerged from Social Studies and realized that I hadn't heard a single word that had been said. The entire period was a complete blank. I know I had answered questions, and asked them, too, but I had no recollection of the past fifty minutes. That was the end of my uncontrolled daydreaming. I forced myself to focus on my schoolwork during class, and allowed myself to play between and after.

In any case, the New Me Project seemed to be a failure, name-wise at least. School was halfway over and I still didn't have much of an identity. People still stumbled over my name to the point where I really did answer to "Whatever." Or "Hey, you" – that was a favorite for people who couldn't remember what to call me. Darcy had proposed "Margerly" or "Bevaret" as a sort of compromise between the two names, but I couldn't use them without missing her. I still had trouble signing papers, not knowing what to call my own self, and ended up using my first initial and my middle name.

I needed a friend. One that needed me. But I didn't dare make any more. Once or twice I considered starting my own group, like a secret club, but that would have gone bust since I was the only person who would have joined. And as much as elderly people protest to the contrary, it's really no fun to talk to yourself all day long. So I finally decided that people didn't matter and I was fine on my own and there was no use in trying any more.

And then, just as Christmas vacation began, I met Mouser.

It was late at night and I couldn't sleep, especially with Mom and Roger arguing downstairs in their "try to keep quiet, the kids are sleeping" fighting voices. I sneaked downstairs, heated some milk, and took it out to the barn.

I poured some milk into the lid of my Thermos, but it was too hot to drink so I set it aside to cool. I walked away, braided Galli's tail, and then returned. I stopped several yards away from my intended target, for there, drinking my now-cool milk, crouched a gray-and-black tabby cat who probably had not eaten in several days.

My stealth training served me in good stead that evening. My footsteps were so light that she never suspected she was being watched. As soon as I saw her, my heart went out to her. She was pitifully thin and she constantly checked around her as if she expected something to attack. My nose betrayed me with a sniffle. Her head shot up at the sound. When she saw me, she bolted, leaving half the milk still in the Thermos lid.

I felt downright sorry for her, and something else, too. I felt as if she needed me.

She needed something, in any case – nutrition. That I could provide in abundance. Suddenly, my life had purpose again. I wanted to make friends with this scraggly, terrified animal who didn't trust people. She avoided me the way I avoided Naomi and the others. Our strategy was the same, to flee in the opposite direction.

I had to laugh at my own analogy. I certainly didn't consider myself an animal, but I did see myself in the cat. I decided to follow her.

She had jumped up on some hay bales that were arranged like stairs, and disappeared into the hay loft through a hole in the ceiling. The hole was far too small for me to climb through, so I took the ladder.

A tiny, faint mew from the corner on the opposite side caught my attention. I found the tabby cat nestled around a single kitten. Decaying carcasses told me that there had originally been five kittens, but they must have died from starvation. I judged the survivor to be perhaps four weeks old, since his legs were still stumpy.

The tabby hissed at me and would have dashed away if it had not been for her protective instincts. Ha! I had the hook I needed to earn her trust.

I backed away, climbed downstairs for the milk, and returned, moving as slowly and quietly as I could so that I would not appear to be a threat to her. Careful to not violate her space, I set the Thermos lid down where she could see it, then retreated to a safe distance. I didn't leave, however. I waited.

I could tell that she was considering her options. She had already had a drink, so the edge had been taken off her hunger. Even so, I knew she wanted more. She could see me and knew that I was connected to the milk. But was it a trap, or was it really free milk?

Apparently her first drink had not satisfied her. Slowly, cautiously, ready to dart away at the least provocation, she crawled toward the milk. Her shoulder blades made furry triangles in the air as she kept her body as low to the ground as she could. She also kept her eyes fixed on me at all times, never blinking once. Even when she reached the milk and began lapping at it, she continued to watch me. She didn't finish the entire cup, though. It was probably too nerve-wracking for her to even be drinking with me within eyeshot.

My controlled movements would have pleased the ninja master as I rose, collected the cup, and returned downstairs. Now that I knew where she hid, I would be able to feed her twice a day with infinite patience until she learned to trust me.

I made an ultimatum with myself. It was, after all, almost the New Year. I decided that, if I could get the cat to voluntarily come and cuddle in my lap, then I would venture out into the world of human relationships again. Until then, it would be just me, Gallant Rose, my juggling, and my books.

**Chapter 17: Confidence Builders**

There may be epics in men's brains, just as there are oaks in acorns, but the tree and the book must come out before we measure them. –Ralph Waldo Emerson

January arrived too quickly. I spent every day of my Christmas vacation trying to inch closer and closer to the cat, whom I dubbed Mouser due to her ability to catch mice. Although she no longer fled at my presence, she did not voluntarily approach me. I guessed that she must have been someone's pet at one point, because whenever she saw me, she always started toward me but caught herself in time and held back. She had a lot of trusting to learn. I was patient.

January was the beginning of the juggling unit for the physical education course. It was too cold to go outside and ice skate - and for a Minnesotan to admit that it's too cold, it has to average in the negative thirties. So, for six weeks until it warmed up enough to go outside again, all sophomores were condemned to a life of badminton, indoor exercising, and juggling.

Miss Bjornson was astonished at the progress I had made with the clubs and rings. It meant an automatic A for me, but she was not content to simply have me stand around and juggle during class time. True to her word, she expected me to help teach others. For her, that meant having an extra pair of hands as a class assistant.

For me, it meant exposing myself to the ridicule of my peers.

Always before, it had been easy to disappear in a crowd and become the proverbial wall flower. Now, I found myself paying more attention to my appearance, since I was in close proximity to other students. I used extra deodorant, since paranoia and fear of judgment always made mine break down at the worst possible moment. I also took to sucking breath mints for when I was standing face-to-face with my peers during a takeaway routine.

Erika had proved that I could look pretty – not just nice, but downright pretty – with some extra care. I had no intentions of becoming like Naomi Bell, who spent an hour on her hair, twenty minutes choosing an outfit, and another twenty minutes with her makeup. At least. But I did start using mascara and colored gloss, and even eye shadow from time to time. Nothing fancy, just a neutral brown color, but it made me feel better about myself.

I discovered that posture, too, is an important confidence indicator. I made sure to keep my back straight, chin up, and shoulders back. I began to look people in the eye when I walked down the hallway instead of averting my gaze or pretending to stare through someone as if they did not exist.

I taught three classes a day: my own gym period, my lunch period, and during study hall. I was surprised to find that Luke was taking gym class, since he was a junior, but he had transferred from another state and had not met all his requirements for our district. It turned out that he was a pretty good juggler himself. Not nearly as developed as I was, of course, but he could hold his own in class.

"Today we're going to practice partner juggling," said Miss Bjornson, halfway through the unit. "Everyone pick a partner. You'll only need three beanbags for this exercise."

She waited a moment or two for the usual scuffling and choosing. Since I was assisting, I didn't get a partner. I was supposed to step in when people had problems. So you can imagine my surprise when Luke crossed the room as if he were on a mission and stopped inches away from me, holding three beanbags.

I didn't say anything, but I'm sure he noticed my surprise. I had never been singled out for attention before. It was flattering, and slightly unnerving!

"Okay, everyone. Listen up. Most of you are able to sustain a fairly solid cascade. The point to partner juggling is to give away, take away, or share. Beverly, stand in front of me so I can demonstrate."

"Come back soon," Luke whispered.

I smiled at him shyly, and took my place. Miss Bjornson began to juggle. I disrupted her pattern by reaching in and grabbing the first beanbag, followed by the second. The third, since it was in the air, naturally fell into position. I now had the beanbags. She took them back.

"That's a takeaway," she said. "Now for the giveaway."

Again, she began to juggle. Instead of making me reach in and take them from her, however, she simply served them to me. I served them back. It was a fairly effortless maneuver.

"Finally, the share. You will be your partner's other arm. Be sure to hold your juggling arm in a tray position, don't throw too high, and don't worry about the catches. They'll come to you if you throw properly." She stood beside me so that we were facing the class, her left arm tucked behind her back.

I tucked my right arm behind my back. We looked like a two-headed monster with two arms and four legs. She served the first beanbag, I served the second, and she served the third. We alternated for a few seconds, showing the class what the pattern was supposed to look like, until she collected the beanbags. "I want you to get to twenty-one catches in each exercise. That's going to be part of your test. Any questions? No? Have fun!"

Everyone began juggling, and she scanned the room. "Beverly, Luke doesn't have a partner. Will you work with him?"

"He did that on purpose," I muttered.

He faced me. "So. Takeaways. I juggle, and you take away, right?"

"Aren't you the clever one."

He began his cascade.

"You're throwing in a blue, red, yellow pattern. See?" I timed my words with his throws. "Blue, red, yellow. Blue, red, yellow. I'm going to take the blue one, then the red one. The yellow one comes to me."

"I think I understand."

"You've done this before?"

"No, but how hard can it be?"

"Hmm. Pay attention." I snatched the beanbags from him. "Your turn."

"Well, that's a little faster than I was expecting," he admitted. "Let me see. Blue, red... oops, sorry!" His fingernail caught the tender skin on the top of my hand as he tried to grab the beanbag from me. It was a common beginner's mistake. I had clawed my own fair share of skin before I finally caught on.

"Try again," I encouraged.

He took the blue, then the red... and another scratch. He winced. I think it hurt him more than it did me. "Sorry."

"No problem. Once again."

His face grew stern in concentration. He watched me closely, trying to get the timing down, and then reached in to my pattern again. "Ha! I got it!"

"Good job! My turn now." Without waiting for him to get his rhythm back, I took the beanbags away. "Okay. Your turn."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

I had to grin. "Actually, I am. I don't get to juggle with a partner much. I love juggling."

"You could train me. I'm a quick learner, don't you think?"

I sensed a little bit more behind his words than what he was saying, but I didn't think much of it. We practiced the takeaways for several minutes before Miss Bjornson told everyone to move on to giveaways.

Those were much easier for him. He didn't even have any false throws; he simply served me the beanbags and took them as if he had been doing it his whole life.

Sharing beanbags side-by-side with Luke was an uncomfortable situation for me. Sometimes, beginners have a hard time remembering to keep their non-juggling arm behind them, and it gets in the way. Miss Bjornson's solution to that was for the partners to hold each other's waists. So not only was Luke invading my personal space (I generally kept at least two feet between me and any other person), but we were making physical contact. Consequently, my throws were off and his were perfect.

"I'm going to go help Ariel and Anna," I gasped after only a few rounds. I broke away from his grasp.

He must have guessed the reason for my discomfort. "You're cute when you blush," he grinned.

I scowled at him. "Anna, try to throw to your partner instead of across her body," I called.

"I don't get it," she whined.

"I have to go," I told Luke.

He raised an eyebrow. "Who am I supposed to juggle with?"

"I'll send Ariel over. She seems to have the throws down." I hurried over to Ariel and sent Anna to Luke.

Ariel seemed relieved. So was I.

