 
I WAS afraid to look down. Were his pants unzipped? Shit. What was I going to do if _that_ was my present? I mean, we'd rehearsed all these lame ways to turn a boy down in Sex Ed, but I'd forgotten the whole routine already. The truth was, I hadn't paid much attention in Sex Ed in the first place, since my prospects of getting anywhere near a boy I liked in the next century seemed dismal. Most of the time when I liked someone, they never liked me back. I was cursed—until now, which left me entirely unprepared for whatever was in Mick's pants.

"Okay, close your eyes again," he said.

"Do I have to?"

"You said you loved surprises."

Any Red-Blooded Girl

A Novel by

MAGGIE BLOOM

Copyright © 2011 by Tara Nelsen-Yeackel

Cover Art © 2011 by Brittany Cain

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental and unintended.

To every girl

Chapter 1

"FLORA Moon Fontain! Get up!" my mother shouted from the doorway of my bedroom. "The car's packed, and your dad and Will are already outside."

Ugh. A family camping trip. I was supposed to be in Europe with Jessie, the best friend a girl could ever wish for—sipping espresso at an outdoor café in Rome; posing for cutesy tourist pics at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe; riding the Tube and talking in a subpar cockney accent. I was _supposed_ to be having fun.

"Uh-huh," I groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers tight around my shoulders.

My mother flipped on the overhead light. "Flora, I mean it. We have to go. If we don't get on the road now, we're going to be stuck in rush hour traffic in the city."

_The city?_ Since when was my mother so familiar with New York City? We live in Pennsylvania. Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Home of the weather-predicting groundhog. The last time my mother was anywhere near _the city_ was probably before I was born.

I flung the thin quilt aside and stretched out in a toe-curling yawn, but my mother just stared at me.

"Okay...geez...I'm coming," I promised. "You can go now."

Even though I was more prepared to endure a brain tumor than two weeks of camping hell, I rolled out of bed and tugged on yesterday's rumpled jeans. The Elmo T-shirt I'd worn to bed was perfect for the eight hour car ride, since nobody would see me in it anyway. But then there was the matter of my hair. Since the peroxide fiasco, there wasn't really much I could do with the frizzy orange mess. So I wiggled a checkered headband from my underwear drawer and flattened my crispy bangs against my forehead. It was about the worst I'd ever looked, and to be honest, I didn't really care.

With my overstuffed duffel slapping against my knees, I stumbled down our front steps toward the rented SUV. The thing was a monstrosity, but I was still glad Mr. Tightwad (that's my dad) had splurged on it. I mean, it was bad enough we were going to be stuck together in a tent for two weeks, but if we'd somehow managed to cram all of our camping gear into Mr. Tightwad's little Hyundai, I would have hurled myself to the ground and refused to go.

"Back here!" my dad called, waving eagerly from behind the SUV.

I stepped off the curb with the enthusiasm of a death row prisoner, but as usual, my father was oblivious. He just shot me this moronic happy-go-lucky smile and dropped my bag in the back.

And by the time I hoisted myself into the SUV, my mother was already curled up in the passenger seat with a stack of color-coded maps. Apparently she'd planned every second of this torture-fest down to the last detail. Honestly, I think she missed her calling. Instead of spending her life sticking her fingers down people's throats (she's a dental hygienist, by the way) she should have been a travel agent. That way she could torture strangers, instead of me—and get paid for it.

I claimed the seat in front of my brother, Will, who was sprawled out on the third row bench in his shiny red and silver track uniform. But before I could even settle into a good funk, there was a knock at my window.

"Cell phones; iPods; MP3 players; any other electronical doohickeys you two have stashed back there," my dad demanded from the sidewalk, holding his hands out in front of him like he was expecting something to drop down from heaven. "Hand 'em over."

"What?" I protested. "Why?"

Will started rummaging through his backpack, like he was actually going to comply with such an insane request.

My father just smiled. "Because we're going back to nature," he said. "We're cutting ties with all things technological. Plus, you never know what could disturb Champ."

Again with the Champ talk? If you've never heard of Champ, or Champy, or the Champster, or Mr. Champs (all names this creature is known by in _our_ house) don't worry. You're not alone. Champ is basically Lake Champlain's version of the Loch Ness Monster, and we're going to search for him on our trip. In fact, the hunt for Champ is probably the _only_ reason Mr. Tightwad even agreed to a vacation in the first place.

"That's not fair. I need my stuff. Is Mom giving up _her_ phone?" I whined, hoping my dad would fall for the equality argument.

"As a matter of fact, no. Your mother is keeping her phone. But she's leaving it turned off. It's only for emergencies."

"Just give it to him," Will piped up from the backseat. "It's not like you're gonna use it."

It figured. It was just like Golden Boy to contradict me in an argument with our parents. Who was he trying to impress anyway? I mean, Mom and Dad liked him best since before I was born, so there was no contest there. I guess maybe he was just shooting for a few final brownie points before he went off to college.

"You don't know that," I objected. "People might be trying to call me. I'm not a leper, you know."

But the truth was, my brother was probably right. Since the Beer Incident, it was doubtful I'd be popular again any time soon.

"Whatever," Will snarked.

I cranked down the window and thrust my cell phone and MP3 player at my dad. "Here."

" _Muchas gracias,_ " the old man chirped. "And don't worry, Flowbee. We're gonna have lots of fun—even without all these fiddley-widdleys."

I swear to God, if I hear my dad say doohickey, or fiddley-widdley, or refer to me by the name of a do-it-yourself haircutting machine one more time, I'll scream. I mean, under normal circumstances, I can take Mr. Tightwad, Golden Boy, and the Mental Hygienist (a.k.a. my mother) in small doses. They can even be quite entertaining if you're in the right frame of mind. But now, since I'm a virtual prisoner, since they think I'm devil spawn...well, my patience is wearing pretty thin.

As we pulled away from the curb, I shut my eyes and tried to disappear. Maybe if I was lucky, I could wish myself out of this horror. Because honestly, the trip to Europe with Jessie was the one thing I'd been looking forward to in my drop-dead boring existence. I mean, I have no boyfriend; I have a limited pool of decent friends; I'm an average student; I'm not athletic, like Golden Boy; I have no special talents I'm aware of. Europe was my escape. My adventure. My chance to reinvent myself. Heck, maybe if the stars had aligned just right, I would've even snagged an Italian stud along the way. Now I'd never know.

And the worst thing was, what nixed my European vacation in the first place wasn't even my fault. It was stupid, lame Jimmy Bickford's. After all, if he hadn't smuggled those beers into my '80s movie-palooza, I'd be clutching a barf bag on a trans-Atlantic flight as we speak.

"Flora, did you hear me?" my mother asked, distracting me from my pity party.

"Huh?"

"I _said_ Mrs. Hobson was in the office yesterday for a root canal, and Dr. Brown had to drill her tooth so deep it almost cracked in half. Can you imagine?"

Unfortunately, I _could_ imagine. I could imagine all too clearly. Because Mrs. Hobson was my math teacher from freshman year, and my mother loved to tell gory stories about painful dental work. Yipee.

"Uh-huh. That's nice."

"Nice, Flora? I don't think so. The poor woman was terrified. But Dr. Brown is so good with the patients..." Blah. Blah. Blah.

I suppose I should've tried harder to follow my mother's crazy story, since she was actually still talking to me after the Beer Incident. But honestly, I just couldn't muster the energy.

As tired as I was, though, I was also restless. And bored. I must say, Mr. Tightwad sure knows how to suck even the tiniest shred of joy from my feeble existence.

Desperate, I turned to Will for entertainment. "So when's Nat leaving for Tulane?" I asked, figuring he might talk to me about his girlfriend, who was ditching him for college in Louisiana.

"What do _you_ care?"

"I don't know. I just thought you might be kinda bummed," I said. "I mean, you guys have been together like forever."

"For your information, I support Nat's decision," Will claimed. "Sure, it would've been nice if she'd stayed around here, since I'm going to Temple. But Tulane has a great pre-med program, and..." He paused and shook his head. "Listen, it'll be better for both of us. We'll have a chance to do our own thing for a while. We'll keep in touch. If it works out, we'll know it's real. We'll know it's right."

I'd never felt so bad for my brother in my whole life. Because even though he was trying to sound all logical and self-assured, he really just sounded brokenhearted. Plus, I could tell everything he'd just told me had come directly from Natalie. It was how she'd explained things to him when she broke the news of her departure. In a way, though, I couldn't blame Natalie for leaving Punxsutawney. It could be the most tedious place on earth. I bet she thirsted for something different, something exciting, something new. Hell, sometimes I even wish for _bad_ stuff to happen, just to shake things up a little (not death or destruction, of course—maybe just a scary thunderstorm or a sprained ankle).

"Well, that makes sense," I lied. "Sounds like you guys have things all figured out."

"Yeah, we do."

I picked up one of my mother's handy-dandy roadmaps and fanned myself. "Are you hot?" I asked Will.

"Not really."

"Well, I'm freakin' sweating," I complained. "Dad, can you turn on the AC?"

"Air conditioning? Already?" my father asked, as if I'd requested a five-course meal. He tapped the LCD display on the dashboard. "It's only seventy-three degrees," he reported. "Seventy-five. That's the optimal temperature for air conditioning. We'll shoot for that."

Holy shit. Apparently Mr. Tightwad must have read some article that suggested avoiding air conditioning until you just about croaked. _That_ should save us about fourteen cents.

"So I have to sit here and drown in my own sweat?" I whined. "Can we at least roll down the windows?"

"Okie dokie, smokie," my dad agreed. "You go right on ahead and do that."

All I can say is, it was going to be a long two weeks. Two weeks I'd never get back. Two weeks I should have spent having the time of my life in an exotic locale with my best friend in the whole wide world. Who knew, maybe Jessie could have twice as much fun to make up for my misery. At least _that_ might take some of the sting out of how things had turned out.

Chapter 2

EVEN though I was exhausted, of course I couldn't sleep scrunched up in the back of that stuffy SUV. And to make matters worse, I'd forgotten to pack a pillow—an error I could already tell was going to haunt me for the rest of the trip. And just when I figured things couldn't possibly plunge any further downhill, my dad put on a polka CD. Yes, you heard me right: Polka! If you've ever listened to this crazy shit, you know it's only fit for the criminally insane, the deaf, and people in comas. Mr. Tightwad has a whole polka library.

"So how much do you think we'd get for a good picture?" my mom asked my dad.

"Geez, Louise, I don't know."

"You think a million? Could we get a million?"

I could barely believe my ears. Apparently our vacation had turned into a treasure quest, and our family bonding time was for sale to the highest bidder. Plus, my parents were delusional. I mean, even if Champ did exist, there was absolutely zero chance we were going to be the ones to finally find him. _Zero chance_.

"Boy, I need a potty stop," my father suddenly announced, derailing the conversation. "Two miles to the next rest area. Who's with me?"

"Uh-huh," Will mumbled from the back row.

"I need to stretch," my mother said.

"Count me in," I agreed.

What the hell. Anything had to be better than slowly frying to a crackly crunch in the back of the overheated Maroon Monstrosity. _Anything_.

The I-87 rest area was pretty much the same as all highway rest areas: obtrusive, commercial, and lacking adequate bathrooms. And, of course, at the mere mention of pee, my bladder started doing somersaults. So with my legs crossed at the knees, I wiggled in place behind a Girl Scout troupe that seemed to be peeing in slow motion. If I didn't love their cookies so much...well, who knows what I might have done.

And by the time I got back to the food court, my parents had already ordered Chinese without consulting me. I guess they thought I needed the MSG. "Is this mine?" I asked, wrinkling my face in disgust at the plate that sat in front of the empty chair beside Will.

"Yep-a-doodle," my father responded with undue glee.

"Gee, thanks," I muttered, slamming my ass into the grooves of the molded plastic seat.

Perturbed, my mother said, "Flora, must you?"

"Well, no. It's not imperative."

Instead of picking through the icky mess of food on my plate for something decent to eat, I decided to crack open my fortune cookie. I mean, it was good luck, right? With a quick snap, I yanked the thing apart and retrieved the slim, red-lettered slip of paper.