When class was over, Miss Bjornson asked Luke and me to wait a few minutes, since we were both heading into our lunch break anyway. "On the fourth Wednesday of every month, I go to a juggler's club over in Fargo. I like to take my best jugglers if I can. Can either of you make it?"

"That sounds like fun!" I exclaimed. "I'm not sure my folks would let me, though."

"I might have a Knowledge Bowl meet. I'll have to check." He looked at me, and then back to Miss Bjornson. "I'd love to go, though."

"It's next Wednesday. Don't forget. We'll leave around six o'clock from the loading dock. Look for the red minivan – or anyone carrying clubs! Beverly, can you set up the room for the next class? I'll be right back." She ran downstairs to switch class rosters.

Luke lingered around. "You going to lunch?"

"No. There's another juggling unit right now. I usually help them for half an hour or so, and then grab a quick bite."

"Ah. I see. Well... Catch you tomorrow, then."

"See ya."

I could not wait until next Wednesday. It was almost like a field trip. Sure, I had juggled with professionals before – the circus folk and the Renaissance performers – but this was the first time that I would meet real people who juggled for a hobby, like me. It felt somehow as if I were about to find a group to which I truly belonged.

Luke managed to get out of his Knowledge Bowl practice. We were joined by Garrett, a senior, and Eric, a junior.

"Hey, Luke, how's it goin'," said Eric when he arrived. "Who's your girlfriend?"

Luke grinned. I was mortified.

"She's not my girlfriend. Just a friend." He introduced us.

Eric had nice eyes, I thought, a steel-gray color with long eyelashes. If he had been a girl he would have been the envy of the school.

Miss Bjornson unlocked the minivan. "Everybody ready? Don't just stand around freezing. Let's go!" The roads were slick with ice so she drove slowly. I thought for sure we would be late.

It was only a fifty-minute drive but was like going to another world. My home town, Fergus Falls, had a population of twelve thousand people. However, Fargo had almost one hundred thousand people, and that didn't include its sister city or the surrounding suburbs. I wished we had time to go shopping at one of the malls!

I had no idea how much juggling with a group of competent jugglers could be. It was refreshing to be among people who had my level of skill, and surpassed me. Finally! I had found a place where I could learn! I was slightly disappointed that most of the people there were men. Aside from an older woman in her forties, Miss Bjornson and I were the only ladies.

That night, I got to stand in the middle of a passing pattern while two of the club leaders juggled around me. Had I moved a few inches to the left or right, I would have been struck with a club. Then they did the same thing with steel-cold machetes. It was exciting. I also got to participate in a seven-point juggling pattern, something I had never done before. Luke and his friend Eric kept disrupting the pattern, so they stood aside and practiced passing between them. Even with only five points, it was an experience to remember. I hoped I could make it to the club every month.

The highlight of my evening was when I got to juggle torches. Mr. Allen, the president of the chapter, handed me some gasoline and some matches. "Have you ever set a house on fire before?" he asked.

I looked at him suspiciously. "No... not that I know of."

"Then you're ready for torches. You're pretty solid with those clubs there. Here, try these for a minute before we light them."

I giggled. "You're really going to trust me with fire?"

"Consider it an initiation."

I felt the weight of the torches in my hands. Their center of balance was different than my clubs but I adjusted quickly.

"Dip the tips into the gasoline. Now, shake them out onto this strip here," he said, pointing to an absorbent fabric strip on the floor. "That takes away the excess. Move away from the gasoline so I can light you..."

All the other jugglers had stopped their patterns and gathered in a wide circle around me. I was nervous and excited at the same time. I was going to juggle fire!

The torches lit quickly. "Be sure to hold them parallel to the ground, or else the flame will ride up toward your hand," said Mr. Allen.

I saw what he meant and quickly leveled out my grip. "Am I ready? Can I start?"

"Go for it!"

I took a deep breath and began to juggle. The torches made a whooshing sound as they consumed oxygen and rotated. I threw a bad toss and knew that, if I caught it, I would be gripping the fire end. I let it clatter to the floor harmlessly. I kicked it up into my pattern and continued. I was grinning like a fool, but I didn't care. I was juggling torches!

The others burst into a spontaneous round of applause. I did a few quick tricks, collected them, and took a bow.

"That was great! My parents will never believe it. They don't even let me light candles!"

"Good thing I believe in ancient technology," Mr. Allen said, handing me a think black square. "Now you have the picture to prove it. Congratulations."

I furrowed my eyebrow, confused. As I stared at the square, its milky gray surface gave way to a clear photograph. I laughed. "A Polaroid camera?"

"Digital cameras are for modern sissies," he snorted. "Now, who else want to try before we all leave for the evening?"

Garrett took a go, and then it was time to leave. Miss Bjornson thanked Mr. Allen for letting us come – apparently there was a membership fee, but he let us in as visitors – and then we all waved goodbye.

I couldn't stop beaming. I think I grinned all the way back home.

It was around eleven when Miss Bjornson dropped me off at my house. I gave her a hug. "This was the best night I've ever had," I said.

"I'm glad you had fun. Maybe we'll do it again next month."

"You betcha! I can't wait!"

The porch light was on so I had no trouble navigating the slippery sidewalk. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I opened the door, but Mom always had owl ears and heard everything. She popped her head out of the bedroom as soon as I tip-toed inside. "How did it go?"

"It was awesome! I had so much fun! I made friends, and participated in a seven-point pattern, and learned lots of new tricks. And look! I got to juggle torches!" I held out the picture so she could see.

She didn't take it. "Just don't wake anyone else up." She withdrew into her bedroom.

I was crushed. I wanted to share the excitement of my evening with someone who surely would understand, but Mom didn't care. That hurt.

I looked at my photo with a sigh. My face stared back at me in an exuberant grin, and the torchlight seemed to jump off the picture. I couldn't stifle another smile as I remembered how proud I had been of myself.

Maybe that's enough, I thought. Nobody else will be proud of me, so I will be. I can make it on my own. I don't need anybody.

I fell asleep dreaming about jugglers.

Chapter 18: A Valentine Discovery

Statistic: When describing their current dating partners, 82% of young adults whose parents had divorced indicated that they did not fully trust their partner.

Statistic: Studies have shown that children of divorce are far more likely to be delinquent, engage in premarital sex, and bear children out of wedlock during adolescence and young adulthood.

The first week in February was extremely busy for us. All four of our pregnant livestock gave birth to their babies within a matter of days. My goat only had one kid, but Erika's goat and the sheep all had twins. Seven baby animals filled the barn.

The livestock were not the only ones having babies. Erika was pregnant, and would be due in July. At first, Roger was furious and couldn't understand how it had happened. Erika was surprisingly mature for her age and took his anger with great patience. When he had calmed down, she announced that she was moving in with her mother. Margaret, not to be outdone, also decided to move out of our house. Within a week they were both gone.

The changes were so sudden that I barely had time to process them. I knew that both Erika and Margaret had been unhappy at our place, but I thought it was just because it was their first divorce. Apparently it affected Erika more deeply than I had suspected. I wanted to talk to her, or tell her that I knew how miserable she was, or something. But we never really saw each other, even when she was still living with us.

Margaret had taken care to be as invisible as possible to the point that we barely noticed she was gone. The only real adjustment was that I was given care of her rabbits as well as Erika's goat. It was no big addition to my chores; my own brothers and Becky had been neglecting their animals for months. I was the one feeding, watering, and exercising all the animals in the barn. I suppose I could have tattled, but their absence ensured my solitude and strengthened my claims on the barn as my special sanctuary.

I did wonder how Erika was going to manage school, however, especially now that she was pregnant. Most other girls just dropped out. I wasn't the only one who was concerned with her education, either. I overheard two of her teachers gossiping about her in the hallway.

"It's too bad about that Shenton girl," one of them said.

"Yes, but it's not surprising. Her parents are divorced, you know."

"I know. I just hate to see it happen. She's really a good kid. At least, she was until this past year."

"Don't parents learn anything? You'd think they'd pay a little more attention to their kids."

"Or their marriages... Well, there goes another victim of statistics. I suppose she's started drinking and smoking, too."

I wanted to yell at them for talking about my stepsister in that casual, irreverent manner, but I passed them instead. It was true that Erika liked to drink. Even Matt, who now worked in the evenings, found time to drown his woes in a beer or two. He had also started smoking, having picked up that habit from his co-workers at the restaurant.

What made me angriest, however, was the fact that such behavior was _expected._ Those teachers had wondered why parents never learned anything, but my quarrel was that the kids themselves never learned. How could we, as teenagers, always be so blind? Let the stupid adults make their stupid mistakes! Let them all be selfish and immature, forgetting why they got married in the first place! Never mind that love is about taking care of the other person, even more than your own self; a noble and brave undertaking! The way of divorced people is to forget and grow selfish, which leads to a downward spiral of utter failure. And then they pass their failures on to their innocent offspring, who turn to their parents as role models.

As for me, I would never be like that!

When I reached my locker, my hands were clenched so hard into little fists that the knuckles had turned white. Their conversation about Erika was about me, too. It was personal. I was expected to fail. I was expected to get pregnant, get drunk frequently, and become addicted to cigarettes and possibly drugs. I was expected to graduate with a high school diploma and never go on to college. I was expected to be divorced myself, if ever I got married, and probably I would be married two or three times before finally getting it right. My children were expected to follow the pattern - that everlasting negative circle of failure from which only a few ever broke free – and they would pass it on to their children.

No! I would not be a statistic! Erika might have fallen already, and Matt was working on it, but I had my List.

It was early in the morning. I was glad that I was heading for study hall, because my stomach was knotted tightly and I didn't think I could concentrate on classes. After study hall would be lunch, followed by choir, and then my gym class. By then, I was sure that my mind would be clear enough to make it through English. And there were always the baby goats and sheep waiting to be cuddled. Gallant Rose would want to be exercised. And Mouser, up in the hay loft, waited for me with her kitten.

Thinking about my animals made me feel much better. Unfortunately, I wasn't watching where I was going. Just outside the choir room, on my way to the gym, I tripped over my own shoelace and whacked my knee into the radiator.

With a sigh, I knelt down tie my laces and rub my poor knee. Just what I needed.

Naomi's voice echoed off the walls from inside the choir room. The door was open. She was upset about something.

"But the banquet is today! We've been scheduled for weeks!"

"I don't know what to do. Kayla has laryngitis. You'll have to go without an alto section."

"But my dad has been bragging to the Kiwanis about our four part harmony. We can't perform with just three."

"So find somebody else," said Mrs. Crofton. "Surely somebody knows the songs. Have you tried Beverly? She's very good with harmony. She's a fast learner."

I heard Naomi snort. "She can't read sheet music. She'll never learn in time. We have to be there in two hours."

"She doesn't need sheet music to learn the songs. She only has to hear her part once and she's got it. Why don't you go find her and see if she's available?"

I edged closer to the open door to hear the response.

"She won't want to. I know she'll refuse."

Mrs. Crofton was quiet for a few seconds. Then her voice grew hard. "I don't know what quarrel you two have with each other, but you need to put it behind you. The Kiwanis donate a lot of money to this choir, and I expect my Chamber Singers to do their best for them. It's a pride issue for me as well as you. Find Beverly. She'll be happy to sing with you."

So. That's what was wrong. Tonya, one of the altos who made it to Chamber Singers, was sick and couldn't sing for today's banquet – and Naomi was too proud to ask me for help. I smirked an evil smile. I could let her come to me and beg, or I could be noble about the situation...

With a sigh, I chose the right action. I knocked on the door to let them know I was there.

"Did you have a minute? I wanted to check out some sheet music for regionals," I said, looking at Mrs. Crofton. "Oh, hey, Naomi. What's up."

"Beverly! I'm glad you dropped by," said Mrs. Crofton. "Naomi has something to ask you."

Naomi pressed her lips together. I could tell that she was trying to regain her composure. "Tonya has laryngitis and we have a Kiwanis banquet today. Do you know the songs that the Chamber Singers have been working on?"

I shrugged. "No."

She looked at Mrs. Crofton in despair.

"What are you doing right now?" Mrs. Crofton asked.

"I have study hall, but I usually go help Miss Bjornson with the juggling unit."

"Can you skip juggling today and work with Naomi on some songs? The banquet starts in a few hours. I can excuse you from your other classes."

"I don't really have any other classes. After study hall I have lunch, and then choir, and then my own gym class. English is my last course of the day."

Mrs. Crofton smiled. "That's perfect. You've already passed your gym class, right? Miss Bjornson can spare you for a few hours?"

I shrugged. "Sure. Let me go tell her."

When I returned, Naomi had the music set up in the practice room. "This is so stupid," she muttered. "You're never going to learn in time."

"Give me a chance," I said patiently. "Why don't you sing the soprano line so I can hear what it's supposed to sound like."

She shook her head but began to play the song on the piano. I watched the words, not the notes, and listened to the way the chords intertwined with each other. When she finished, I said, "Now play it again and tell me where I'm wrong."

"You can't possibly know it already," she hissed.

"Not the words, no. The tune, yes. Try me."

She played the song again and sang her part. I joined in on the alto harmony. Not to brag, but I was flawless.

Her expression lost its hostility. "You figured that out from listening to my part?"

I shrugged.

She continued to stare at me. "I can't believe you can do that."

"Why? Because I sound like I swallowed a cricket, or because Mrs. Crofton only let me into A Cappella because she pitied me?"

Naomi recognized her own words, even though they were months old. She looked down at the piano keys and swallowed.

I pressed my point. "Some things don't need to be taught. It's true that I can't read music. I wish I could." Suddenly, confessions started spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them. "You don't know how much I envy you. I wish I could afford piano lessons and voice lessons, like you. Heck, I even wish my hair would lay nice and straight like yours!"

I think I embarrassed her, because she did not say anything. She blinked a lot, though. The moment grew uncomfortable, so I pulled out the second song. "Show me how this one goes?"

I learned six new songs within an hour, and had the words memorized too. Since the Chamber Singer costumes were kept in Mrs. Crofton's office and Tonya and I were the same size, I had no trouble finding a robe that fit me. The other Chamber Singers were a little hesitant to accept me into their intimate little group. Once we started singing, however, they relaxed to the point of smiling at me from time to time. The banquet was a success.

We returned to school just as choir class was ending. As I finished changing into my regular clothes, Naomi took my robe and hung it up. "You saved our butts today," she said. "Don't expect anything more than that, though."

"I don't. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to join you. It was like a dream come true."

"I didn't give you anything," she mumbled, but it seemed more of an automatic contradiction than a heartfelt argument.

Suddenly, I felt sorry for her. If she was a statistic, the way Darcy had said, then she had to be even more miserable than I was. She was so used to being mean to other people that she couldn't enjoy the world around her. Suddenly, her insults lost their sting. I realized that I didn't have anything to fear from Naomi any more.

The juggling unit came to a close on Valentine's Day. I was surprised to discover that I was sad about that. The past six weeks had brought me closer to my classmates than the previous ten years combined. I had been in their faces, correcting, instructing, praising. It amazed me to find that they weren't as judgmental as I had imagined. They actually looked up to me and admired my skill. It was a refreshing change. Part of it was raw talent, I thought, but I also realized that I had made a change in myself. I had been forced to talk to them, which let them discover that I wasn't as stupid as they thought. Plus, a little bit of makeup and hairspray went a long way. Those six weeks had built a good deal of self-confidence in me.

"So this is it, huh?" asked Luke.

"Yeah, until next year. Miss Bjornson asked me to come back and help teach the next group of sophomores."

"Are you going to check the foyer to see if you got a Valentine?"

"What for? Nobody would send me anything, except maybe my parents, and they don't do cards or flowers."

"You should check, just in case."

"And humiliate myself? I'd rather not. Hand me that bag, will you?"

He held it open while I gathered all the juggling equipment. "Why are you putting everything away? I thought you taught another class after this one."

"They tested yesterday. They'll be playing badminton today."

"So you're free for lunch."

I raised my eyebrows. "I suppose so."

He grinned. "I guess you're going to spend it juggling on the landing, then."

"What else would I do? I have nowhere else to go."

He helped me carry the heavy bag downstairs and lock it in Miss Bjornson's closet. "You should really check the Valentine table."

"There's nothing there," I replied, but his insistence made me curious.

Just before the bell rang, the third set of announcements came over the loudspeakers. There had been so many Valentines that the principal had been forced to make frequent reports as to who had what, and please come pick them up. I was shocked to hear my name. "Sidney Johnson, Beverly Shenton, Erik Frank..."

"Hey, there's your name!" said Luke.

I frowned. "It must be a joke of some sort."

"Well, I'm gonna be here for a while. You should go see what it is. Then come back and pass with me. I've gotten pretty good at passing."

"Okay. Keep some clubs out for me, then." As I approached the foyer where all the Valentines were set out in alphabetical order on the tables, I wondered if I couldn't have heard the announcement wrong. No, because Luke had heard my name, too. It wasn't just my imagination.

I waited in line, trying to guess who could have given me a Valentine. I overheard some other girls while I was waiting.

"Oh, look, Michelle! Derek sent you some flowers! And Chris gave you some roses. That's so sweet."

Michelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Neither of them have a chance. They're not my type." Her arms were already loaded with chocolates, teddy bears, and balloons. She struggled to scoop her other gifts into her arms. Her friend had to help her, even though her own arms were overflowing with trinkets of adoration.

I shook my head. How could anyone be so callous and jaded? Here I was, receiving my first Valentine, and it felt good. Even if it was from my parents, as I suspected.

I took a step forward and gave my name to the senior running the table. He looked through the list, found my name, and handed me my valentine.

It was a little clown teddy bear, dressed in red and white hearts, and he was juggling. The card was anonymous but read "From your secret admirer."

My family never would have written that. It had to be Luke!

I could not suppress my smile. The juggling bear was cuter than any other stuffed animal on the entire table. I hurried back to the landing, where I knew Luke would be waiting for me.

"What was it?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"As if you didn't know." I held up the bear, smiling like a fool.

"I can't believe you weren't going to check the table. I would have died if you had left it there!"

I sat down on the steps, a few feet from him, and held the bear with both hands. "Luke, I have to ask you something. Um... is this from a friend, or a hopeful boyfriend?"

He stopped juggling. "I have to admit, I have a sweet spot for you. I was kind of hoping you felt the same way."

I nodded, flattered. "I do like you, Luke. But I've never had a boyfriend before. There's a reason for that."

"Please don't tell me you're gay."

I laughed. "No, but Naomi Bell likes to think so. Never mind – that's a joke. I'll explain it to you later."

"So what's up?"

I sighed. "I barely have any friends. I have a hard time talking to people, you know?"

"You're joking, right? I've seen you teaching us how to juggle. You don't seem shy at all."

"That's part of the New Me Project." At his confused expression, I hurried to explain. "My mom's been divorced and remarried a few times, and this year I decided to start deliberately creating a new identity for myself. Especially after my name was taken away." I told him about my name change and my List.

"So what you're saying is that you're afraid of commitment," he said.

"What? No, that's not it."

"You're afraid to make mistakes?"

"That's not it either."

He put his clubs down and sat down beside me. "It seems that way to me. You write down other people's mistakes so you don't commit the same ones, but you avoid contact with other people in the hopes of avoiding making your own mistakes."

His observation made me uncomfortable. "Sort of," I said. "I think certain miseries in life can be avoided by using simple common sense. But I've avoided the friend factor because they always seem to leave anyway." I told him about how many times I had moved, made friends with the neighbors, and about Darcy.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere," he said. "But I do see your problem. And I'm willing to wait." He held out his hand. "Friends, then?"

My brow creased in hesitation. "Just like that? You're not upset with me? Angry, sad...?"

"In either case, you have yourself a juggling partner. Why would I be angry about that?"

"Because when someone has a crush on someone else, and that someone else doesn't return the same feelings, the relationship is usually tainted. Lopsided somehow."

"Well, I promise to keep myself under control. You're sure that you don't have any crushes on anyone else, though, right?"

"Nope. You don't have to worry about competition."

"Okay. Then we can be friends."

I took his hand and shook it, then laughed. We finished out our lunch hour by passing clubs.

That afternoon, I took my little juggling bear up to the hay loft to show to Mouser and her kitten. I lay back in the hay and folded my arms behind my head as a pillow, and then told Mouser all about my day. It had been two months since I first discovered her, and she often approached me and let me run my fingers through her soft, thick fur. She never let me pick her up, though.

Today, however, to my complete and utter surprise, she crawled onto my chest and butted her head under my chin. She began to purr. I almost didn't dare to move, except that I knew she was asking me to pet her. Slowly, I reached my arm out to her head and began to scratch the back of her neck, just the way she liked. It was such a precious, fragile moment. Breathing might have disturbed it. After a short time, she fell asleep, nestled in my arms in complete comfort.

It had happened. I had won her trust.

I remembered my ultimatum and felt a slight surge of regret. Now that I had earned the trust of this stray with whom I identified, it was time for me to start working on my own relationships with humans. A sudden thought startled me. Wait a minute! I already had a friend – Luke. And it had been easier than I expected.

I glanced at the juggling bear. I was glad that Luke hadn't pressured me for something I couldn't offer - yet. Maybe in time, I thought. I'll be patient and see where this goes.

Chapter 19: Spring

One can sometimes love that which we do not understand, but it is impossible clearly to understand what we do not love. – Leo H. Grindon

Peter discovered Mouser's kitten the next day when he and Roger came to check on the sheep. I tried to keep him from going up into her private domain, but he refused to listen. She was alarmed and distraught. Her fur puffed on end so that she looked like a dirty snowball, and the hissing noises had been enough to make Peter think she had rabies. He snatched the kitten away from her, however, before I could stop him.

Mouser's kitten was accustomed to being petted, and so had no fear of Peter. Mouser herself, however, was in a panic.

"Make Peter put him back!" I shouted to Roger, who was examining the baby sheep.

"What's going on?"

Peter displayed the kitten proudly. "I'm going to call him Peter."