_Bad luck and ill misfortune will infest your pathetic soul for all eternity_. I kid you not, that's what it said. My fortune basically damned me to hell on earth and then some. I couldn't believe my eyes. Was this a joke? I glanced around to see if anyone was obviously laughing. Negative. Then I read the stupid thing again, coming to the only logical conclusion: The fortunes must have been switched. My _real_ fortune had ended up on someone else's plate.

"Hey, hands off!" Will objected, as I plucked the paper from the edge of his dish.

_Your dynamic eyes have attracted a secret admirer_. I checked Will's eyes just be sure. Not dynamic. Was this my fortune? A secret admirer sounded okay, but I'd rather have a blatant one. And my eyes...not all that dynamic either.

"Aren't you going to eat?" my mother asked, pausing to wipe her mouth with a coarse paper napkin.

"I'll take a bite if you let me see your fortune," I bargained.

She shook her head. "I don't know about you, Flora," she said, setting the paper down beside my fork. "I just don't know."

_A small lucky package is on its way to you soon_. Okay, _that_ was vague. Was I expecting something in the mail? I thought about it for a minute, but nothing came to mind. The thing was a dud.

I pushed the fortune back to my mother's side of the table, shoveled a forkful of fried rice into my mouth, and mumbled, "So, Dad, what's _your_ fortune say?"

"Well, aren't you just a Curious George?" my father said. He grinned and tossed the unopened package in my direction. "Why don't _you_ read it to _me,_ Flowbee?"

I ripped through the crinkly wrapper, snapped the cookie, and nabbed the paper. "A thrilling time is in store for you," I read aloud.

"Lookie there, Lu-Lu," my dad said. "It's a sign, doncha think?"

"It very well could be," my mother agreed, with one of those in-on-the-joke smiles. "Very well could be."

On that weird note, I paused to consider my options: a secret admirer, a lucky package, or a thrilling time. Because obviously, a life of doom was out of the question. I mean, I already had enough problems without a curse on my head.

The more I thought about it, a secret admirer sounded lame too. After all, a hundred million guys could like me, and if I didn't know about it, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. A secret admirer was out.

And as intriguing as a lucky package sounded, I couldn't quite think of anything I'd be that excited to receive. I mean, sure, maybe if I was waiting for college acceptance letters, the lucky package fortune would've fit. But that was still over a year away.

That left a thrilling time. And even though it seemed pretty unlikely that anything thrilling could happen in the presence of my parents (unless, of course, you counted the possibility we'd all fall overboard and drown in Lake Champlain), I was willing to keep an open mind.

"Can I have this?" my brother asked, stabbing his fork through two pieces of my sweet and sour chicken.

I slid the whole plate over to him. "Yeah, go ahead," I said. I'd absentmindedly nibbled my way through most of the fried rice anyway. Everything else was dog chow, as far as I was concerned.

As soon as Will finished my meal, we tossed our plates in the trash, made yet another bathroom stop, and finally exited the luxurious somewhere-in-upstate-New York rest area.

And I guess I hadn't noticed when we'd gotten out of the SUV, but apparently Mr. Tightwad had parked on Mars. So in search of the rented behemoth, we passed row upon row of vehicles. Vehicles of smart people. Vehicles of people who knew how to identify an empty spot within a one-mile radius of their destination. And just when it looked like we were about to crawl over the guardrail into oncoming traffic, my mother finally spotted the Maroon Monstrosity.

"Oh...there...it...is..." she sputtered, squinting into the distance. Meanwhile, my dad and Will came to a dead stop right in front of me.

Will ran his fingers through his shiny auburn locks and muttered, "What the...?"

"Well, _I'll be,_ " my father said, sounding awestruck.

I leaned around Will to see what all the fuss was about. And from what I could tell, a caravan of hillbilly vagabonds had set up their battered trucks and pop-up campers all around our vehicle. And they'd set up like they were planning on staying a while. To get out of there, we were going to have to strut right through the middle of their cluttered compound. How fantastic.

My mother drew a deep breath, then cracked the verbal whip on us. "Let's move, people. We've got places to go and things to do."

I must say, I was impressed. Apparently the Mental Hygienist was going to lead the charge into hillbilly territory. Following her lead, my dad, Will, and I plastered stupid, dopey smiles across our faces and snaked through—single file—as close to the Maroon Monstrosity as we could get. But the weird thing was, the hillbillies didn't seem to notice. For a second, I even wondered if we were invisible—that was, until my sneaker caught the edge of a folding table where two hillbillies were playing cards, nearly flipping it over.

"I'm sorry," I gushed, bending down to grab the cards I'd spilled (and practically head-butting one of the hillbilly guys in the process).

"It's okay," the guy mumbled. Still staring at the ground, he took the cards from my hand and went right back to his game like nothing had happened.

But _I_ felt like a total dumbass. "Sorry," I said again, as I reached for the door of the SUV.

There was no reply.

So I was just about to climb into the behemoth and disappear off the face of the earth, when an interesting, unexpected thing happened: I caught the most exquisite hillbilly boy staring at me from the bed of a rusty blue and silver pickup. Trust me, I do not say this lightly, but this boy was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen. Repeat, _ever._ His raven curls gently kissed his bronze forehead and perfectly framed his emotional steel-blue eyes. And he was tall. Much taller than me. _Man_ tall. But the thing that attracted me most—in a way I can't fully explain—was his body. He had this lean, muscular body that was all animal. And as if he weren't sexy enough already, his big, thick hands were kind of rough and dirty, which gave me the chills.

"Flora!" my brother said, delivering a sharp thwack to the back of my head from inside the SUV. "Wake up!"

I guess _I'd_ started staring too. But who could blame me, really? It was like having a front row seat for the Aurora Borealis. I couldn't look away.

The Maroon Monstrosity started up with a rumble, and Will thwacked me again. "Hey, space cadet. We're leaving."

I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell the beautiful hillbilly boy he could have me, no questions asked. I wanted to run away with him. But I couldn't do any of these things, because I was stuck wasting my life searching for a nonexistent sea monster.

_Bad luck and ill misfortune will infest your pathetic soul for all eternity_. Of course. _Now_ it made sense.

With every bit of driving skill he possessed, my father extracted our vehicle from the hillbilly compound. Meanwhile, I pressed my face to the window and tried to send a telepathic message to the boy of my dreams. It was like a scene from a really sappy romance movie, where the young lovers are separated by a cruel twist of fate—only, technically, my leading man and I had never even met.

Chapter 3

AT the entrance to Wild Acres, my dad pulled right up to the check-in shack and popped the SUV in park. And just our luck, Check-in Guy was MIA.

"Why don't you get out and look around?" my mother suggested. "We'll wait here."

"Right you are."

With the SUV still idling, my father slid out the door on a mission. And only moments later, his voice echoed through the Maroon Monstrosity again.

"Reservation's under Vic Fontain," he said, "like the Star Trek character, but without the _e._ " He paused for a response, but apparently Check-in Guy was stumped. "You know, the holographic singer who ran the Vegas nightclub. _Vic Fontaine._ "

Honestly, did my dad really think anyone on earth but him would know the name of some double-imaginary lounge lizard from the dorkiest TV show ever? Doubtful.

"Here it is," Check-in Guy said, gesturing toward a ragged clipboard (and ignoring my dad's crazy talk). "Fontain. Six nights. Site Tupelo-9."

"Ooh, Tupelo. That's a tree, isn't it?" my dad asked, as if our spaceship had just landed.

"Uh-huh. All the campsites are named after trees. There's Oak, Spruce, Elm, Birch, Pine, Tupelo, Maple..." Check-in Guy said, stopping to bite his lip. "I think that's all of 'em."

My dad smiled and nodded, impressed with the cleverness of the witty soul who'd christened the campsites after trees. But just when he was about to ask another absurd question Check-in Guy couldn't possibly answer, someone in the truck behind us honked their horn, which, thank God, kicked Mr. Tightwad back into gear.

"Okay...Tupelo-9," my dad muttered, as we snailed past a massive log cabin labeled _The Clubhouse_. A rustic sign nailed to a tree in front of the building read:

WILD ACRES FAMILY CAMPGROUND

HOME OF THE GIANT WIENER

EATING CONTEST

SINCE 1992

Honestly, the sign was wrong on so many levels I couldn't help laughing. And I guess my cackling must've woken Will, because all of a sudden, he was rearranging every item in his backpack with the delicacy of an elephant. Meanwhile, my parents were at each other's throats arguing over the shortest route to Tupelo-9.

"Look," my mother said, stabbing a finger at the Wild Acres map. "It goes Pine, Birch, Tupelo. We're in the third section back on this side."

Evidently my father didn't believe her. "But aren't we near the lake? I thought the tents were on the water."

"None of the sites are on the water, according to _this,_ " my mother declared, exasperated. "It's beach, then restrooms and showers, then tents, then campers and trailers. We're two rows from the beach, in the third section back."

I stared out the window. What had my mother said? Pine, Birch, Tupelo? From the looks of things, the campground was massive. I mean, we'd only made it past Pine, and I'd already seen about sixty tents. If the math held up, the place must hold like a hundred and fifty of the things, not to mention all the pop-up campers and RVs. All told, there must be like a thousand people here, crammed together like subway passengers on a rush hour train. And unfortunately my stop was still five days, twenty-three hours and fifty minutes away.

"So what's the plan?" Will asked, while I fantasized about hurling myself off a moving locomotive.

Plans were my mother's territory. "Well, first we'll pitch the tent, of course," she said. "Then we'll get the rest of our gear set up. And then maybe we'll go for a swim before dinner."

"Tupelo-9!" my father suddenly shouted, in his just-hit-the-lottery voice. "Hot diggity! Put your party pants on people!"

Party pants? Really? I have to be seen in public with this freak? I was starting to appreciate the fact that we were hundreds of miles from Punxsutawney. I mean, at least Mr. Tightwad might not get the chance to embarrass me in front of anyone who mattered anyway.

So in case it isn't obvious, I should probably point out something about myself: I am not an outdoorsy girl. And when I say _not outdoorsy,_ what I really mean is that I'm sure nature is out to get me; it's out to get everyone (what with all the bugs, reptiles, floods, fires, tornadoes, hurricanes, heat waves, blizzards...etc., etc.). I mean, what kind of deranged human being could possibly enjoy this crap? I, for one, am not ashamed to admit I love the _in_ doors. I'd take a plasma TV, a laptop computer, and a fridge full of junk food over _any_ nature-related experience, _any_ day.

"Here you go," I said with a huff, plunking my duffel on a pile of debris in the middle of my parents' little camp. "Put this wherever you want it."

As much as I wanted to hang around and make everyone's life miserable, I had to find a bathroom—and _pronto_.

"I can tell you where to put it," my brother offered.

"Will! That's not necessary!" my mother scolded. Then she turned her irritation on me. "And, Flora, let up on the attitude, please. We're here to have fun."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

As I walked off, Will said something under his breath. Probably something nasty about me. Lucky for him, though, I couldn't hear it over the sudden rustle of the trees.

Since I'd expected the worst, I was sort of surprised to find that the shabby pee shack actually had working sinks, toilets, and hand dryers (although it also had cold concrete floors and tiny, too-high windows that were covered in spider webs. Eww).

I got in line behind a little redhead, tapped my toes lightly on the concrete, and stared at my ragged fingernails. If only I could grow them out like Carla Pearson's. _She_ has the perfect nails. Maybe if I could just stop biting mine...

" _Hurry up, Jo-Jo,"_ the little redhead in front of me whined, as she bunny-hopped in place with her hands over her crotch.

_Please, God, don't let this girl pee herself right here,_ I pleaded.

From the middle stall, the bunny-hopper's twin emerged with a mischievous grin on her face. "Go ahead, Kat," she said. As she skipped by, she gave her sister's waist-length braid a playful tug.

"Ouch! That hurt!" the bunny-hopper exaggerated. I swear to God, her head had barely even moved.

"Are you going to use that?" I asked the bunny-hopper impatiently, pointing at the empty stall. "Because if you're not, I am."

Before I could make good on my threat, though, the bunny-hopper darted into the stall ahead of me. But a few seconds later, an old lady in a loud Hawaiian shirt exited the next stall over.

"There you go, honey," the old lady said with a frown. "It's all yours."