"That's a stupid name. Give him back."

"Let him keep it. He's not hurting it."

"No, but he's making the mother anxious. Look." I pointed upstairs, where Mouser had poked her head down through the hole in the ceiling and was watching her baby fretfully.

"She's just a stray. She'll get used to it. It's better for the kitten to have a good home than to starve," Roger shrugged.

I gritted my teeth. "Does he look like he's starving? I feed him every day! If anybody should lay claims to him, then he belongs to me. And I say he belongs up in the loft with his mother."

Peter made a face. "He's mine. I found him!"

"I found him first."

"Children! Stop arguing."

I hated being called 'children.' I was sixteen, no longer a child. "Fine. If he gets to keep the kitten, then I get to keep the cat. Didn't you say we have a rat problem in the house? Mouser's good at catching mice. I'd like to keep her in my bedroom with me."

"She's probably got rabies," said Peter. "Or worms."

Roger looked at us – the kitten, Peter, and me. Mouser had made her way down to the lower level, and padded her way over to my feet. She looked terrified of the others, especially Roger, who was probably the tallest human she had ever encountered. Even so, she put a paw on my leg and let out a plaintive 'meow' that clearly asked for help in getting her kitten back.

I scooped her up into my arms, where she trembled and tried to hide in my coat.

Roger's face was pensive. "You've worked a lot with that animal, haven't you?"

"Yes," I said, somewhat defensively. I didn't know if he was going to make me promise to not feed them anymore, or say that we had to keep them in the barn. Once the idea of keeping Mouser in my bedroom had been verbalized, I really wanted it to come true.

"You'll have to pay for her vet bills. She'll need shots. And food. And a litter box."

He was giving me permission to keep her!

"You mean..."

"She obviously likes you. And I don't like having mice in the house. That kitten's too young to do anything useful yet. You may as well keep... what's her name, Mouser... in your bedroom. Just don't let her get in your mother's way."

"I won't!" I promised.

Peter took his kitten up to the house immediately. Mouser jumped out of my arms and followed her baby all the way up to the porch. I held the door open and coaxed her inside. She crouched low to the ground, tense and ready to flee, and twitched her tail. I had to carry her up to my room.

We decided that, for now, the kitten would sleep in my bedroom with his mother until he adjusted to the house. Mouser had obviously been someone's pet before, because she curled right up on my pillow as if she had a perfect right to be there. I worried about fleas, but even they could not quell my jubilation at having my own cat.

March and April were always the hardest months to deal with in Minnesota, at least for me. The weather was deceptive. At thirty-five degrees above zero, the snow and ice began to melt. Technically, that meant it was warm enough to wear shorts and tee shirts. Of course, whenever I did that, I ended up with a cold, but wearing full layers was too warm. So we generally ended up staying inside, fretting to be outside, and growing more irritable until the weather finally warmed up.

Cabin fever is a dangerous phenomenon. It can breed some explosive situations, like the one that occurred toward the end of March.

I came home from school in a bad mood. The story Mrs. Putnam had submitted in November had been rejected.

"Don't be so depressed," she told me. "I sent it to several contests; this isn't the only one. You always get rejections. It's just a matter of finding somebody who likes what you have to say."

I hated rejections. Plus, I had pulled a calf muscle in gym class, and gotten a B on a math exam. So when I arrived at home to find an extra-long chore list, I felt quite sorry for myself.

Peter never did his chores. I could yell at him all day long and threaten him with death itself, and he still wouldn't do his chores. I always ended up doing them for him, because if I didn't, then Mom would get upset at me. Not him, me. So unfair.

Enough was enough. I made dinner and swept the kitchen, but I left all his chores undone. When Mom came home, she noticed.

"Beverly, why wasn't the vacuuming done?"

"Peter said he didn't have time."

"Why didn't you do it for him, then? You know that I'll punish him for not doing his chores."

If I hadn't been in such a bad mood, I never would have said what I did. "What a fat lie! You always say that, and I always tell you that he doesn't do his work. Then I do it for him. You never punish him. He never does chores. I'm so tired of taking care of your house for you."

Mom's temper ignited instantly. "How I raise my children is my business, not yours. It's not up to you to keep track of how I deal with Peter."

"You're never home to raise your kids. You're never involved, in any case," I blurted. I knew I was pushing buttons. I didn't care.

"How dare you raise your voice to me, young lady? Of course I'm involved. Watch your mouth."

"Well, I'm not doing Peter's chores anymore. Or Matt's, or Becky's. I'm not your slave. If you want them to do their work, you get them to do it. I've had it."

"You're part of this household, and you'll do what I tell you to do. I can't take care of all the cleaning – I work all day long."

"You have evenings off, same as me," I snapped. "Not that you do anything in the evenings anyway. You always have a headache."

She crossed the room and stood directly in front of me. "If you don't like how I run things, then you're free to leave."

I clenched my fists. "I might do that. It's not like you'd notice. You never notice anything I do, except when I do something wrong."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Everything that I had suppressed over the past several months bubbled out. "It means you're a lousy parent. You're never there. You skipped my school play, my concert, my talent show, and my state competition. Ha! I bet you didn't even know that I tried out for the state choir. I told you, but I knew you weren't listening. You never listen to me."

"You never tell me anything. You like to keep your information to yourself. You sneak around and hide out in the barn all the time!"

"I'm only trying to avoid you because you always yell at me. I can never have a conversation with you without you yelling at me."

That earned me a slap.

I slapped her in return!

We stood there, both of us shocked. I had never returned a slap before. I was supposed to stand there and take it, defenseless, hands at my side until she was done. It was the proper punishment for being disrespectful, after all.

She glared at me with icy eyes. "Get out of my house. GET OUT!"

"Not a problem! I'm not coming back." I ran upstairs, grabbed my suitcase, and began packing. This time, I was serious about running away. It might make her realize how much she depended on me. Who would make dinner in the evenings? Who would clean the house? Who would take care of the animals? Not me! I wouldn't be there!

My heart stung me as I thought about abandoning Gallant Rose. I thought about taking her with me, wherever I was going, but Mom would probably press charges against me for being a horse thief. If I was going to run away, I needed to be as free from legal constraints as possible.

And then I saw Mouser.

My agitated, jerky actions had caused her to take refuge underneath the bed. She was hiding from me, trembling.

I couldn't leave my cat behind. I had spent too much time getting her to trust me. She wasn't like a dog, who would stay by my side through thick and thin as we wandered around the state trying to survive. She was a stray, accustomed to fending for herself, and would probably return to the farm after our first night under the stars. She would abandon me.

I was tired of losing everything I cared about. I had invested too much energy into her to just leave. I threw myself on the bed and tried to coax her to me. She was too afraid to come close. I would probably have to spend a few days repairing the damage that my temper had caused.

And it was all Mom's fault.

My conscience scolded me. You've never really told her how you feel. You just always assume she knows. You should talk to her.

I don't want to talk to her! She wouldn't listen anyway.

She deserves a chance. Everyone has a reason for their actions. Maybe she'll tell you hers.

Now, although it was my least favorite class last year, Speech made some interesting points. Once we had talked about people's motivations and getting them to listen to what you had to say. We had also discussed conflict resolution. I suddenly remembered that one strategy was to pick a point that we wanted to resolve, and then stay on track until we came to a solution. If other arguments tried to tempt us away, we were supposed to ignore them until the first problem was solved. I decided to try it with my mother.

What was my biggest argument? What was it that made me the angriest? I thought about it and fixed it in my mind, like Mr. Belkin had suggested. I steeled myself against any other arguments and focused on just one. Now, to confront Mom.

I found her downstairs, staring out the window.

"I thought you were leaving," she growled.

"I want to," I replied candidly. "But I want to stay even more."

"I don't care what you do."

"Well, I do. I'm tired of arguing with you. You're not my enemy; you're my mother. Other girls can talk to their mothers but we always end up yelling."

She did not look at me. Her silence either meant that she was ignoring me, or that she was listening. I took my chances.

"Look, the reason I'm so upset with you is because you're never home."

"I work. Someone has to pay the bills."

"Let me finish," I said with patience I did not feel. "I feel ignored. I know you have to work during the day, but you're home during the same hours I am in the evening. But we never see each other. I want to talk to you more. I don't know much about you, really. I don't know what you were like in third grade, or even what your favorite food is. I know more about my gym teacher than I do about you."

"What do you want to do, talk? Okay, let's talk. What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing, right now, except that I want you to be more approachable. I feel like you shut me out. You don't care about anything I do."

"Of course I care!"

"So how come you never attend my events? Why weren't you there for my play? My fire-juggling demonstration? My talent show? Maybe you didn't notice, but I didn't even invite you to the upcoming spring concert because I knew you wouldn't come."

She shrugged. "I wasn't feeling well."

"And you're planning to have a migraine for my spring concert?"

She glared at me.

I drew a deep breath. "You're sick all the time. You need to see a doctor. I'm leaving the house when I'm eighteen, and you only have two years left with me. If you want to miss out on my last two years, that's your business. I'm almost to the point where I don't need you anymore. Do you really want that to happen?" I felt so mature, guiding the argument with the finesse of an experienced lawyer. Mr. Belkin's speech class suggestions were working.

Her face was stony, almost hateful. But she didn't disagree with me.

I had presented my case, now it was time for the solution. "I feel like you're losing me. I don't want to be around you anymore, and I don't like feeling that way. I mean, if you don't want to be around me, then that's another case altogether. What will it be?"

Those icy blue eyes almost burned a hole through me. "What will what be?"

"Are you going to come to my spring concert, or are you going to lose me?"

"That's so stupid. Of course I'm coming to your concert."

"You always tell me that, and then you never come. I just want to spend time with you. I want you to be proud of me."

"I am proud of you."

"So prove it. Come support me."

She threw up her hands and walked away a few paces. "I'm doing all that I can! What more do you want? I work my butt off to provide you with a place to live and food to eat. Do you think that those animals are free? No! They're expensive. But Roger and I wanted to give you kids the opportunities we never had, like living on a farm. Remember when you were in fifth grade and I worked four jobs just to put you through private school for a few years? I wanted you to have a solid education so you don't end up like me!"

"I don't want your money, Mom. I want your time. A few hours in the evening once or twice a week is all I'm asking for. Remember when we used to play Scrabble when I was younger? We used to talk a lot back then. Or movie-and-popcorn night. We didn't talk much, but at least we were in the same room together. And don't worry about my grades. I'll probably end up with a scholarship to something or another. And even if I don't, I'm taking classes at the college next year so I can graduate with an Associate's degree when I get my high school diploma."

"You never told me about that."

"You never ask."

It was the old rhetoric again. We lapsed into a defeated silence.

Mom broke it with a sigh. "You're getting too old too fast. I don't know what to say to you anymore."

"We can learn. Wanna play Scrabble?"

She squinted. "I have a headache right now..."

My hope dissipated. I knew the tactics from Speech class would never work. They were just theory, after all, not for practical use in the real world. I had wasted my time.

She folded her arms. "I suppose I can take some aspirin. Maybe we can get a game in before dinner's done cooking."