How embarrassing. Now even grandma thought I was some kind of narc. "Thanks," I mumbled, clunking the heavy wooden door shut behind me.

And by the time I finished peeing, the bathroom had miraculously emptied out. So while I washed my hands in the rust-streaked sink, I leaned forward to check my look in the mirror. Unfortunately, though, nothing had changed. My hair was just as orange and crispy as ever, my skin just as blotchy. Why couldn't I have turned out more Mexican, like my mother? At least _she_ has a defined look: warm, creamy skin, liquid-black hair, curvy shape. All _I_ got was this strange, mixed-up concoction of characteristics that ended up looking like nothing special at all.

"Ugh," I said, sick of my own face. I mean, shouldn't I be turning into a swan already? After all, I was going to be sixteen in two days. But so far there was no sign I was blossoming into anything other than an older version of the same little quacker I'd always been. I hate to say it, but fairytales suck. And they lie. I bet swans are born, not made—unless, of course, you count plastic surgery.

Even though it wasn't quite dinnertime, it was already cooling down outside. And the bugs were going nuts. Case in point: I had just turned onto the dirt road behind the shabby pee shack, when some flying pest catapulted itself right into my eye.

Like a madwoman, I tried in vain to blink and cry the disgusting gnat, or mosquito, or whatever the hell it was out of my eye. But it was no use. I swear, I could feel the thing fragmenting, decomposing, and scraping across my eyeball; hence, I just about poked my eye out trying to rub it bug-free. But even this spastic move was unsuccessful. So now, on top of the decomposing bug parts, I had a few stray eyelashes embedded in my eye. Perfect.

And wouldn't you know, that's when I spotted him. The hillbilly boy of my dreams. He was right there behind the shabby pee shack with Flopsy and Mopsy—the redheaded twins—swinging one of them around like a helicopter blade while the other one stood just far enough aside to avoid taking a foot to the face.

I don't think he saw me at first, because he was so busy playing helicopter. But honestly, I was pretty hard to miss. I mean, my eye must have swollen to like twice its normal size. Plus, I'd frozen like a dork at the mere sight of him.

And before I could think of a way to salvage my image, Hillbilly Boy returned Helicopter Girl to earth and bent over—hands on his knees—to catch his breath. Then he straightened back up and stared right at me.

"Hey," he said, smiling and walking in my direction. He had the cutest quirky smile with just a few slightly crooked teeth, which made him look like a sensitive nice guy instead of a pretty-boy wannabe. "Don't I know you?" he asked with a chuckle.

Okay, it was a lame opening line. But at least he knew it was lame. I took a step toward him, and then, in a freak moment, did one of those amateur things girls sometimes do when they're clueless about men: I looked around to make sure he was really talking to me.

"Um...hi," I eked out tentatively, once I realized nobody else was around.

That was it. That was all I could say. This guy was _way_ too sexy for me to think straight. I mean, I had a better chance of puking than of composing a coherent sentence in his presence.

"I'm Mick," he said. "And you are...?"

He was so close to me I could have touched him. And for a second, I thought _he_ was going to touch _me_. But instead, he ran his thick, rough fingers through his luscious black locks, at which point I think I might have subconsciously licked my lips (which I truly hope I didn't). But if Mick noticed, he didn't let on.

"Flora. I'm Flora Fontain. I'm fifteen," I blurted. Holy freakin' stupid. I must have been having a stroke or something. Apparently I could only say words that started with the letter _f._

Mick chuckled. "Well, I'm _sixteen_ —if that matters."

Flopsy and Mopsy must have gotten sick of waiting around for helicopter rides, because the pig-tailed twin pinched the other twin on the stomach, and they both took off running.

"You're only sixteen?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. My birthday's June 20th. I just hit a growth spurt," Mick said with a grin. "People think I'm a lot older."

I must agree. It seemed impossible that this perfect creature was a mere month older than me. I mean, personally, I wasn't even convinced we were from the same galaxy, let alone the same kingdom, order, and species—and born a matter of days apart, no less.

"My birthday's the day after tomorrow," I said, like he'd care.

"Will you be here?"

Hmm. Maybe he was more interested in me than I thought. "Uh-huh. We're here for six days," I said. "Then we're going to Lake Champlain." In case it might scare him off, I left out the part about searching for Champ.

"Ooh, Champlain is beautiful," he said. "Have you ever been?"

I was just about to answer him with a really inventive lie, when I heard a disturbing sound off in the distance. It was my mother, screeching my name like a banshee. What could possibly be so important? Had Will accidentally pounded a tent stake through his foot? Had Mr. Tightwad singed off his eyebrows trying to light the grill? I swear, nothing would surprise me coming from these people.

My name rang out again. "Flor-a! Flor-a!"

"That's me, I guess," I said, rolling my eyes. "I should probably go."

"Do you have to?" Mick asked. "We just got started."

_We just got started?!_ Oh my God! That meant something. It _had_ to mean something. He was into me. The most gorgeous guy in the world thought we were starting something. Together. Him and me. Okay, breathe.

"I don't know. My mother sounds pretty excited. I really should..."

"What about later? Want to do something with me later?" he asked.

Well, _that_ was a stupid question. Of course I wanted to do something with him later. I wanted to do _everything_ with him, all the time—or at least very close to everything anyway.

"Sure," I happily agreed. "When?"

As far as I could tell, Mick didn't have a watch. "How about eight thirty?" he asked, tilting his stunning face toward the sky. "Around sunset?"

Sunset? That sounded right to me. And it would make a great story for our future children someday too: Our first date was a sunset stroll, or dip, or make out session at summer camp. How romantic.

"I love you." What?! Did I really just say that out loud? Did he hear me? "I mean, I'd love to."

"Meet you right here then?" he said. "Or I can come by your campsite."

Ouch. Not a good idea. My parents definitely would not approve of my interest in a sexy hillbilly boy. I could already hear them rattling off the reasons Mick was off limits to a simple, naïve girl like me.

"Here's good," I said. "See you at eight thirty?" For the time being, I had to keep my association with Mick under wraps.

"Eight thirty it is."

Even though we'd just met, I felt like he should kiss me goodbye. Not necessarily a long, drawn out tongue-lashing, but maybe something sweet and tender, like a good friend who really cares about you but doesn't know yet if he likes you _that way_. That's the type of connection Mick and I had right off: comfortable compatibility with a hint of sexual tension (well, maybe more than a hint—on my part, at least).

To my great disappointment, though, Mick wasn't on the same page as me about the kissing. He didn't even try. Not so much as a lean-in-and-see-if-she-bites move. Nothing. But I guess my consolation prize was the penetrating, pulse-quickening look he gave me just before he turned to leave. With the kind of hot intensity I'd never even dared imagine, he stared right at me—right _through_ me—until my mind went blank and my body went warm and tingly.

Chapter 4

IN case something important had actually happened, I rushed back to Tupelo-9. But of course it was just a false alarm.

"How were the bathrooms?" my mother asked, handing me a thick Styrofoam plate full of food.

"Fine."

"Were they crowded? You were gone a while," she said, pointing out the obvious.

"Sort of. These little girls were fooling around in there and stuff." Hey, _technically_ it was true.

"Your brother's going for a swim," my dad chimed in. "You should go with him, Flowbee."

I glanced over at Will, only to discover that he'd changed out of his track uniform (which would normally have inspired me to thank God) into something even worse: a banana-yellow Speedo. Ick.

I wrinkled my whole face in disgust. "I don't know. I think I might take a nap after dinner," I said. Anything but frolicking on the beach with my moody, scantily-clad brother, who might just be mistaken for my boyfriend. Double ick, but don't laugh. It's happened before.

"Your loss," Will said.

"I doubt it."

"Whatever," he muttered. Then he lifted his goggles off the ground and flung a beach towel over his shoulder.

"Remember to wait ten more minutes," the Mental Hygienist said, as Will waltzed down the dirt road. "You just ate."

I stretched out in a showy yawn. "I'm tired," I whined. Hey, maybe if I made a big enough production out of needing a nap, nobody would catch on to the fact that I was just trying to freshen up for my date. "Where am I sleeping anyway?" I asked off-hand.

My dad trotted out from behind the grill and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, like he was a used car salesman trying to hook me on a junker. "You see that little beauty over there?" he asked, gesturing toward a domed silver tent that resembled a three-eyed alien head. "That's the Eureka Tetragon 1610. Three rooms. Sleeps nine. Your room is on the left, sunshine."

"And my stuff? My bag?" I asked, forcing a fake smile so he'd think I was impressed with his tent-selection skills.

He glanced around, confused. "Lu-Lu, where's Little Miss Sunshine's bag?"

"In her room," my mother said flatly.

"Well, there you go. You heard your mother. Skedaddle on in there and check out your new digs," he said, patting me on the back with such enthusiasm he nearly tipped me over.

"Okay, Dad. Thanks," I said. For a few extra brownie points, I threw in a split-second peck on the cheek, which made the old man practically glow with paternal pride.

Then I strolled over, unzipped my alien eye, and climbed inside. The place was tiny, but I was still glad my parents had sprung for separate rooms. Thank God for small miracles, I guess. Anyway, I spread out my sleeping bag until it pretty much covered the entire floor. And I must say, having that extra layer between me and the ground made me feel a little bit less like a cockroach and a little bit more like a human being. A human being without even a speck of control over her life, but still.

With my head firmly planted on my duffel for lack of a pillow, my mind was free to wander...

Mick. It was an interesting name. Was it short for Michael, or Mickey, or Michelangelo? Maybe it wasn't short for anything at all. Maybe it was just Mick. That sounded best to me. My tall, manly, crooked-smiled, sensitive, intense, make-me-tingle-all-over Mick. My new boyfriend. The love of my life. The future father of my children. My special secret.

All of a sudden, I felt dirty for fantasizing about a boy I barely knew, like people would think I was some sort of wannabe slut for lusting after him. But honestly, the dirty feeling went away pretty quickly, because I _liked_ lusting after him. It made me happy. And I was pretty sure it was a chemical reaction anyway, so who could possibly blame me? It was a force of nature. An act of God. The perfect storm. I was born to want this hillbilly boy with every molecule of my being; I could only pray he was born to want me too.

So as improbable as this sounds, I guess I was tired enough to drift off to sleep in that scrunched-up little cubbyhole after all. And a legit nap would have been fine. I mean, it would have been refreshing even—or at least so I imagined. But the problem was, my body doesn't do naps. It does comas. And once you're in a coma, it's pretty hard to remind yourself you're only supposed to be taking a nap. It doesn't work that way.

I don't know what time I fell asleep, but I'm absolutely certain about when I woke up: past sunset, after eight thirty, when my first date with the man of my dreams was long over. I'd stood Mick up. I swear, people as dumb as me really should be shot, or slapped, or, at the very least, screamed at in an angry tone.

Through the mesh door of my cubicle, I peered into the darkness. And I listened. Maybe the sun had just set. Maybe I could catch Mick before he ended up hating me. Maybe our date wasn't really over yet after all.

I unzipped my pod and stumbled into the night. But the reality was, nobody in my immediate vicinity was awake (other than some drunk people down the block who were throwing an all-nighter). It had to be like three o'clock in the morning. There was no doubt about it: I really _had_ missed Mick.

Life sucks and then you die. There was no other explanation. I mean, I'd overslept for lots of things, but this was the worst by far. Honestly, I felt like throwing a hissy fit right there in the dark at Tupelo-9. But why bother? Nobody was around to appreciate it but me.

I plunked my defeated ass down at the picnic table and began a serious pout session. And before long, I had a worthy target for my frustrations: mosquitoes. I swear, the damn things were sucking my blood by the gallon. They'd tapped all of my obvious veins and most of the not-so-obvious ones too. So I was busy swatting the life out of every pesky bloodsucker I could, when I caught a glimpse of two suspicious figures lurking around the campsite next door.

Now a normal person probably would have disappeared back into the tent—for safety's sake, of course. But for some kooky reason, I wasn't in the mood to act normal. Like an amateur sleuth with half a clue, I crawled on my hands and knees to the edge of our campsite and hid behind a thicket of brush. And as I looked on, one of the would-be crooks directed a jittery flashlight through the side window of our neighbors' van, while his accomplice boomeranged his head back and forth in search of any unwelcome attention.

Apparently the coast was clear, because Lookout Guy whispered something inaudible, then Mr. Flashlight pulled on the door handle. But the van was locked. Shit. I couldn't believe it. These guys were trying to break and enter—or at least _maybe_ they were. For all I knew, it was _their_ van.

So as idiotic as this sounds, I decided to make some noise. After all, the thieves seemed pretty skittish, so I figured maybe I could scare them off. Quietly, I crawled back to the middle of our campsite and crunched some brittle twigs under my feet, which, in the silent night, echoed like machine gun fire. And the amazing thing was, my retarded plan actually worked. The second the mystery men heard me crunching around, they immediately took off—not running or anything, just sort of nonchalantly moseying, like they had every right to be lurking around a stranger's property in the middle of the night, like if anyone should dare question them, they'd just flip the script and say, "Well, _you're_ out here too. What are _you_ up to?" Case closed.

I must admit, though, I was sort of sad to see the would-be thieves go. Because while I'd been focused on them, I'd completely forgotten about Mick. If only I could fall into a vat of toxic waste and inherit some superpowers, maybe then I could reverse the earth's rotation and turn back time to fix things between me and the man of my dreams—if that's how you do it anyway. I swear, even the superhero-me would probably turn out to be a wretched loser. So on second thought, I'd better just skip the toxic waste and pray for a miracle.

Chapter 5

DAY two at Wild Acres started with a bang. Literally. Because one minute I was lost in a psychedelic disco dream, and the next minute I was rocked awake by an explosion.

"What was that?!" I demanded at top volume, struggling to yank my sneaker on as I hopped away from the tent on one foot.

"Oh, that was nothing," my mother said, way too calm for my liking. "Your father just knocked a can of bug spray into the fire, and it blew up."

"That's _something,_ " I said. "A very loud something."

"Don't walk over here," my dad warned, motioning toward the spot where the exploded goo had landed. "I still have to clean this up."

"Don't worry. I didn't plan on it."

Will was already scarfing down a bowl of soggy Rice Krispies at the picnic table, so I sat down beside him and poured some for myself. And even though I didn't see it coming, I'm sure what my evil brother did next was completely intentional. He waited until I had a big mouthful of cereal, then let loose with the following:

"So your boyfriend was here looking for you last night."

Of course, I started choking and gagging. And as hard as I tried to force the cereal back down my throat, some of it just wouldn't go. The result: I ended up spewing about half a mouthful of the semi-chewed stuff across the table in front of me.

"What?!" I finally managed to say. "What do you mean? Who was here?"

Will just smirked this know-it-all, pain-in-the-ass, gotcha smirk, which caused me to reflexively punch him in the arm.

"Hey! Knock it off!" he complained.

"Why? You deserve it, _asshole_."

"Nice language."

"Oh, and you're a saint?" I said with an exaggerated eye roll. " _Puh-lease_."

"Well, at least I'm not conniving like you. You think Mom and Dad are gonna let you go out with that guy who came over here last night? You think they're gonna let precious little corruptible Flora get sucked in by the Trailer Park Kid? I don't think so," Will said with such finality I almost stopped breathing.

No matter what my parents thought, they had no right to keep me from Mick. _No right_. It was _my_ life and _my_ decision.

I swallowed my pride. "Did Mom and Dad see him? Did they talk to him?" I asked. I could hardly believe I'd slept through something so pivotal, but at least Mick had come for me. Maybe he didn't hate me after all—unless, of course, my parents had ruined things, which I was having a hard time getting out of Will.

"Yeah, they saw him."

"And..."

"And they told him you were sleeping."

"That's it? That's all they said?"

"All they said to him."

"What do you mean _all they said to him?_ Who else was there to say anything to?" I demanded, losing my cool.

"It's not what they said _to_ him," Will continued. "It's what they said _about_ him. After he left."

"Cut the shit, Will. What happened?"

My brother broke out in another trademark smirk. "Well, of course Mom and Dad were nice to his face. They were polite, like they would've been to anyone. But when he was gone, they got into a discussion about him and his family—you know, because they saw them all camped out at the rest area. I guess that whole scene made quite the impression on Mom and Dad. Anyway, Dad said they looked like a band of gypsies. Then he told Mom a bunch of stories about gypsies being cheats, liars, and thieves. He said they were nothing but trouble. And Mom said he was way too old for you anyway, so the gypsy thing didn't even matter. There was no way they were letting you anywhere near the guy."

"But they don't even know him," I objected. "He's nice. He's beautiful. He's..."

Okay, so _I_ didn't even know Mick that well yet. But I was going to. I was going to know every last gory detail. The good. The bad. The ugly. Things he didn't even know about himself.

Will got up from the table as my father sat down. "Morning, buttercup," my dad said. "Sleep tight?"

"Fine and dandy," I replied, wiggling off the bench and making a break for my sleep pod. After all, now that my parents were up to speed on Mick, I couldn't afford to spend any more time around them than absolutely necessary. The situation was a fight waiting to happen.

Quickly, I shoved a change of clothes and a towel into my beach bag. "I'm taking a shower," I announced, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention.

For the umpteenth time, my father's head was buried in a road atlas, so he was oblivious. But my mother was poised to confront me at the tiki torch. As I braced for an argument over Mick, though, she hit me with a totally unexpected plan of attack instead.

"A shower? That sounds great!" she effused. "Hold on. I'll go with you."

"Huh?"

"I'm dying for a hot, steamy one," she claimed. "Just let me get my..."

Great. This was definitely not going to work. I could not have the Mental Hygienist tagging along like my BFF.

"I'm sick," I blurted. "I don't feel good. Everyone should stay away from me."

"What's the matter? Do you have a fever?" my mother asked, rushing to my side and clamping her palm over my forehead. "No. No fever," she decided after a few seconds of monitoring me.

"It's my stomach. I think I have the flu," I said, bending halfway over and clutching my guts. "I'll probably be in the bathroom for like two hours. Can you get me some Pepto?"

I could tell by the skeptical look on my mother's face that she didn't believe me. But I also knew she'd never go so far as to deny me medicine.

"Geez, Flora, I don't think we brought any Pepto. But I might have a roll of Tums in my purse. You could try those."

"Come on. I _need_ the Pepto, Mom. I'm sick," I whined. Then I faked the beginning of a dry heave.

"Okay, okay," she finally relented. "I'll go to the store. I'll get some Pepto—if they have it. Do you want your father to walk you to the bathroom? Vic, come here!" she yelled, before I could respond. "Flora's sick. I'm going for Pepto. Can you walk her to the bathroom?"

"Ab-SO-lutely! I can," my goofball father shouted.

For a second, I thought about arguing that I didn't need a bathroom escort. But then I realized getting rid of my dad would be a piece of cake once my mother was gone. Still, without waiting for him to follow, I plowed full steam ahead. And when he finally caught up to me a few campsites away, I pulled out the big guns. I had to.

"I think I forgot my bra. Can you go back and get it for me?" I asked innocently.

Nothing freaked my father out like female undergarments or _that time of the month_. And yes, I realize this was a cruel move, but I was desperate.

"Uh...um..." he stumbled. "We could turn around." He glanced longingly back at our tent.

"I can't," I whimpered. "My stomach. I've gotta hurry." I picked up my pace even further, forcing him into a quick decision.

"All right," he crumbled. "Where is it?"

"In my duffel. In the side pocket. But make sure you get the pink one with the yellow polka dots, not the blue one with the green stripes. The blue one's too tight, and I'm already sick."

"Pink with yellow polka dots. Check. I'll meet you at the showers."

Now I know I probably should have felt guilty about sending my dad on a wild goose chase, since the pink polka-dotted bra was still at home in my underwear drawer. But honestly, I didn't really feel that bad at all. I mean, sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, right?

In case my father gave up on the elusive bra hunt sooner than anticipated, though, I ditched my beach bag in the bushes and ducked behind the expansive rows of tents. Because if I remembered correctly, the RVs were at the back of the campground. And that's where I should be able to find the blue and silver pickup that belonged to my sweet, sweet Mick.

I'd only passed about five unfamiliar campsites when I recognized his rich, velvet voice. "Flora, hi. Over here," he called.

When I laid eyes on him again, my heart literally skipped a beat. Because even though he'd been super sexy yesterday in his cargo shorts and muscle-tight tee, today he was drool-worthy. He had on these ragged jeans that were ripped in all the right places—and not because he'd bought them that way at some trendy store. He'd ripped them _doing_ things. _Manly_ things. They were so tattered, in fact, I could see a three-inch patch of bare skin on his upper thigh through a well-placed hole. Delicious.

So what I did next was another testament to my inexperienced flakiness. At full speed, I ran up and tackled my should-be boyfriend to the ground. I swear, it was supposed to be a hug, not a football play. But I lost my balance, and then he lost his and...well, the rest was history.

"Wow," Mick said, once we'd finally caught our breath. "That was brutal. You should definitely try out for the Steelers."

"Pittsburgh? I don't know. I was thinking maybe more like the Dolphins," I joked. "You know, Miami. Fun in the sun. That kind of thing."

He pulled me up from the ground with both hands. And while I brushed the dirt and debris off my clothes, he helped pick the stray pine needles out of my hair. How romantic.

"But you're from Pennsylvania, right?" he asked.

Boy, this guy paid attention. He must have checked out the tags on the Maroon Monstrosity, which just so happened to match my home state.

"Yup, Punxsutawney."

"Groundhog land, huh? That's a nice place. A little small, but nice. And friendly."

"You've been to Punxsutawney?"

"Yeah, sure. I've been just about everywhere."

"You have?" I said, surprised. After all, I'd been just about nowhere.

"How about a walk?" Mick suggested. "There's a small stream behind the campground." He pointed a coarse finger toward the edge of the woods. "And a nature trail. Walk with me, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Nature? I reiterate my previous statement: It's out to get us. But for Mick, I'd take the chance. "Okay, let's walk," I agreed. Because honestly, I'd rather die of a poisonous snake bite than miss the opportunity to be alone with my own personal stud-muffin in a secluded make out spot.

I reached for Mick's hand, and he let me take it—which was a good thing, since I'm quite the klutz. I mean, at least if I was holding onto him, I might not end up face-first in the dirt. And if I did, he'd be down there with me and we'd both be dirty.

"So you were in Punxsutawney?" I asked again, still curious about what had brought him to my hometown (and secretly wondering if I might have run into him somewhere along the way).

"Uh-huh. About three years ago," he said. "At a Christmas fair at the old armory building. Do you know where that is?"

"I think so. There used to be a dance program in the basement when I was little—if it's the place I'm thinking of anyway. I took about four or five ballet classes there, but then I quit."

Mick frowned. "Why?"

"Short attention span," I said with a chuckle. "I think I have ADD."

"I bet you were a beautiful ballerina," he said, gently squeezing my hand. "Maybe you'll try it again someday?"

"There's probably a better chance of me landing on the moon," I joked. "But hey, you never know." I paused for a moment, just in case he wanted to suggest I'd make a great astronaut too. But I guess he had to draw a line somewhere. "So why were you in Punxsutawney?" I pried further. "I mean, I know you said for a Christmas fair, but why Punxsutawney? And why have you been so many places anyway?"

Mick took a deep breath, like I'd bombarded him with so many questions he'd better stock up on oxygen. "My life's a bit different, Flora," he started, then hesitated. "My family's...unusual."

"Uh-huh," I mumbled. Unusual was good.

He continued, "See, we're a bit like nomads. We're rambunctious. We have adventure in our blood. My mother calls it wanderlust," he explained. "And we're the third generation of our family to live this way. To surrender to wanderlust."

"Okay...but what does that mean exactly? What do you do?" So far, the idea of rambunctious adventurers surrendering to wanderlust sounded intriguing, but I needed more to go on.

"Well, basically we work for ourselves doing arts and crafts out of our campers. And we travel around to fairs, flea markets, and art expos—all over the country—selling our work. My cousins make Irish stone jewelry. My mother knits. My father runs the business side of things. And I keep all the vehicles on the road. Oh, and I work with leather too. I made this belt."