The sun had come out and melted the ice off my world! I grinned at her and hurried to set up the game.

After that, we each made a conscious effort to not argue with each other, and to spend some time talking together each night. We reinstated movie-and-popcorn night. Throughout March, we did the dishes together after dinner, even though that was my job. She even taught me to crochet, and we made squares together for an afghan for my bed. We talked about the upcoming obedience trials at the State Fair in August, and how I hoped that Gallant Rose would take the blue ribbon. She promised to teach me a few tricks with my horse that might impress the judges. To my surprise, she kept her word.

We opened up to each other in a way we never had before. I did have my reservations, however, and waited for her newfound energy to burn off before she grew tired of me. When April arrived, and we were still on speaking terms, I relaxed a little bit. Only one thing stood in the way of my complete confidence in her: the spring concert.

It came during the last week in April. This time, there had been no hassle with fancy, expensive gowns. The theme was 'early rock'n'roll' which meant poodle skirts for the girls and jeans with white tee shirts for the guys. It was the same theme as my eighth grade concert, so I already had a poodle skirt. And it still fit, too.

The past few months had taught me a few tricks with makeup, which I applied with a relatively steady hand. The results were nowhere near as dramatic as Erika's transformation had been, but at least my lipstick was straight and the colors looked nice.

Matt drove me into town when he went to work at the restaurant.

"Good luck," he said as he dropped me off.

"Thanks. You'll be here when it's over?"

"I might be late. I'm closing tonight, but I should be done around eleven or so."

"I'll wait right here for you. The weather's nice enough now. I'll be fine."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I changed my outfit in the girl's bathroom nearest the choir room. It was fun to see the other girls' poodle skirts. Some of them had crinoline slips that made the skirt full and fluffy; others had intricate designs embroidered on them. Mine had been sewn with three large circles of red, blue, and yellow on the bottom left side of the skirt – my personal juggling emblem. It wasn't exactly authentic rock'n'roll garb, but it was personal.

"You ready to jitterbug?" asked Luke as we once again stood in line and waited for our cue.

"I can't wait," I replied.

"Oh! I almost forgot. I wanted to give this to you. I made a copy for myself." He withdrew a photo from his back pocket and handed it to me.

It was me – in my royal purple gown. Someone had taken a picture of me at the fall concert, probably by accident, and Luke had tracked it down. The fact that he made a copy for himself did not escape my attention.

"I think that day was the turning point in my career," I joked, but I was halfway serious. Erika's makeover had given me direction. It's funny that polishing my appearance would have had such an impact on my behavior, but it did.

"Do you have a pocket, or do you want me to hang onto it for you?"

"I have a pocket. Thanks, Luke."

As before, Mrs. Crofton paced back and forth in the halls, making sure that everything was just so. We sang our first number, retreated to the back room, and waited for the other choirs to finish their songs before we wrapped up the evening. As before, I haunted the wings, looking for my mother, who had promised to be there.

I did not see her. She was not coming.

Again.

I kicked myself for believing in her, for being so foolish as to think that things might have changed. I had to take a drink of water to relax my throat.

Luke found me beside the water fountain. "She didn't come again, huh?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"Don't take it personally. My folks work in the evenings. The only one who can come is my brother. He's out there in the front row."

"Well, my mom's not at work. She's sitting at home right now, probably watching television. If she had an excuse, it would be different."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"She could still come."

I chuckled. "Where would she sit? The seats are packed. Everyone's parents bought tickets to this concert, except mine. And yours."

"Well, look at it this way. You get to dance with me, the most handsome junior in the entire school. What do you say we go out there and cut some rug, huh?"

He took my hand and led me back to where the others were waiting. We heard the pounding feet of the other choir leaving the stage, and we took our positions in line.

As the curtain parted, just before the lights blinded us so we could not see the audience, I spotted my mother. She had taken a seat next to Luke's brother – the only empty seat in the entire auditorium.

"Oh my gosh! There she is!" I nudged Luke in the ribs.

"Who? Your mom?"

"I can't believe she came. I thought she wasn't going to show!"

"What's that beside her leg? Oh, look – she brought you a flower. Maybe she was late because she was buying it for you."

I stifled a giggle. "I can't believe she came," I repeated.

I sang louder and stronger than ever before, and my dances with Luke were probably the most energetic of all the couples. I don't really remember much of the concert itself, except that my mother was there. She was there – for me. She loved me after all!

When it was over, I rushed down to greet her before she could move anywhere. Not that she was leaving, of course, but I wanted to be near her.

She seemed kind of embarrassed and very shy. I flung my arms around her and bounced up and down. "I'm so glad you came! I'm so glad you came!"

She patted my back. "These are for you," she said, breaking the embrace by handing me two yellow roses.

I buried my nose in their soft fragrance. They could have been wilted dandelions for all I cared.

Luke stood beside his brother and grinned at me.

My mother noticed. "Are you going to introduce me to your... boyfriend?"

Luke laughed. "Not boyfriend... not yet, at least. I'm still working on that part."

I began to blush. "Um... Mom, this is Luke. Luke, my mother."

"Mrs. Shenton," she said, sticking out her hand.

"Nice to meet you."

"Oh, my gosh!" I exclaimed. "I need to call Matt and tell him not to pick me up, since I'm riding home with you."

Luke waved at us. "See you in class, then."

"Good night. Thanks for everything!"

I practically bounced out to the car. I know I bounced. My ponytail swished every which way. The ride home was not awkward or silent, either. Mom asked all the right questions about choir, from our music to the choreography and costumes, prompting a thorough dissertation on the goings-on of A Cappella Choir. I chattered away like a gaggle of geese. I doubt if the geese could have been noisier.

"So you liked my concert, then?"

"Very much. I had a lot of fun."

Our conversation was light, and not tense at all, so I thought I could get some answers. "If you liked it so much, why didn't you come to the others?"

She sighed. "I don't know much about music. I thought it would be stuffy and boring, or that I would be expected to make intelligent conversation about the pieces. And I thought that the other parents would be wearing their fanciest clothes. I didn't want to embarrass you."

"You could never embarrass me," I smiled. "Never. I'm so glad you came." I felt Luke's photograph in my pocket, and pulled it out. "Oh! Here, I wanted to show you the gown I wore for the last one. I just got a copy tonight."

She pulled into the garage and turned the car off. She studied the picture for a minute. She was so quiet, I was afraid that she was angry with me for wearing such a low-cut, tight dress and so much makeup.

I had to know, even if she was upset. "Well?"

"You look like a model," she breathed. Her eyes grew wet. She blinked. "You're so pretty. You must be so proud of yourself."

It was not what I was expecting. "Erika helped me with it. She knows a lot about makeup and hair."

Mom nodded. "I was never very good with those things. I remember when you were eleven and you wanted me to braid your hair. I told you I couldn't do it, but you thought I didn't want to. You were so mad at me. So I checked out a braiding book from the library so I could learn, but I could never get it right."

"I remember that book. I learned how to do Becky's hair from that."

"You were always quicker at those things than me," she shrugged.

"I didn't know you even tried," I said in a quiet voice.

"Yeah." She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, and then turned to me. "Look, sweetie, I know I haven't been the kind of mother you wanted, but I do try. I feel so inadequate. You're so much like me that I don't know what to do with you. I see myself in you, but you're doing everything I wanted to do and never had the courage for."

I was stunned. "Like what?"

"Like track, and choir, and grades. I was good in school, but I never had any friends. You have so many. You even have a boy who likes you. I spent most of my high school years in the corner somewhere, avoiding people."

"Me, too! I don't have many friends at all. Darcy was the first, but she died. And Luke was my choir partner until he learned how to juggle. We became buds because of that. I always thought you were popular in school."

"I thought you'd think I was a real loser if I told you about the real me."

"You could never be a loser. I'm proud to have you as my mom. I'd choose you if I had to be born again."

It was her turn to be shocked. "You... you would?"

I grinned. "Yeah. I would. Scout's honor." I held up three fingers.

She shook her head. "Scout's honor. You're crazy." She put her hand on the keys, which were still in the ignition. "Well, I'm not going to sit here all night long. Do you want to go get some ice cream?"

"Go back into town? Won't it be too late by the time we get back? I thought you wanted to go to bed."

"What I want," she smiled, "is to spend some more time with my beautiful daughter. I can sleep after you graduate. What do you say?"

What did I say? I said a whole bunch of things – during the ride into town, over a huge banana split, and all the way back to the farm.

Chapter 20: The Explosion

Statistic: The trend though is that men and women have more difficulty with parenting roles for the opposite gender. Thus, the mother relates better to her daughter after divorce than with her son, and vice versa with the father.

Some of life's best and worst moments happen in the bathroom. At least, that's how it always seemed to me. With four weeks left of school, most of the seniors were getting antsy and somewhat rowdy, too. We freshmen and sophomores tried to stay out of their way, especially when they strode down the middle of the hall as if they owned it. It was their last chance to cause mischief, and they took full advantage.

On Monday morning, just before school started, I was on my way to my locker when I saw a group of seniors gathered together. They were making spitballs, probably to launch on some poor, unsuspecting loner. I didn't want to be the recipient of their misplaced energies, so I took refuge in the bathroom.

The smell of vomit made me gag. I almost stepped back out into the hallway, but one of the seniors had seen me take refuge and knew how close I was standing to the door. She pushed it with a hard shove, and it knocked my books out of my hands. They flew everywhere.

"Ow!" I backed away, knelt down, and began to collect my pens, papers, and folders.

Whoever was vomiting had finished, and now came out of the stall. It was Naomi. She looked ill.

"Are you feeling okay?" I asked.

She glared at me. "Stomach flu. Maybe I'll breathe on you."

I stopped collecting my papers and turned to my backpack. "Want some gum?"

She hesitated. "Why are you always so nice to me?"

"Because you're so mean to me," I grinned.

She snatched the gum, unwrapped it, and popped it in her mouth. She didn't say thank you, but she did kneel down and help me gather my fallen possessions.

And then, to my horror, she picked up my List.

Its corners were frayed, and it was obvious that it was frequently used. I could tell that she was intrigued by it. "Thanks, I'll take that," I said firmly, holding out my hand.

"What's this?"

"It's nothing," I said, but the panic in my voice betrayed itself.

"Nothing? Looks like something to me." She stood up and began leafing through the pages.

"Give that to me. It's nothing important."

"Oh, my gosh. This is so stupid. 'No kissing until you get married... hear everyone's side of the argument before making an opinion... always be optimistic..." She turned her laughing blue eyes to me. "What's this? Some sort of rulebook?"

"Naomi, let me have that. Now."

"Or else what?"

"Or else nothing." I sighed. It was the same old game. "Fine! It _is_ a rulebook. My own rules for my life. I've been keeping it since I was thirteen."

"You're such a nerd. I can't believe how stupid you are."

"Yeah, whatever. You've seen it. Now give it back."

"I'm not done, Aristotle. What's this? Romance, general observations... It looks like you have a rule for every possible situation."

I stifled the urge to punch her flat on her butt. "I try."