He lifted up his shirt so I could get a good look at the rugged, perfectly sculpted creation that caressed his rugged, perfectly sculpted waist, at which point I let out an involuntary sound—sort of a combination of a delighted pig-squeal and a shocked gasp—that made him grin with satisfaction.

"You like my work, I see," he said with a chuckle. "Good. I'm glad."

"It's gorgeous. I love it," I fawned. "You're so talented."

As I glanced down at Mick's big, rough hand—which almost swallowed mine whole—suddenly the dirt and calluses made sense. He was a mechanic. And an artist. Tough _and_ sensitive. Honestly, I was getting moist just thinking about it.

When I looked back up, Mick was mesmerized by something just off the trail—maybe a plant, or flower, or small animal. Gently, he tugged me along behind him, as we crunched off the path toward the edge of the forest.

Guiding my hand to a strange, oblong pod that looked like a cross between a baby cucumber and an overstuffed pea, he said, "It's milkweed." Slowly, he moved my fingers over the prickly looking surface. And I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised. Instead of being sharp and bristly like I'd expected, the thing was soft as velvet.

"This is milkweed?" I asked. Again, I know nothing about nature.

Mick snapped the pod from the plant, causing some gooey white liquid to ooze from the fracture. "Sure is. Isn't it cool?" he said, awestruck.

I nodded so he wouldn't be offended, but in reality, I wasn't totally convinced about the coolness of milkweed—that was, until Mick tore the pod open to reveal something wonderful: silky strands of iridescent stuffing that reminded me of raw cotton. He drew a pinch of the fluffy white stuff and placed it in my hand.

"This is really neat," I said, legitly impressed.

"Those are the seeds," he explained. "But what I like most about milkweed is that Monarch butterflies lay their eggs on it. And after they hatch, they travel thousands of miles to the hills of Mexico. That's where I fell in love with them. In Michoacán. Every year, they fly by the millions to a butterfly sanctuary there. I swear, Flora, I've seen trees so full of butterflies you couldn't even see the branches. It was like the whole tree could just flap its wings and fly away."

I was floored. On top of all his other attractive qualities, Mick was smart too. He knew things most adults probably didn't know. He'd seen things I'd never even imagined seeing.

"Did you say Mexico?" I asked. Even though I was still processing the butterfly-milkweed information, something about Mexico rang a bell in the back of my brain.

"Yeah, Michoacán. The Monarchs fly to the hilltops there every year around the Day of the Dead," Mick said. "The Mexican people believe the butterflies are the souls of their family and friends returning to them."

"I've been to Mexico once," I said. "When I was like seven or eight. My grandmother lives there."

Mick's eyes lit up. "We should go then. We should see the Monarchs. It would be so beautiful, Flora," he said, slinging his arm around my shoulder. "And we could visit your grandmother. We could do it this year. We still have time—a couple of months—to plan. Say you'll go with me to Michoacán."

How could I possibly agree to run away with him to a foreign country? I mean, we weren't even officially dating yet. The question was so heavy on my brain that it went blank. Shut down. Fried.

"Are you a gypsy?" I asked, partly to deflect his question and partly out of genuine curiosity. After all, if he _was_ a gypsy, it would explain why he thought I could disappear from my life at a moment's notice.

"A gypsy? No," he said, shaking his head and grinning. "But I've been accused of it plenty of times by people who don't understand my family. They assume we're bad people, just because we're not like them. It gets a bit tiring after a while."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"That's okay. You didn't know. And I don't blame you for asking. You must have lots of questions about how we live. It's very unique."

Up ahead, a rickety footbridge spanned a bubbling brook. Mick let go of me so we could cross single file, but once we were safely on the other side, he looped his muscular arm around my waist and pulled me in for a close hug. And immediately I forgot about gypsies, butterflies, Mexico. All I could do was _feel_. Feel his heart thumping flush against my chest. Feel his hot breath in my ear. Feel his soft, inviting lips flex against my...forehead?

Damn. A sweet, gentle peck on the head. _That_ was supposed to happen yesterday. Today we'd walked and talked and even considered running away together, which made this a lip-locking, tongue-twirling, make-him-my-boyfriend kind of day.

Now because of what happened next, I'm obligated to issue a warning: Never, ever kiss a boy for the first time with your eyes closed. I swear, this advice would have saved me a lot of trouble if I'd had it beforehand. Because Mick was all nuzzled into my neck when I tilted my head to the spot where I thought the sloppy, wet magic would happen, only to discover—a few seconds too late—that my mouth had connected not with his luscious lips but somewhere along his jaw line. And at first I didn't even notice. That's right, I aggressively made out with my almost-boyfriend's chin. And even though it was humiliating, I sort of wish I could have seen the look on Mick's face as I sucked obliviously away. It must have been priceless.

It's weird how sometimes it's the things you least expect that end up mattering most. Case in point: Mick's reaction to my off-target kissing. Before I made the moronic move, I would have described our attraction as a combination of extreme lust and absolute like, which to most people sounds like love but really isn't. Something has to happen to fuse the _lust_ and the _like_ together. There has to be a trigger. A catalyst. For me, the catalyst was Mick's reaction to my off-target kissing. Anyone but him probably would've laughed at my stupidity or made a production out of wiping the slobber off his face. But Mick didn't even pull away. Instead, he tenderly took my face in his hands and guided my lips to his.

And when our mouths were a mere millimeter apart, he whispered, "Will you be my girlfriend?" Without waiting for a response, he pressed his moist, supple lips to mine.

Meanwhile, I futilely tried to nod my acceptance of his offer. But even though I was having communication problems, I was pretty sure he knew I wanted to be his girlfriend anyway from the feverish kissing. Honest to God, the way he devoured me was so intense I could taste sex hormones in my saliva—unless, of course, lack of oxygen to my brain was just making me delusional. Lucky me, I was too love-drunk to tell the difference.

Chapter 6

WHEN Mick and I finally _un_ locked our lips, I couldn't stop smiling. I was happy-as-a-lark, over-the-moon, on-cloud-nine ecstatic. And Mick seemed just as thrilled, but in a slightly less dopey, less obvious way.

"So would you like to meet my parents?" he offered, as we exited the far end of the nature trail hand in hand.

"Sure," I said. What the hell. Even if it was still a bad idea for him to meet my parents, I saw no good reason why I couldn't meet his parents. After all, they had to be at least halfway decent to have such a wonderful son.

Speaking of parents...

I turned my attention to dreaming up excuses to feed Mr. Tightwad and the Mental Hygienist when I returned to camp. Because even though they could be pretty gullible, they'd never actually believe I'd spent two hours in the bathroom like I'd threatened to.

I was thinking wild animals. Maybe I could convince them that a bear, or a coyote, or even a rabid raccoon had cornered me and held me hostage.

Mick squeezed my hand. "Hey, we're here. This is it," he said.

"Oh, sorry. I guess I spaced out for a minute there."

He grinned, like he found my flakiness endearing. "That's all right. You ready?"

Ready? How ready did I need to be? Suddenly that one little word made me nervous. "Ready as I'll ever be," I said with a jittery laugh.

Then my new boyfriend and I strolled right into the heart of his family's compound. And I must say, the place was—in a word—interesting. Spanning the perimeters of at least three or four campsites were numerous trucks, SUVs, and campers that had all seen better days. Total, I counted seven ragged vehicles. But what stood out most about the place was the incessant buzz of activity.

At the back of the compound, the redheaded twins I'd seen the day before were Hula-Hooping with oversized, glittery hoops. To the left, a plumpish woman about my mother's age was cooking something delicious on a big charcoal grill. And at a dilapidated picnic table by the woods, the two young guys I'd tripped over at the rest area were hunched together over a laptop computer.

I was still drinking in the scene, when Mick reached for the door of a small RV. "Ladies first," he said, stepping aside.

"What? No. You go," I pleaded. Honestly, the thought of coming face-to-face with my boyfriend's parents for the first time in such a confined space made me physically ill. I mean, at least if Mick took the lead, I could hide behind him to avoid direct scrutiny.

"If you insist," he agreed. "But don't say I didn't offer."

We climbed the single metal step to the RV's living room, but it was immediately clear that the place was empty. Mick's parents weren't home after all.

"This is it. Home sweet home," he joked. "You like it?"

The entire RV was probably smaller than my bedroom. "Oh...yeah...I like it," I said tentatively. "It's..."

Shit. I couldn't think of one nice thing to say about the cramped, disheveled space—not that I thought I was better than Mick or anything. It wasn't _that_. It was just that no specific feature of his home was jumping out at me as something to compliment. And on top of everything else, I was starting to get a superiority complex (if there even is such a thing). Because suddenly I felt very privileged and totally guilty and undeserving.

"I know," Mick said, saving me further embarrassment. "It's not much to talk about, is it?"

I shrugged indecisively.

"Would you like a drink?" he offered, opening a small built-in refrigerator in the kitchen. "We have iced tea and water."

"Yeah, sure. I'll take some water, please."

He handed me a cool plastic bottle. "If you come over here, I'll show you my bed," he said in a teasing, seductive tone.

"Ooh. Your bed?" I giggled. "I don't know if I should. That sounds a little dangerous."

"Don't worry. I'll be a perfect gentleman," he promised. "Cross my heart." He boldly swept his hand across his chest in a giant _x_ pattern.

"Well, if you promise..."

I followed him to a small alcove near the back of the RV, where he sat down on a couch that was tucked against the wall and patted the cushion next to him.

"I thought you were showing me your bed," I said, still standing in front of him in protest. I mean, he shouldn't have offered if he wasn't really willing to deliver.

"I am. This is it," he said, grinning playfully. "This folds flat." He pointed at the back of the couch. "I sleep right here. Come on. Sit with me."

"It's not really what I expected," I admitted, disheartened. "But why not?"

Even though there was plenty of room for me to sit beside him, I stretched out horizontally and rested my head in his lap instead. And the cool thing was, he didn't act surprised. He just dug right in for a deep, relaxing backrub. I guess it was another benefit of having a boyfriend with big, strong hands: He could turn my muscles to Silly Putty.

Now I know this sounds pretty goofy, but the backrub was so pleasurable I had to just about glue my lips shut to avoid moaning out loud. After all, I didn't want Mick thinking I was some horny tramp getting all revved up over him touching me.

"So tomorrow's your birthday?" he asked, as I started to slip into a sleepy dream.

I sort of half nodded.

"We should do something special," he declared. "Something memorable. It _is_ your sweet sixteen, after all."

I'm not gonna lie. The idea of a sweet sixteen grossed me out a little. I mean, all I could picture were phony, overdressed debutantes—dripping with money and attitude—partying it up at some ritzy, star-studded venue. Definitely not my thing.

"I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it."

"Then think about it," he ordered. "I want you to remember this birthday for the rest of your life."

Well, _that_ was a tall order. How the hell was I going to think of something so fantastically original to do that it would stick in my memory forever, especially here at good ol' Wild Acres? And by the way, shouldn't my awesome new boyfriend be in charge of the thinking anyway? I mean, I hated to turn into such a bossy nag so early in our relationship, but...

"Isn't that your job?" I teased. "Why don't you surprise me? I _love_ surprises."

Okay, so I might have misrepresented my feelings about surprises. But at least maybe I wouldn't get stuck doing all the dirty work.

"A surprise it is," Mick declared.

Out of the blue, the RV's door jumped open, causing me to develop an immediate case of rigor mortis.

"Eh, Mick. Cy's lookin' for ya," one of the card-playing, internet-surfing dudes said, poking just his head through the doorway.

It was the first time I'd gotten even a halfway decent look at the guy, since he always seemed to be staring at the ground. And even though I assumed he was one of Mick's relatives, he was absolutely nothing like Mick. He had flat, greasy hair, a bunch of ready-to-pop zits, and such slouchy posture he resembled an invertebrate.

"Thanks, Cal. I'll be there in a few minutes," Mick said.

For less than half a second, the mystery guy made eye contact with me. Then he shut the door and left. "Who's that?" I asked.

"Oh, that's my cousin. My Aunt Billie's kid."

"Kid? How old is he?" I said, sort of confused. Honestly, the guy looked about thirty.

"Cal? Hmm... I think he's about four years older than me. So about twenty. It's hard to keep track, since we don't go to school. We don't really measure time the same way you do."