"What about my situation?"

"I don't know. It's for me. My personal use. I don't write rules for other people. I only know what works for me." I tried to snatch it away from her by force, but she shielded it with her body.

"Stepparents are not always the enemy," she read. "Avoid arguments by not arguing.... Ooh, that's real obvious... and it looks like you just learned that one, too. It's dated February."

My shoulders slumped. In another five minutes, she would know everything about me, and she would broadcast my peculiarities to the entire school. I was doomed. "Please, Naomi? What do you want? I'll give you anything you ask for. Just let me have it back."

She slammed it shut and faced me. "What about my situation?" she repeated.

I held out my hands, empty, pleading. "I don't know. What situation?"

"My dad's divorcing my mom. She's an alcoholic. He can't stand her anymore. And the stomach flu? I'm not sick. I'm pregnant. And I'm keeping the baby this time. Don't act so surprised. What does your stupid little book have to say about that?"

I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone dry. "Nothing."

"So it's useless." She threw it on the ground, and it slid over to my feet.

"It's not useless," I mumbled.

"It's full of stupid ideas! It's as useless as you are!" Tears began to leak out of her eyes. She made no attempt to stop them.

It suddenly struck me why she was baring her soul to me. She thought I could help. Somehow, although she mocked me, insulted me, ridiculed me, and detested me, somehow she must have respected me enough to ask for help.

I picked my List up off the floor. "It's not useless," I said again. "There might be a few rules in it for you, too." I flipped it open to my general section, found one, and read it. "Life is shaped by decisions. What you do today affects tomorrow."

She sneered. "That's all?"

"One little rule isn't going to solve your problems, Naomi," I said. "You have to make a habit of making good decisions. You laughed at my no kissing rule. But, I'm never going to get pregnant until I'm ready. So it's a good rule for me."

"It's unrealistic. Or maybe not, for you. Nobody would kiss you anyway."

"That's probably true," I admitted, but the thought of Luke made me feel better. "So what are you going to do now, when you're a mother? Have you told your parents yet?"

She folded her arms. "Of course not. They'd kill me."

"Well, I've thought a lot about becoming a mother. I have several rules about that, too, but you'll probably laugh at them." I held my List out to her.

She looked at me in disbelief. "You want me to read that?"

"I don't care what you do. Share it with the whole school, for all I care. You can't possibly embarrass me further than you've already done this year."

"You're on. Boy, this'll be a good one!" She seized it from me and left before I could change my mind.

I knew exactly what she was going to do. She'd probably tear out the pages and post them on every locker possible. Everyone in the school would chuckle, and then they'd shun me for being such an idiot. I truly didn't care, though. I had my Mom to talk to, and Luke already knew about the List anyway. They both liked me for who I was. And Matt, and Mouser and Gallant Rose – I had more friends at the end of this school year than I did when it began. Naomi couldn't take them away from me!

A few days passed, and when Naomi did not make my List public, I stopped worrying so much about being ridiculed. But worry is a part of my life, so I turned my worries to Matt.

His life wasn't going so well. He had friends, yes, but the wrong sort. His buddies at the restaurant were a bad influence on him. I tried to point it out to him, but he couldn't see it. Or didn't want to. Or didn't care. He was as lonely as I had been, and probably more desperate to belong.

Even his wrestling season had not gone well for him. He had only brought home one ribbon – a red ribbon for second place – and somehow he was ashamed of it. Having a car of his own increased his independence, which meant that he returned home at late hours, and left as quickly as possible in the mornings. At least I didn't have to take the bus all the time, since I could bum a ride if I promised to pay for gas.

One night, a few weeks before school ended, he got caught. Mom usually stayed up late to make sure that we kids got home safely, but she rarely left her bedroom doorway. Tonight was different.

It was around midnight. I was in the living room, studying Hamlet for an upcoming final exam, reading by candlelight to add to the dramatic mood of Shakespeare's' play. The doorknob twisted, and the door creaked open. One thing about old houses is that you can always hear people going and coming, so his entrance did not frighten me. "Hey," I said.

He jumped. "Oh my gosh. I thought you were Mom."

"Nope, just studying." I wrinkled my nose. "Have you been smoking?"

He shrugged. "Just a puff or two. Nothing bad."

"Each cigarette takes one minute off your life," I quoted.

"Shut up."

"Good night."

"Whatever." He went into the kitchen for some water.

Whatever. My self-imposed identity. I was pleased to find that I no longer thought of it that way; it was an attitude, not a nickname. It had lost its power over me. I didn't know when the change had occurred, but it was nice to find that I thought of myself as Beverly now. I was almost relieved to discover that fact.

Mom popped her head out. "Matt? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm on my way to bed."

She turned to me. "Why are you still awake?"

I held up my book. "Hamlet. I have an exam tomorrow."

"Well, you'll never pass it if you're too tired to take it," she said.

"Okay. Good night." I gathered up my study items.

She disappeared into the bedroom. Only a fraction of a second later, however, she opened her door again. "Do you smell something?"

I froze. "No."

"Something smells like... smoke... Cigarette smoke!" She wrapped her robe around her and came into the living room. She bent over me and took a whiff.

"It's not me!" I protested.

She jerked her head toward the kitchen. Matt knew she was coming and tried to scurry up the back stairs, but she caught him. "Stop right there, mister!"

Oh, man. He was done for. I wanted to flee to my bedroom and avoid the whole thing, which I knew would explode, but I could not get my feet to move.

Mom pointed her finger at him. "You smell like smoke."

"It's from the restaurant. I work the smoking section. You get better tips that way."

"Don't lie to me. I can smell it on your breath."

Matt backed up a few steps. "Get away from me!"

"How could you? Your grandfather died from lung cancer. Puffing on a cigarette is like puffing on a cancer stick. You may as well just swallow the whole thing!"

"It's not as bad as chewing tobacco," he countered. "I don't dip. I just took a few puffs."

"It's bad enough that you're endangering your own health, but you bring that stench home with you? What are Peter and Becky going to think? They look up to their big brother. They follow your example. What kind of life are you showing them?"

"Oh, look who's lecturing who on leading a quality life."

"I don't smoke or drink, buster."

"No, you just shout and scream all the time. Gee. Which is worse, I wonder."

"That's enough from you. You're grounded. You're not allowed to leave your room for a week."

"But I'll lose my job."

"Then so be it. You have to learn that you can't smoke."

"You're grounding me?"

She folded her arms. Her answer was obvious.

"I don't believe this," he snarled. "You're so stupid. I'm making money so I'm not a burden to this family, and you're gonna make me lose my job. What kind of a mother are you?"

"I will not watch you waste away from lung cancer."

"I'm not gonna get lung cancer. Or any kind of cancer. You're just trying to ruin my life!"

Becky's voice floated down the stairs. "Mom? Is everything okay?"

"Now you woke up your sister. Go to bed," Mom said, "before you wake the rest of them up!"

The rest of them being Peter and Roger, who could sleep through a tornado. I didn't bother to point that out to her, though.

Matt set his jaw. I had never seen him so calm. It frightened me.

"Fine," he said. "If that's how you want it, then fine. I'm tired of you telling me what to do and what not to do. I suppose you want to know when I take a pee, too."

"That's inappropriate," Mom said.

"Well, I'm fed up with you. You and Roger. I'm almost seventeen. You can't treat me like a child any more." He stamped upstairs. I heard his bedroom door slam. Even that wouldn't have awakened Peter, though.

Mom's shoulders slumped. I heard her sigh – a deep, long, heartbreaking sigh. She turned to me. "Do you think I was too harsh?"

Two months ago, she wouldn't have cared. Or asked my opinion. But things had gotten so good between us that I knew she was really trying. "I would have grounded him," I shrugged. "But with Matt, you have to do it differently. He's like a pile of charcoal soaked in lighter fluid. He's ready to ignite at any moment."

She put her hand on my cheek. "You'll make a good writer someday," she sighed, and then returned to her room.

I dashed upstairs to Matt's room. I scratched on the door. He flung it open. On his bed lay a suitcase and a duffel bag. His dresser drawers were open - and empty.

Fear gripped my heart. "What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing."

"Oh, Matt. Don't go. Don't leave."

"I can't stay. You heard her. Telling me what to do."

"She's trying to keep you from poisoning yourself. You know what happened to Grandpa."

"It's not that," he spat in disgust. "It's everything. I can't deal with it anymore."

"So you're leaving? Really, truly?"

"Yep."

He zipped his duffel bag shut, and locked his suitcase. Within a matter of minutes, he had packed his entire collection of worldly belongings into those two bags. He looked at me, his blue eyes bright with anger. "Are you going to try to stop me?"

"You'd probably break my arm," I smiled sadly. I stepped aside. "Where will you go?"

"Cory's place. They'll take me for a few weeks. I'm already enrolled in college courses for the summer, so I can move into the dorms in June."

"You have money?"

"I've got a job."

"What about me?"

"You can still come with me if you want. I have enough to pay for two of us."

I shook my head. "That's not what I meant. I don't want to leave."

He dropped his jaw. "You don't? Why not? What's wrong with you? I thought you hated Mom!"

"No. I was angry for a while, but we've worked things out. She's not the enemy, you know."

"You've been brainwashed."

"Come on, Matt. She's really great when you get to know her. She's funny, and intelligent, and sweet. Give her a chance."

"What for? So she can ruin my life again? I've had enough of her."

"You need to change that attitude. I did. It was me that made fights for us. I was always ready to argue, so she was, too. But once I decided to stop being so quarrelsome, the fights stopped. It was me, Matt, not her. It was me!"

He held up his hand. "Okay, you know what? Stop. Right there. I don't need any little trite rules from your list."

It was my turn to be shocked. He had never attacked my List before. It was like attacking my soul.

He pulled it out of his back pocket. "Naomi gave it to me in class today. She was too embarrassed to give it back to you personally."

I snatched it from his hands. "Did anyone else see this?"

"Nope. She did say that if she had read this last year, she wouldn't be in such a predicament now. I didn't know you two liked each other."

"We don't."

"Well, I don't need you preaching at me."

"I'm not going to."

"Okay. Goodbye, then." He held out his hand.

I looked at it in disbelief. "A handshake? That's all you can offer?" I threw my arms around his neck. "Good luck, Matt. I'll see you in school."

He patted my back awkwardly. "See you around. And I'm sorry that you're gonna take the heat for this."

I wiped my eyes. "It's no big deal. They'll be angrier with you for leaving, than with me for not stopping you."

"It's not like you could stop me anyway." He lugged his bags down to his car.

I watched him through the window and waved goodbye. He waved back, and then rolled down the driveway.

He was gone. As quickly as Margaret and Erika had left, he disappeared, too.

Matt's sudden departure left a hole in my heart – and in the family. Mom felt like a complete failure. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn't know how. I always knew that we would grow up and grow apart someday, but I wasn't prepared for it happening so soon. This was preventable. Or was it? Matt's problems went a lot deeper than smoking and red ribbons. They had been brewing for years.

We didn't share any classes, or even lunch period this semester. I rarely saw him after that. Sometimes I'd pass him in the hallway and try to strike up conversation, but he seemed harder somehow. Cold, distant. Different. It was as if we lived in separate states.

Boom. Just like that. Our Brady Bunch was down to three of its six kids. If Roger left too, the casualty count would rise to fifty percent – and I couldn't decide if those would be acceptable losses or not.

* * * * *

The results of the writing contest finally came in May, three weeks before school was done, and Mrs. Putnam handed me a check for $50 plus a certificate saying that I had taken third place out of four hundred contestants. Third! I hadn't even expected to place at all, much less win any money. They could have given me a single dollar, and I still would have felt like a champion. Not only that, but my story would be published in a collection of short stories written by other young adults. I could honestly claim that I was now a legitimate, published author. Wow.

Mrs. Putnam told me to continue writing during the summer, and to keep a journal. She lavished me with creative assignments – not that I would have time to do them, especially during summer break – but it encouraged me to keep growing.

I gloated about my success at dinner, and received my congratulations with assumed modesty. Peter even asked me for help with his creative writing assignment for the end-of-year project. I was flattered. Becky treated me like a hero, saying that she was proud of her 'famous sister.'

Mom made breakfast for us the next morning – a rare treat on a weekday, since we all had to catch the bus and go our separate ways – and beside my place mat was a card with my name on it. Curious, I tore the envelope and read the card.

"I'm so proud of you," it declared. The inside read, "For just being who you are."

Mom caught my eye, and she looked kind of embarrassed. "I'm glad you won the contest, honey, but I'm even prouder of who you are as a person. You don't need prizes to make me proud of you."

My face almost split in half as my grin stretched up to my ears. She kissed the top of my head and smiled back at me.

Life couldn't have been more perfect for me.

Why is it, that when everything is going well, something happens to crash your whole world? Always! Without fail!

That weekend, I heard Mom and Roger arguing about something. I could not hear the specifics, but I knew it was something terrible. It was so bad that it made Mom cry.

Was it another divorce? Was Roger giving up on the family? What could have made my mother – so strong, so stoic – weep so uncontrollably? She usually shouted or got angry, but she never cried. It had to be something really bad, then. I felt terrified.

I stayed clear of their bedroom, retreating instead to the barn. I found my darling Gallant Rose waiting for me in the pasture. She nickered when I approached, and rubbed her nose against my tee shirt. "Hey, baby," I said. "Ready for some exercise?" I clipped the rope to her halter and took her for a walk. She heeled like a well-trained dog. She also did tricks, too. Useless, I know, but I thought they were cute. When the walk was done, I put her through her paces. She shook hooves, bowed to me, and fluttered her top lip as if she were speaking. It had taken me a long time and a good deal of effort to figure out how to teach her that one, but we managed it with the help of some peanut butter stuck to her gums until she learned how to do it herself. I hoped it would impress the judges at the State Fair in August when she began to 'speak.'

When we were done, I took her inside the barn and hitched her to a post so I could currycomb her. Unlike Charlie, she was ticklish, and had a tendency to trot away instead of holding still. I talked baby talk and nonsense to her. I was so amazed at how big she had gotten. Not so much height – she was her full height when she first arrived – but she had filled out. She was beautiful. I knew she would take a blue ribbon at the Fair.

Finally, I walked her out to the pasture. I stopped when I saw Mom there. She had her arms draped around Charlie's neck. They were both holding very still. I listened, but did not hear any sobs. She was probably done crying and had moved into the depression that follows a good cry. I wondered what had set her off.

"Mom?"

She turned to me and sniffed. "Oh. Hi."

I unhooked the rope from Galli's halter and patted her rump. She trotted off, fresh and pretty, and proceeded to roll in the grass. So much for currycombing.

Mom released Charlie from her desperate embrace, but kept her arm on his back. "You've done wonders with that horse," she murmured.

"Isn't she great? There's no way she'll lose at the State Fair."

Mom turned agonized eyes in my direction. "Oh, honey..." She swallowed hard. "There's no way to say this easily. I just... I wish..."

I clenched my jaw. "What? What is it, Mom?"

"There isn't going to be any Fair. We have to move again."

"You can't be serious."

She nodded sadly. "We bought this place because we had six kids. Now there are only three of you. It's too far from town. The animals aren't as big a success with the other kids as we had hoped."

"But they're a success with me. I do a good job, don't I?"

"It's too much to ask of you."

"I've never complained."

A tear defied her and dripped down her cheek. "We can't afford it anymore. It was justifiable when we had the six of you, but now it's just a burden. At least you got your horse. Dream fulfilled." Her voice trembled as she said the last sentence.

"Fulfilled? Are you kidding? I haven't gotten to show her yet, or ride her. She's not even broken. What are we going to do with her?"

"Sell her. Same as the others."

"We can't!"

"It's life, Beverly. We have to."

"Your life, maybe. Not mine. You always mess things up, just when things start looking good."

She was strangely silent, almost defeated. I knew my words had cut her deeply. It made me feel strangely powerful – in an evil sort of a way. I wanted to say something that would hurt her, sort of revenge for all the moves and pain I had been put through. But I stopped myself for two reasons. First, accusing her would do no good. We were moving again, and I had no choice. Fussing would not solve anything. And the other reason was more of a revelation than a reason – I could tell that Mom didn't want to move any more than I did. Having the farm was her dream more than mine. To her, it seemed like a final stab at making a dream come true before she was too old to enjoy it. No wonder she was pressed so closely to Charlie. He was her horse, her dream – and saying goodbye was no easier for her than it was for me.

In that moment, I felt closer to understanding my mother than ever before. I swallowed my pride. And my anger. "We're going to miss them, aren't we?" I asked, my voice husky with emotion.

She looked surprised, probably expecting this argument to drag on and on, with disastrous results. She nodded her response.

"When are we leaving? Next month or so?"

"No. Three weeks. June first. We put the house on the market yesterday. It sold almost overnight."

"It's good property." I distanced myself from my emotions. I could almost see myself standing in the pasture next to my mother and our horses. I had to focus on business. I had to. "So. When do the horses go?"

"Soon as we find a buyer."

"The other animals?"

"Their original owners agreed to take them back."

Mom's face conveyed a deeper sadness than what I felt. I knew she was in need of more comfort that I. "Well. I'll make sure the barn's clean by the time we leave. Do you want me to start collecting boxes?"

She nodded. Her chin quivered.

"Have you told Peter and Becky?"

"Not yet," she whispered.

"Do you want me to?"

She looked out at the horses. I could not tell if she had heard me, or if she was too upset to answer.

I wrapped my arms around myself. Gallant Rose approached me, probably wanting a sugar cube or an apple. She nuzzled my arm. I pushed her away. She tried again, so I pushed harder. It was better if she weaned herself from me now, than having to deal with the sudden shock of living with a new family. I wondered if I was pushing her away for her sake, or for mine. It didn't matter.

I turned my back on the three of them – Mom, Charlie, and my former darling, Gallant Rose – and returned to the house. I didn't look back. I knew the routine.

Chapter 21: Moving On

My poverty and not my will consents. –Romeo and Juliet

I have been accustomed to study men's countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution. –Ivanhoe

The last day of school came. My teachers had practically given up on any lessons for the week, since none of us were paying any attention anyway. We spent the day signing yearbooks and glancing at the clock.

Of course, I couldn't afford a yearbook. I always wanted one but the timing was always off. Last year, when I had been in A Cappella choir and done the spring play, there were several pictures of me. This year, too, there were several photos of me juggling, being in concerts, and being in the fall play. They were pretty good photos, too. Usually my skin tone was too pink and people thought I was sunburned, but in the yearbook the camera's strong flash had drained me of that pink tone, so I looked as white as other people. I really, really wanted a yearbook.

Instead, I stapled together several pieces of blank paper, entitled it "Beverly's Yearbook," and held it out to be signed. To my surprise, many people did. I got ribbed for being so cheap, but they wrote nice things. Most of them made mention of my juggling abilities, as in, "Thanks for helping me pass juggling class," or "To the best juggler in the whole town," or "Queen of the Jugglers..." You know. Cheesy stuff that I'll probably throw away in ten years or so.

As glad as I was to be done with school for the year, I couldn't help but be depressed. Luke noticed during choir class. "Hey, Beverly. You don't look happy. It's the last day of school! What's wrong with you?"

"Hey, Luke. Will you sign my yearbook?" I held out my floppy papers to him.

He laughed. "This is really... um... creative..."

"Yeah, well. Where's yours?"

I signed his; he signed mine. When he was done, he returned to his original question.

I pressed my lips together. "We're moving. Tomorrow. Tonight's my last night with my horse. I'm gonna miss her. I worked really hard to get to the State Fair, and now some other girl is going to take my credit."

"Ah. That's rough. I'm sorry." He reached for my hand.

I pulled it away. "Nice try."

"No? Still?"

"Luke, you know I'm not ready for anything more than a friendship. What's the rush?"

"It's not like I'm asking you for a kiss or anything."

"Nah, just my heart."

He sighed. "Fine. I can wait. What about next year?"

"Sure, maybe that can be my junior year project."

"So now love is a project."

We grimaced at each other, then burst into laughter. "I'm gonna miss you this summer, you know. I can't believe you're going to Paraguay."

He nodded. "I know. My grandparents live there. They're always nagging my folks to make me learn Spanish. Personally, I think Chinese is more usable in the workforce, but how do you argue with a grandmother?"

"You can't," I agreed.

"What are your plans?"

I sighed. "Without my horse, I feel kind of lost. We'll be moving back into town. I'll probably pick up a job over the summer. I'd like to get a car."

"Well, good luck to you."

"You too."

"Luke, will you sign my yearbook?" asked one of his friends.

Luke grinned at me. "See you next year."

"Adios," I replied in a bad Spanish accent.

Before the bell rang for the last time that year, Naomi managed to sign my paper yearbook. I don't know how she managed it without me seeing her, but she wrote her name and the message, "To Beverly, who is Most Likely to Succeed in my book. Keep making good choices. Thanks for sharing."

I read it right before we were dismissed. I was stunned. I looked around for her, trying to catch her attention, but she was too embarrassed to speak to me. Our eyes met, briefly, out in the hallway. Instead of sneering at me or looking away, she gave me a quick smile. I smiled back.

* * * * *

The bus ride home was agonizingly long. I was not returning home; I was returning to an empty shell of a house. All my animals were gone, except for Gallant Rose and Mouser. My stomach churned at the thought of losing them both. I could only deal with one at a time. I chose to concentrate on Gallant Rose. Losing Mouser would be too painful.

Galli's new owners arrived about an hour before the sun went down. I glared at them as they got out of their pickup truck. Their horse trailer was shiny and expensive. The girl herself, Melissa, wore English riding garments. She grinned at us.

I felt sick.

Mom led them down to the barn. I had loaded all of Galli's equipment into her feed bucket: her currycomb, lead rope, lines, medicine, and miscellany. I kept the saddle soap as a reminder.