"Huh?"

"We gauge time mostly by the seasons," he explained. "By the rhythm of nature. Every few months, things shift. And then there are events too. Special experiences that mark new chapters, like meeting you."

It could not possibly be true that meeting _me_ was a serious turning point in this sweet, gorgeous boy's life. "Really? I'm a new chapter?"

Mick leaned in and delivered a French kiss that literally curled my toes. "Best one yet," he whispered. "But let's keep writing." And on that sappy note, a rap on the door interrupted us again. "Oops, I forgot. My dad's looking for me. You _are_ very distracting, Miss Fontain," he scolded. "I'll probably be busy for a while. Can I walk you home?"

Tupelo-9? Home? I'd almost forgotten that, technically, Mick _was_ at home here in Wild Acres.

"That's okay. Thanks for the offer and everything, but I'll be fine on my own," I said. After all, if I'd shown back up at Tupelo-9 with Mick in tow, I would've been inviting an even bigger argument than I'd already signed up for.

Chapter 7

LIKE a freshly launched cannonball, I flew back to Tupelo-9. But as I approached the shabby pee shack, I realized I'd made a rookie mistake. I was preparing to tell a series of lies that involved me spending a ton of time in the shower and the bathroom, but it was obvious I hadn't even changed my outfit, let alone actually cleaned myself up.

_Please, God, let my stuff be here,_ I begged, as I rifled through the bushes in search of my clothes, which luckily were still where I'd tossed them earlier.

Only...

I couldn't afford to waste any more time. So instead of showering, I ducked into a bathroom stall and did a quick change. Then, in about three seconds, I threw my hair back in a rough ponytail. Good enough.

And when I got back to camp, I carefully unzipped my sleep pod and slipped my belongings inside under the radar.

"Can I play?" I asked nobody in particular, as I snuck up to the horseshoe pit sideways. I could only hope my parents would figure I'd been hovering in the wings for a while, and they just hadn't noticed. I mean, I _definitely_ hadn't been missing for hours with my sexy new boyfriend.

"After this game," my mother said, with a distinct I-smell-a-rat tone in her voice. "Your Pepto is in the cooler, by the way—if you're looking for it."

"Thanks. I think I'll get some right now."

I strutted over to the cooler, flipped the lid, and retrieved the bottle of pink goop. And at first I thought about faking it, pretending to drink the stuff but really pouring it out somewhere instead. But the Pepto seemed pretty harmless, so once I got the childproof packaging off, I went in for the kill.

"Thanks again, Mom," I said, thrusting the bottle out in front of me like some kind of trophy. Gulp... Gulp... Gulp. "I think this is really gonna help." With a dramatic sweep of my hand, I cleared the excess pink spew off my face. "I can feel it working already."

I guess my last comment must have been a little over the top, because Will shot me a _who-do-you-think-you're-fooling_ glance, which convinced me to tone down the suck-up _ishness._

Then, to my great surprise, my family and I played two relatively pleasant games of horseshoes, for which I turned in an intentionally dismal performance.

And at the end of game two, my father got the dinner ball rolling. "Okay peepsles, who's hungry?" he asked, all chipper and eager-beaver like.

"I'd love something, Dad," I said, trying to reel him in with my innocent puppy-dog eyes.

"All right, Flowbee. You can help your dear ol' daddy-o cook then."

So while my mom and Will put the horseshoes away, my dad stoked the grill, and I rooted through the cooler in search of dinner ingredients. Hamburgers? No. Hot dogs? No. Steak? No. Pork chops? No. Holy cow, I'm as carnivorous as the next person, but just looking at all that meat was starting to give me a legit stomachache. But hey, at least I already had the Pepto in my system.

On the hunt for something lighter, I dug all the way to the bottom of the cooler. But the only thing left was chicken. "Chicken it is," I announced, passing the sticky, wet package to my dad, who immediately started whipping out utensils and spices and other culinary junk like he was a contender in the Iron Chef competition.

And even though I'd agreed to help him cook, once my dad got going, I just got out of his way. With yet another plate of macaroni salad and an icy bottle of Coke, I flopped into a lawn chair and awaited the rest of my dinner. And that's when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Mick striding toward me with a dazzling, clueless smile.

Shit. I should have warned him about my parents. I should have told him that they're _way_ overprotective. That they don't think anybody's good enough for me. That they think I'm too impressionable. All at once, a million things I should have said raced through my mind, causing a thought meltdown of epic proportions.

The second Mick stepped off the dirt road onto Tupelo-9, everything around me went fuzzy. It was sort of like a car accident we were in when I was eleven. My mother was driving me and Jessie home from the fifth grade ice cream social, when the pavement got really slick. And as the road curved in front of us, the cars up ahead slid into the ditch. But for some strange reason, I thought _we_ would avoid the growing heap of metal on the side of the road. When we hit the turn, though, I felt our tires lose contact with the ground. Then everything spun out of control, and all I could do was stare in frozen horror. That's how I felt watching Mick strut toward me: utterly helpless. It was too late for all the things I should have said.

But at the very last moment, a shred of an idea occurred to me. If only I could get to Mick before my parents did, maybe I could whisper a quick warning in his ear. On a kamikaze mission, I tossed my half-eaten plate of pasta into the trash and bolted toward the road.

And maybe if I hadn't been in such a god-awful hurry, I might have actually noticed the stupid air pump my father had left on the ground in front of the Maroon Monstrosity. But unfortunately I _didn't_ notice it until its hard, fat cord caught between my toes and hurled me to the ground. Of course, before anyone else could respond, my sweet, sweet Mick dashed to my rescue.

I had a limited window to act. "I don't like you," I blurted over his shoulder, as he hoisted me to my feet.

Shit. That hadn't come out exactly right. What I'd meant to say was that I was _pretending_ not to like him. But with my mother advancing on us at breakneck speed, there was no time to explain. _Play along,_ I tried to mouth. But I could tell by the hurt look in Mick's eyes that he hadn't understood.

"Are you all right?!" my mother shrieked, rocketing to my side. She tugged me by the arm to the picnic table. "Sit down, so I can get a good look at you."

Here we go again. Just because my mother works in a dental office, she's under the delusion she's also qualified to be a nurse. Honest to God, whenever anyone gets hurt, she springs into action like she just can't wait to try out her hidden talents on the poor sucker.

"I'm fine, Mom. Really," I assured her. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"I'll be the judge of that."

The Mental Hygienist had fixated on a sizable scrape on my left calf, which she was running her fingers over in some sort of voodoo maneuver.

And, of course, that's when my father decided to butt into the middle of a situation that already had one parent too many. "Ooh, Flowbee. That looks painful," he said with a wince. "Better let Moo-Ma clean that up for you."

Mr. Tightwad winked at the Mental Hygienist, which made me wonder if they were conspiring against me. But, more importantly, had Mick just heard my father refer to me by that ridiculous nickname? I cranked my head around to check his reaction, only to discover—to my absolute anguish—that he was gone.

Now, I swear, I'm not usually the crybaby type, but seeing that wounded look in Mick's eyes—and knowing he'd been upset enough to disappear—got the best of me. Luckily, though, the waterworks kicked in just as my mother sloshed an alcohol pad over my scraped leg, so at least the blubbering made sense anyway.

"It'll be okay," my mother said, briefly patting me on the head before she reached back into her handy-dandy medical kit for some Neosporin. "It's not as bad as it looks, sweetheart. I promise." She slathered a huge gob of the gooey ointment over my injury, then stuck a gauze pad on top of the whole mess with some medical tape. "There we go. All better," she declared.

I'm not sure what came over me then, but I temporarily lost my mind. "Thanks a lot, Mom," I spat. "And just so you know, that boy who was just here—he's my boyfriend. His name is Mick, and he's very nice. And I'm pretty sure I hurt his feelings by pretending not to like him. But I _do_ like him. I like him _a lot_. And you have no right to judge him, because he's never done anything to you. And he's only sixteen, by the way. And he's not a gypsy, like you said he was. His family just travels around and makes things. They're like...entrepreneurs. And just because people are different, that doesn't make them bad. Mick knows lots of things about butterflies and milkweed and Mexico and cars. He's a mechanic, you know. He fixes things. So, I swear to God, the one and only thing I want for my birthday is for you and Dad to butt out of my life and leave me alone. _That_ ' _s_ what would really make me happy."

I must say, on the lifetime scale of Flora meltdowns, this one was quite ugly. And normally I'm pretty cool; not much fazes me. But this time an emotional ripcord had been pulled in my brain—only the parachute never opened, and I ended up spiraling headlong into a dramatic crash.

While I tried to stop hyperventilating, I noticed that my family had frozen shoulder-to-shoulder in complete silence, and a bunch of annoying kids and a couple of nosy old ladies had gathered in the road to watch me freak out. How fantastic.

"All right, everyone," I announced, as soon as I could speak clearly again. "I'm okay. You can all relax. There's nothing else to see here."

The old biddies left first, then the kids trickled off. But my family remained stuck in their wax-statue poses. _If I gave Will a push, would they all topple over like dominos?_ I wondered.

"Come on. I'm fine," I repeated. "You can all breathe now. I'm not gonna go postal. Really. I was just upset."

My mother was first to break the line. And as she approached, I tried to imagine what she might say, how she might react to my meltdown. Anger? Of course. I expected _that_. Punishment? Probably that too. Disappointment? Well, _that_ was a given. But the one thing I never expected, the thing I was least prepared for, was cruelty. Then, with a few simple sentences, my loving mother—the woman who'd given birth to me—squashed me like a bug.

"I just have a few questions about this new _boyfriend_ of yours, Flora," she started in a biting tone. "You've known him how long? One day? And you know so much about him already, do you?" A peep of sarcastic laughter escaped her lips. "Clearly, you know a lot less about him than you think."

"No," I interrupted. "That's not true. He's very honest," I said, assuming she was still stuck on the whole gypsy thing.

"I'm not suggesting he's a liar. I'm just saying you're too naive to make a clear judgment in the matter. This boy has bewitched you. You're not thinking straight. A girl like you needs to rely on her family to point her in the right direction."

"I do not!" I yelled.

"Well, Flora, we don't have to look very far for evidence of some really bad choices you've made, do we?" she continued, as if I was going to join her in assassinating my character. "For example, you lost out on Europe because you snuck beer into the house. Certainly _that_ wasn't the smartest thing you've ever done, was it?"

"That was Jimmy Bickford!" I cried. "I didn't even know about it!"

The Mental Hygienist shook her head and smirked. "Blaming others is a sign of immaturity, Flora. You need to take responsibility for things. That's how you earn trust," she spewed, like she'd memorized it from an episode of Dr. Phil. "It's pretty obvious that your behavior has slipped into a destructive pattern," she went on. "You need guidance. And your father and I are certainly not going to let you get involved with some character who we know nothing about, some boy who travels around with a bunch of weirdoes doing God only knows what. It doesn't look good."

"A bunch of weirdoes?!" I screeched. "My God, you're so superficial!"

I guess I should have left out the direct slam, because it really seemed to have pressed the Mental Hygienist's buttons. " _I'm_ superficial? Ha! That's funny," she said. But she wasn't actually laughing. Instead, she was glaring daggers at me. "Obviously, Flora, you know nothing about this boy," she continued. "Yet you're willing to stand here and insult me? Well, I just have one question for you, smarty pants. This boy—your new _boyfriend_ —what is his name?"

"His name's Mick," I said, rolling my eyes. "Sheesh." And _I_ was supposed to be the dumb one here.

"I mean his _full_ name," she demanded. "Unless you know so little about him that you don't even know _that_. Because if you're standing here arguing with me over a boy whose name you don't even know—well, that proves my point exactly. You're definitely not thinking straight, so..."

I hate to admit it, but the name thing totally blindsided me. I glanced back at Mr. Tightwad and Golden Boy, hoping for a last-minute reprieve from my mother's irrationality. But of course they were no help.

So I took a single step toward my mother. And when she didn't move, I shoved her aside with my forearm, which made her stumble a little before she caught her balance.

And the crazy thing was, nobody stopped me. In case my dad and Will just had delayed reflexes, though, I darted around our tent and broke into an anxious jog down the dirt road—and away from Tupelo-9.