Galli pranced in her stall as the new people drew near to her. I reached up and grabbed her by the halter. "Easy, baby. Come on, now. Try to impress your new owners, hey?"

"She's gorgeous!" exclaimed Melissa.

I led my darling into the aisle. My emotions were dreadfully mixed. I wanted my horse to go to the best possible home, of course, but I didn't want her to leave me and forget about me, either. I handed the lead rope to Melissa. "If you make a signal like this," and I demonstrated the gesture, "then she'll shake hooves with you. Galli, say hello to Melissa."

Gallant Rose lifted her hoof and placed it in Melissa's outstretched hand. Melissa giggled. "That's so clever! What else can she do?"

"She gives kisses. She can take a bow – I usually do that before and after her workouts – and she likes to speak." I made another motion, and Galli started moving her lip. I ad-libbed the words for her. "It's nice to meet you, Melissa. I'm glad I'm going to be your new friend." I could not continue the joke; my heart was too heavy. I choked on the words.

Melissa noticed. "This must be really hard for you. Thank you for letting me have her. I've always wanted a horse. It's a dream come true."

"Yeah. I know how you feel. Just take good care of her, okay?"

"I will."

Mom gave Melissa's father some instructions while I taught her the signals for Galli's tricks. They even exchanged addresses, in case I wanted to write a letter and find out how my filly had adjusted. After a short time, they loaded her into their trailer and drove away. I knew I would probably never see Gallant Rose again.

"I'm going to bed," I announced, my throat thick and sore.

"So soon? It's not even dark out."

"I'm exhausted. Plus we have to be up early to unload the truck and return it before we get a late charge."

"Do you need anything? Do you want me to bring dinner up to you?"

"No, thanks, Mom. I just want to be alone."

She tousled my hair and let me retire to my bedroom.

I stepped over the boxes and suitcases, which were the only remaining items in the room. My dresser, desk, and bed frame had been loaded into the truck already. I flung myself on my mattress. The tears would not flow. They simply refused to start. What was wrong with me? The familiar ache was there. My throat was tight, my eyes burned, and my heart felt like someone's hand was squeezing the blood out of it. Yet my tears would not cooperate. I shook my head in frustration.

A tiny 'meow' reminded me that I was not alone in the room. Mouser crawled up beside me, and then climbed onto my chest expectantly. She wanted to be petted.

"Oh, Mouser," I sniffed. "You're the last one. I can't stand it. I just can't stand it."

What was I going to do? Losing Galli was terrible enough; but I had invested my soul into earning Mouser's trust. She didn't even suspect that I was on the verge of abandoning her. She just knew that something was wrong, and she licked my face to make me feel better. Her tongue was rough and scratchy, but I let her lick my cheek raw. I couldn't push her away. Not on our last night together.

She finally fell asleep, her paw touching my chin. Her breath was milky sweet. She didn't know that this was her last night on a mattress, and that tomorrow she would return to the hay.

I stayed awake long into the night, stroking her fur. She tried to get off me a few times, but I held her firmly in place. She didn't seem to mind, although she did adjust her position once or twice before falling back asleep.

In the morning, after all the boxes and odds and ends were packed, and we had eaten our last meal, I steeled myself against the deed I did not want to perform. I picked Mouser up and cuddled her in my arms, and then walked outside toward the barn.

Mom called my name, but I could not stop. Whatever she needed me for could wait. I had to say

goodbye to my Mouser, before anything else happened.

The tears that were so absent last night now flooded my eyes as I opened the barn door. I wept, burying my face in Mouser's soft gray fur, and apologizing to her again and again for breaking her trust.

"Beverly!"

Not now! Couldn't Mom leave me alone for just a minute? Why did she have to intrude on this sacred moment, this final farewell?

Mouser licked up my tears. Her tongue irritated the raw patch on my cheek where she had almost scrubbed it clean of skin. I hugged her one last time. Then I knelt down and set her on the ground.

She begged to be picked back up. She tried to crawl back into my lap, but I stood up and began to walk away.

"Beverly. There you are. Why didn't you stop?" asked Mom from the doorway.

I froze. She was holding a crate.

I knew at once what it was for. She was going to take Mouser to the pound! She and Roger had talked about it last week. I couldn't let her!

"No, no, no, no, no," I babbled. "Don't take her to the pound. She'll be fine out here. She's a stray – she can take care of herself. Nobody will adopt her; she's too old. Don't take her to the pound!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Mom. "I thought you wanted to take her with us, to the new house."

"What?"

"Did you think... Oh, Beverly. No. I couldn't make you give everything up. Not this time."

I burst into tears again. I was too weak to move. Mom set the crate down and held me tight, stroking my hair. "Shh, shh. I don't know if your cat has ever been in a car before. I didn't want her to hurt herself or us, so I bought the crate..."

"I thought... I thought..." I sobbed. "You said all the animals... And Peter already gave the kitten away..."

"Shh. It's okay. Right? Everything's okay."

I frightened Mouser with my outburst, and it took a few minutes for me to calm her down. Then I had to coax her to me so I could stuff her into the crate. She meowed pitifully. I knew that she hated being cooped up, but I didn't care. She would never be able to understand that the crate was the only way to get her to our new home. I had to smile at the irony, though. Sometimes good things come from bad situations, even if we don't realize it at the time. I made a mental note to add that to my List, when I unpacked it later.

So, that was it. I sat in the back of the pickup truck, wedged in between Becky's toy chest and Peter's bunk bed and all the other things that didn't fit into the U-Haul. I watched my beloved farm grow smaller and smaller with distance. We turned the corner, and it disappeared. Poof – just like that. Gone forever. Just like Matt. Just like my first name. Just like Mom's other husbands, never to be seen again. Just like Erika and Margaret and the other fourteen houses. It simply vanished as we turned the corner, leaving green fields and old white farmhouses behind us and the long abandoned stretch of gray highway in front of us.

We drove toward our new life. I wondered what adventures it would hold this time. I only knew one thing for certain: with some luck and smart choices, I would never become a statistic.

### THE END

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* * * * *

STATISTICS AND FRAGMENTS

Ch. 2

Second marriages fail 75% of the time.

2008 US Census Bureau.

Ch. 3

And the feeble little ones must stand

In the thickest of the fight

Procter, Adelaide Anne. "Life and Death." Legends and Lyrics: First Series. London, George Bell and Sons, 1890.

Ch. 4

She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feelings, which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life.

Scott, Sir Walter. Guy Mannering. The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction, 1917.

Ch. 5

He writhed- then sternly manned his heart

To play his hard but destined part.

Scott, Sir Walter. "The Lord of the Isles." 1815.

Ch. 6

Among teenage and adult populations of females, parental divorce has been associated with lower self-esteem, precocious sexual activity, greater delinquent-like behavior, and more difficulty establishing gratifying, lasting adult heterosexual relationships.

Kalter, Neil, PhD. "Long-Term Effects of Divorce on Children: A Developmental Vulnerability Model." American Journal of Orthopsychiatry 57(4). University of Michigan, October 1987.

Ch. 7

Even several years after divorce, on average parents and children have less positive relationships in divorced rather than married families.

Emery, Robert E. Marriage, Divorce, and Children's Adjustment. California, Sage Publications Inc, 1999.

Ch. 8

Girls whose parents divorce may grow up without the day-to-day experience of interacting with a man who is attentive, caring and loving. Without this regular source of nourishment, a girl's sense of being valued as a female does not seem to thrive.

Kalter, Neil, PhD. "Long-Term Effects of Divorce on Children: A Developmental Vulnerability Model." American Journal of Orthopsychiatry 57(4). University of Michigan, October 1987.

Ch. 9

18-to-22-year-olds from disrupted families were twice as likely to have poor relationships with their mothers and fathers, to show high levels of emotional distress or problem behavior, [and] to have received psychological help.

Zill, Nicholas, Donna Morrison and Mary Jo Coiro. "Long-Term Effects of Parental Divorce on Parent-Child Relationships, Adjustment and Achievement in Young Adulthood." Journal of Family Psychology 7.1, (1993) p. 96.

Ch. 10

The average parent spends only five minutes per day in meaningful conversation with their children.

Time Use Survey: A.C. Nielsen Co, 1998.

Ch. 11

Mothers with custody are typically more depressed, less supportive and have decreased parental authority within the first two years after divorce.

Hines, Alicia M. "Divorce-Related Transitions, Adolescent Development, and the Role of the Parent-Child Relationship: A Review of the Literature." Journal of Marriage and the Family, 59. (1997) pp. 375-388.

Ch. 12

Children whose parents divorced in their childhood or adolescence were likely to be afflicted with emotional problems such as depression or anxiety well into their twenties or early thirties.

Cherlin, Andrew J., Lindsay Chase-Lansdale and Christine McRae. "Effects of Parental Divorce on Mental Health Throughout the Life Course." American Sociological Review, Volume 63 (1998) pp. 245-246.

Ch. 13.

A number of researchers also found that children of divorce, especially boys, were more aggressive than children whose parents stayed married.

Emery, Robert E. Marriage, Divorce and Children's Adjustment. Newbury Park: Sage Publication, 1988.

Ch. 14

Children in repeat divorces have lower grades and their peers find them less pleasant to be around.

Cherlin, Andrew J. Marriage, Divorce, Remarriage. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981.

Ch. 15

_It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all_.

Butler, Samuel. The Way of All Flesh. 1903.

Ch. 16

Children of divorced parents tend to be "impulsive, irritable, and socially withdrawn" as well as "lonely, unhappy, anxious and insecure."

Wallerstein, Judith, PhD. "The Long-Term Effects of Divorce on Children: A Review." Journal of the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry. May 1991, pp. 352.

Ch. 17

There may be epics in men's brains, just as there are oaks in acorns, but both the tree and the book must come out before we measure them.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ch. 18

_When describing their current dating partners, 82% of young adults whose parents had divorced indicated that they did not fully trust their partner_.

Shulman Shmuel et al. "How Young Adults Perceive Parental Divorce: The Role of their Relationships With Their Fathers and Mothers." Journal of Divorce and Remarriage, Volume 34, N 3/4. (October 2001) pp. 3.

Children of divorce are far more likely to be delinquent, engage in premarital sex, and bear children out of wedlock during adolescence and young adulthood.

Maher, B. "Patching Up the American Family." World and I, Volume 18-1, (2003) p. 56. Retrieved from Expanded Academic ASAP on June 9, 2004.

Ch. 19

One can sometimes love that which we do not understand, but it is impossible clearly to understand what we do not love.

Grindon, Leo H. Life: Its Nature, Varieties and Phenomena. London: F. Pitman, 1875.

Ch. 20

_The trend is that men and women have more difficulty with parenting roles for the opposite gender. Thus, the mother relates better to her daughter after divorce than with her son, and vice versa with the father_.

Emery, Robert E. Marriage, Divorce and Children's Adjustment. California: Sage Publications, Inc. 1999.

Ch. 21

_My poverty and not my will consents_. - Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare

_I have been accustomed to study men's countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution_.

Scott, Sir Walter. Ivanhoe. 1819.