Chapter 8

WHEN I rounded the corner toward Mick's, his compound was again busy with activity: The redheaded twins (and a young boy I didn't recognize) sat cross-legged before a crackling fire, spearing marshmallows with sharp twigs; two middle-aged women strung laundry on a makeshift clothesline; and a trio of beautiful young ladies huddled together over trays of polished stones.

I wondered about the three beauties. Were they Mick's cousins? I couldn't remember what he'd said about them, but they seemed very approachable.

I conjured my happy-to-meet-you smile. "Ahem," I croaked, hoping to draw the girls' attention. But apparently they were so entranced by their work that my existence didn't register. I tried again, "Ahem."

In unison, the girls jerked their heads in my direction, which was kind of jarring, really, since it made them seem like puppets instead of real people.

"Um, hi. I'm Flora," I squeaked. "I'm looking for Mick. Is he here?"

The girl in the middle perked up. "Oh, Flora, it's nice to meet you," she said, hopping up and offering me her hand. "I'm Mick's cousin, Penny. And these are my sisters, Helen and Abby."

"Hi," the sisters chirped in harmony, as I clutched Penny's outstretched fingers.

But just then a curious sight in the distance caught my eye. "Hi. Nice to meet you," I mumbled, distracted. "Um, are those Mick's parents?" I asked, pointing out an attractive woman with lush red hair and a hot older guy with Mick's raven locks and lean, muscular build.

"Uh-huh. That's Stella and Cy...and Jo-Jo and Kat and Sean," Penny confirmed, rattling off the list of names with a little laugh.

"Sean? Is he your brother?" I pried, still trying to arrange the labels on Mick's family tree.

"No. Sean is Cal's brother," Penny explained. "They're Billie's kids. _Our_ brother is Donny. But he's not here right now. He went fishin'."

My mind was swimming with names, but I was still pretty sure I'd connected a few dots. And if I'd connected them right, the boy with the marshmallows was the brother of Cal the Creeper, and Donny the fisherman was the other card player I'd tripped over at the rest area.

"So...did you say Mick was here?" I asked again, attempting to get myself back on track.

Penny pushed a small pair of pliers across the table to her sister. "Oh, yeah. He's out back working. Come on. I'll show you."

With my happy-go-lucky new friend in the lead, we slipped out of the compound and into the trees. And that's where we found Mick working on some horribly complicated automotive task involving nuts and bolts and metal and rubber and wires and...

"There you go," Penny said with an approving grin. "He's all yours."

"Uh...thanks."

Mick must have heard us coming, because when I took a step toward him, he crushed me with his sad, hurt eyes.

"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I was wrong. I like you. I _love_ you. I didn't mean what I said before. I just said it because of my parents. Forgive me?" I begged.

Without a word, he swallowed me in his strong, muscular arms. And from the tight, hungry way he squeezed, I knew he not only forgave me, but he also loved me back. As hard as it was to believe, the most exquisite creature on earth belonged to me. Flora Fontain. Little Miss Ordinary.

I let out one of those little sucking gasps people sometimes make in the middle of a good cry. "Shh..." Mick cooed, kissing little circles around my eyes and stroking my hair. Meanwhile, I clamped my arms around his waist like a needy toddler. And we stayed like that—stuck in an understanding, apologetic embrace—until the sadness between us dissolved into sweet, unadulterated love.

"Wanna go for a swim?" he asked, once things had finally shifted out of crisis mode.

Even though I wanted to move on, I was still stuck on what my mother had said. "What's your name?" I asked.

He squinted and blinked. "Huh?"

"I know it's Mick, but Mick _what?_ " I asked again. "What's your _last_ name? You never told me, and my mother made me feel like an idiot for not knowing."

He chuckled. "It's Donovan. Mickey Donovan," he said. "If you want my full _legal_ name, it's actually Mickey Reed Donovan. I guess you probably should know it, just in case we run off and get married or something," he joked with a wide, perfectly-crooked grin.

So his first name was Mickey. I'd sort of been right about that, at least. "Reed? What does that mean?" I asked. It sounded sort of nature-y and a little bit hippie _ish,_ like my middle name: Moon. "Isn't it something...botanical? Like some kind of plant or something?"

"Very good," Mick said, sounding impressed. "It's a type of tall grass that grows in the wetlands." He paused for a moment, then said, "You know, you never answered me about the swimming."

The sun was still lingering on the horizon, and I could tell it was going to be one of those oppressive nights where, at home, we wouldn't have even been able to crack a window for fear of suffocating. Perfect swimming weather.

"Sure," I agreed. "But do you know any private spots? I mean, my parents are probably still pretty ticked at me about the fit I threw earlier, so I'm trying to fly under the radar."

"I haven't had much time to explore, since I've been a bit _preoccupied,_ " he said with a wink. "But Donny did mention a good fishing spot. A cove past the main beach _._ We could try that."

I tiptoed up, slung my arms around his shoulders, and planted a soft peck on his cheek. "Perfect."

"Here we are," Mick said, as our feet hit the grainy sand. He paused to survey the area. "It looks like Donny was right about this place," he said, nodding in approval. "It's very secluded."

"It's gorgeous!" I gushed. "I love it!"

Like I said, I'm normally an _indoor_ girl. And back in Punxsutawney, that's pretty much where I stay. But the way the sky over the lake dissolved from pink to yellow to orange—like a fabulous painting by one of those dead French guys—well, you'd have to be dead yourself not to appreciate the beauty of it.

At the edge of the water, I dipped my toes in, expecting a shock of cold. But instead, a gush of slippery warmth washed over me. "Come here. Try it," I prodded. "It's nice. I swear."

For some unknown reason, my sweet boyfriend had stopped to arrange our towels side by side on the beach, which was very cute but not all that important—unless, of course, he was channeling the way old people push their beds together when they want to do it. If _that's_ what he was up to, I guess I might have to reconsider the significance of the move.

So as my thoughts drifted from dead French guys to geezer sexcapades, Mick approached me from behind, cinched his arms around my waist, and tilted his head to my ear. "It _is_ very pretty here," he murmured. "But I'd rather stare at _you_ for eternity." With absolute precision, he delivered a pair of shivery, ticklish kisses to my neck.

"Mmm," I purred, melting into a pile of humming happiness. "Me too. Stare at _you,_ I mean."

"Well, we could do that," he offered. "Or we could get wet. It's up to you."

On that tantalizing note, he spun me around to face him. And that's when I discovered he was naked from the waist up. From the waist down, he was sporting only a small pair of olive green shorts with white trim.

Confused, I glanced back at our towels, only to discover Mick's ripped jeans and plaid shirt crumpled in a pile. Apparently the man of my dreams had stripped bare behind me while I'd contemplated trivialities. It figured.

Annoyed about the missed ogling opportunity, I decided, "I wanna swim." But the problem was, I had nothing to wear. After all, I was still technically on the lam, which left few choices in the swimwear department.

I could skinny dip (but I wouldn't in a million years). I could do the whole bra-and-underwear-as-bathing-suit thing (which was pretty tacky, if you asked me). Or I could just jump in wearing the shorts and tank top I already had on (but then I'd have no dry clothes for later). My options were dismal.

I was still staring at Mick's rumpled clothes—and imagining him naked—when an idea hit me. "Hey, can I borrow your shirt?"

"Sure," he agreed, grinning like he was a step ahead of me.

"You don't mind if it gets wet, do you?"

"Not if _you're_ wearing it."

"Okay, turn around then," I ordered.

Of course, my sweet, sweet boyfriend dutifully obeyed—not that it would have mattered anyway, since I changed out of my clothes like Houdini's granddaughter. Anyone trying to sneak a peek would have been sorely disappointed.

"All set," I said, approaching Mick from behind like he'd approached me. With a belly full of butterflies, I slipped my hands around to his bare chest and kissed him gently on the shoulder (which turned out to be an excellent kissing spot, by the way: soft and smooth and just a little salty).

And for a few blissful seconds, Mick let me have my way with him. Then he turned around and—staring at me like I was a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic event—murmured, "Unbelievable..."

Now as much as I love compliments, especially from hot guys, Mick's over the top fawning was getting kind of embarrassing. "I know. I'm amazing," I joked. "You're such a lucky man."

Dead serious, he replied, "Oh, definitely."

That was it. I couldn't take the hyper-focus anymore. Anxiously, I splashed into the lake, submerged myself, and disappeared. And when I came up for air, Mick was right there beside me. We were a little farther from shore than I'd expected—about waist-high on Mick and chest-high on me. As the balmy water danced over my bare skin, it tickled like a thousand tiny ants in velvet slippers.

"I love you," I said, staring right through Mick's eyes into his soul.

In response, my glorious, sparkling boyfriend pulled me to him and unleashed an avalanche of hungry kisses that consumed us so completely I could've sworn we were the last two people on earth.

Now things were happening pretty fast, so I'm not sure he actually meant to do it— _if_ he even did it at all—but in the middle of our passionate grope-fest, I swear I felt Mick's fingers slip inside his shirt and caress my boob. Of course, it also could've been a baby fish swimming in through the oversized arm holes, so there was still some reasonable doubt.

"I love you, Flora," Mick whispered, pulling back to look me in the eyes. "You're _it,_ you know. You're the one for me."

At his warm, perfectly-crooked smile, a spike of pure happiness shot through me. And for some strange reason, just then I thought of Jessie in Europe. But this time, instead of feeling bad, all I could do was thank God for idiots like Jimmy Bickford. Because I didn't know if it was fate, or luck, or sheer coincidence that I'd met the man of my dreams on a trip I was never supposed to take. But I didn't really care. All I cared about was sucking up every last scintilla of bliss with my sweet, sweet boyfriend before our romance came to its inevitably sad, tragic end.

"I love you, Mick Donovan," I said, fighting back tears. "Remember that. Forever. Remember me."

I stayed with Mick longer than I should have, first in the water and then on a moonlit stroll around Wild Acres. Because once I'd started thinking about our imminent separation, it was all I _could_ think about. And I didn't want to let him go. The two-year-old inside me wanted to throw a gigantic temper tantrum. Yet somehow my almost grown-up self knew things would never work out for Mick and me—at least not right now. Our lives were just too far apart. I was Punxsutawney, PA—like it or not—and Mick was a mysterious nomadic adventurer. There wasn't much crossover in our universes.

"Goodnight," I said, tiptoeing up to peck him on the cheek in front of Tupelo-9. But on a night like this, a peck just wouldn't do. So like he was going off to war and I might never see him again, I threw my arms around his waist and squeezed with a vengeance.

"Night," he said, hugging me back just as tight. "And happy sixteenth, by the way. It's past midnight, you know."

I'd figured it was pretty late, but honestly, I'd forgotten about my birthday altogether. "Thanks," I said with a weak smile.

"And don't forget, we're going to do something special tomorrow," he promised. "It'll be a surprise." He loosened his grip on me. "And think about Michoacán. We could do it this year. There's still time."

I didn't have the heart to ruin his hopeful, joyous dream; I mean, it would've been too much like telling a little kid there's no Santa Claus. "Okay. I'll think about it," I agreed, even though I knew it was impossible. "See you tomorrow."

Chapter 9

TO my surprise (and slight dismay) everyone at Tupelo-9 was asleep when I crept into my alien pod in the wee hours of my birthday morning. There was no late night vigil. No worried hand wringing. No outward sign my presence had been missed or my absence even noticed. Was this what adulthood was like? You got your freedom but nobody gave a damn about you anymore? What a rip-off.

One thing that wasn't a rip-off, however, was the yummiest smell on earth that woke me on my sweet sixteen: Belgian waffles. I guess my parents were pulling out all the stops in their quest to control me. And this time they'd sunk to a new low: bribery. Gee, if I'd known psycho meltdowns led to absolute freedom and personal chef service, I swear I would have lost my marbles a whole lot sooner.

"Mornin' Flowbee," my dad said, as I staggered toward the picnic table. "Waffles?"

"What time is it?" I muttered.

Mr.Tightwad checked his wrist. "Precisely ten forty-one. Brunch time," he said with a chuckle.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

"Well, let's see... Lu-Lu's at the bingo. And your brother's trying his luck in the volleyball tourney," my dad informed me, prying two huge waffles off the griddle and dropping them on my plate. "Oh, and Moo-Ma left you a schedule. There's tons of activities today. Even a dance tonight, I do believe."

"Oh," I said, feigning disinterest. I mean, I hadn't expected Wild Acres to host social events. As far as I knew, only those richy-rich resorts like the one in _Dirty Dancing_ bothered to entertain you. "Where's the dance?" I asked. After all, _he'd_ brought it up.

"Geez...?" he said, sucking his teeth and shaking his head. "The Clubhouse? Possibly. I haven't read the schedule, though," he admitted, handing me the printout my mother had left behind. "Here ye go."

I rolled my eyes at the Old English. "Thanks, Dad."

"You're ever so welcome, m'lady. 'Tis your special day, 'tis not?"  
"Huh?"

"The anniversary of your birth, m'lady."

"All right, Dad," I said, exasperated. "You're confusing me. Yes, it's my birthday— _if_ that's what you said. But will you please talk normal? I just woke up for God's sake."

"As ye wish."

While I chomped down the rest of my birthday breakfast, I concentrated on the _Wild Acres Recreation Schedule._

8:00-10:00 Breakfast Buffet in the Clubhouse

(Missed it, but Belgian waffles were better anyway.)

10:00-12:00 Bingo in the Activity Center

(Check. The Mental Hygienist had it covered.)

11:00-1:00 Volleyball Tournament

(Double check. Will's specialty.)

12:00-2:00 Buffet Lunch in the Clubhouse

(No thanks. Buffets are usually gross.)

1:00-3:00 Arts and Crafts in the Activity Center

(Probably for little kids.)

2:00-3:00 Pie Eating Contest in the Clubhouse

(Fun to watch, maybe. But participate? No.)

3:00-5:00 Family Movie in the Movie Room

(Only if it's a classic like _The Princess Bride_.)

5:00-7:00 Dinner Buffet in the Clubhouse

(Again, yuck.)

7:00-8:00 Karaoke Contest in the Activity Center

(Not bloody likely. I'm a super chicken.)

8:00-10:00 Family Dance w/ DJ in the Clubhouse

(Only if Mick wants to go.)

"Hey, Dad, can I keep this?" I asked, waving the baby-blue sheet of paper in the wind on my way to the garbage can.

Out of nowhere, my father got one of those sappy, wistful looks in his eyes. "Sure thing," he agreed. "And, Flowbee, happy birthday." Before I could stop him, he caught me in an awkward hug that only lasted a few seconds but seemed more like an eternity. "I love you, squirt."

"Okay, Dad. Thanks," I said, backing away slowly. "Thanks a lot. I've gotta go get ready now. And then I'm going to..." I glanced down at the sheet of paper I was still clutching. "I'm going to go see how Will's doing in the Volleyball Tournament," I declared.

"Okie dokie, smokie," my dad said, signifying the end of our serious father-daughter moment, which was definitely A-okay with me.

After a soaking shower and a fresh change of clothes, I once again headed for Mick's place. And against my better judgment, I allowed myself to start getting excited for whatever surprise he had in store for me. After all, it was the first time I'd had a real, legitimate boyfriend on my actual birthday, so I had to squeeze in as much fun, romance, and indulgent pampering as I could.

But as I approached Mick's compound, two things immediately stood out: First, the place was uncharacteristically quiet. And second, a few of the vehicles were MIA. Plus, the only person in sight was Mick's mother, who I technically hadn't even met yet.

I drew a deep breath and slunk toward the twiggy chair, where she sat buried beneath a mountain of yarn. "Um, hi," I said from about ten feet away.

Mick's mother just kept knitting.

I took two more steps. "Excuse me," I tried.

There was no response.

Okay...what now? Should I push my luck and risk getting jabbed with a giant knitting needle? Maybe the third time was a charm. "Hello. Is Mick here?" I asked.

"Shh!"

As ridiculous as this sounds (and as embarrassing as it is to admit) I peed my pants a little when she shushed me. Only like a drop or two, but still.

After about another thirty seconds of complete silence, Mick's mother finally spoke. "I'm sorry about that, dear. I was in the middle of a complicated pattern, and I had to finish the row. I hope I didn't scare you," she said, flashing me a kind, welcoming smile. "You must be Flora. Mick has been raving about you for days. And he wasn't exaggerating either, I see. You are absolutely as radiant as he described." She extended her hand. "I'm Stella. Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, yeah. Nice to meet you too," I said, clamping onto her fingers like I'd just caught the game-winning football pass.

"Mick's out back working," his mom said. "He's taken on a special project." She paused for a moment, like she was considering letting me in on a secret. But then she continued without spilling the beans. "I think he should be just about done, though. Why don't you go ahead back? It should be fine."

"All right. Thanks," I said, already heading for the trees.

Behind the Donovan compound, I crunched around aimlessly until—from somewhere deeper in the woods—I heard Mick's voice. "Flora!" he called.

Even though it was another bright, sunny day, I couldn't quite find him through the trees. "Where are you?" I asked, stepping over a downed limb and meandering in the direction of his voice.

"This way."

I'd already passed his work benches, so I was out of obvious landmarks to go by. "I don't see you," I complained. "What are you doing?"

"Just finishing up your birthday shopping," he revealed. By the volume of his voice and the clear echo of his footsteps, I could tell he was headed in my direction.

I leaned back against a fat, old tree and whined, "Hurry up. I miss you."

"Close your eyes," he ordered playfully. "I can see you. I'm almost there."

As silly as his request was, I clamped my eyes shut and waited. And within seconds, I heard his voice again—this time face-to-face. "Good girl. Thank you for playing along," he teased. "You can open now."

I peeled my eyelids apart to find my hunk of a boyfriend down on one knee, clutching a fistful of fresh wildflowers. And as cliché as the Prince Charming move was, I must admit, it won me over; I was converted.

"You're amazing. Did you pick all these?" I asked, pulling the flowers to my face for a long, deep breath. "They're beautiful."

Mick stood up. "They pale in comparison," he declared. From anyone else, the line would have been ultra corny, but his sincere delivery made me believe him. "Happy birthday, sweet sixteen," he said with a wide grin.

I couldn't wait another second. Still gripping the burgeoning bouquet, I flung my arms around his waist and squeezed, probably crushing a few of the delicate blossoms in the process. It was the beginning of my _real_ birthday present: time and attention—and hopefully more kissing—from my sweet, sweet Mick.

So I guess I should add one more talent to my new boyfriend's repertoire of skills: mind reading. Because the minute I started fantasizing about him kissing me...well, he did. Then, with a little more force than necessary, he pushed me to the ground, rolled on top of me, and pinned me in place. And like any sane girl would, I had a momentary flash of panic. After all, I was trapped. If Mick wanted to do anything I didn't want to do, I would have been powerless to stop him.

"The flowers," I croaked. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a scattering of fresh petals beneath Mick's bent knee.

He kissed me hard and deep on the mouth. "I'll pick more," he breathed. "A million more." Eagerly, he pressed himself into me, jamming my spine against a scraggly tree root—which didn't actually hurt, but made me kind of nervous. Nervous and excited, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I swear I'm not some sicko pervert with a domination fetish; I just liked tasting Mick's tongue in my mouth and feeling his heart thump against my chest and imagining his lust for me was so powerful we had no choice but to surrender to it. After all, I'm only human. This boy would have turned _any_ red-blooded girl to mush, especially so up close and personal.

After a good, solid five minutes of sucking face, Mick reached toward his pants. And again, I panicked. I mean, maybe he had more on his mind than kissing and touching. Did he think I wanted to have sex right there in the woods? Did he think I'd done things like that before? Had he? A stream of heavy questions flat-lined my brain. And even though I wanted to say something—like maybe tell him to slow down just a little—I drew a complete blank.

The next thing I knew, Mick's forearm rubbed across my hip. Then his hand went into his pants—at which point I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing. Actually, I might have even blacked out, because I don't remember anything else until he nudged me.

"Hey, get up," he said. He tugged me off the ground with both hands. "I want to give you your birthday present."

I was afraid to look down. Were his pants unzipped? Shit. What was I going to do if _that_ was my present? I mean, we'd rehearsed all these lame ways to turn a boy down in Sex Ed, but I'd forgotten the whole routine already. The truth was, I hadn't paid much attention in Sex Ed in the first place, since my prospects of getting anywhere near a boy I liked in the next century seemed dismal. Most of the time when I liked someone, they never liked me back. I was cursed—until now, which left me entirely unprepared for whatever was in Mick's pants.

"Okay, close your eyes again," he said.

"Do I have to?"

"You said you loved surprises."

So the lie had come back to bite me. It figured. "I _do_ like surprises," I maintained. "But I'm afraid of bugs and snakes and stuff like that." Who knew, maybe exaggerating my fraidy cat _ness_ would at least buy me a couple of extra seconds to think of a good excuse in case I needed it.

"I'll protect you. Don't worry," Mick said, stopping to plant a tender kiss on my forehead. "Now go ahead."

I had no choice but to wing it. If I opened my eyes and his pants were down, I'd have to come up with something on the fly. "Okay, here goes," I said, shutting my eyes and praying. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't want Mick sexually; it was just _way_ too soon. Maybe a year or two down the road—if everything was perfect between us—I would be ready. Just not right now.

Even though I technically had my eyes closed, I let them drift open just far enough to catch a few hazy glimpses of what looked like Mick fumbling with something in his hand. Not exactly helpful.

"Okay. Ready," he finally said. "Open up." I swear, he sounded so excited I already felt bad about disappointing him.

"Oh my God! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" I squealed. "I love it! Did you make this?"

Mick was beaming—and his pants were still zipped—which explained a great deal of my excitement.

Displaying the leather bracelet across his palm, he said, "I sure did. See, these are _your_ initials, and these are _mine_." He pointed out the shiny copper _FF_ and _MD,_ which glowed like pure sunshine against the black background.

"What's this?" I asked, transfixed by an intricate design between the two sets of initials.

"Oh, that's a Celtic knot. It was my mother's idea," Mick said. "It's an Irish symbol of eternal love and other stuff—like the beauty of nature. It's an ancient pattern. An endless series of connected loops. Do you like it?"

"It's perfect. It's the best present anyone's ever given me," I gushed. "Can you put it on?"

"Why, it'd be my pleasure, Miss Fontain," he drawled in a faux Southern accent. Then he took my hand in his, strapped the bracelet around my wrist, and pushed the small crystal stud through the slit in the leather.

"I adore you," I blurted. Because suddenly I realized that what I felt for Mick was more than love. The gypsy boy I'd met less than forty-eight hours ago was now quite possibly my new best friend _and_ my hero, all rolled into one.

Chapter 10

AS far as I was concerned, my birthday could have ended at noon. Because the gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers, handpicked by an Adonis, and the personalized jewelry, created by the Adonis himself, had already surpassed my wildest birthday dreams. To be honest, I was afraid the rest of the day would turn out to be a letdown in comparison.

But I was wrong.

"Where are we going?" I asked, as Mick cautiously strung me along behind him blindfolded. "I guarantee I'm gonna trip," I threatened. "Just so you know."

He laughed. "Thanks for the heads up, but I'm being very careful. You'll be fine if you just go slow," he assured me. "I would never put you in any danger."

"I'm sure you wouldn't, but I'm a total klutz. It wouldn't necessarily be your fault," I explained. "Because with _this thing_ over my eyes, I'm like a..." How lame. I couldn't even think of one good comparison to make him understand how impaired I really was. "Oh, forget it," I said with an exasperated sigh. "Just wake me up when we get there."

"All right. But you're not going to get much sleep," Mick said, chuckling. "We're almost there."

Thank God. I mean, I wasn't trying to be a stick-in-the-mud or anything, but there was only so much excitement I could take for one day. Plus, all the eye closing and blindfolding was making me skittish.

Somewhere in front of me, Mick came to an abrupt stop, which I guess signaled the end of our journey. "So this is it, I assume. The next stop on the tour?" I said, not even bothering to disguise my crankiness.

"Wow, Miss Fontain. I did not know you could be so difficult," he teased. "Yes, we're at our destination. You may remove your blindfold."

I unwound the bumblebee necktie and freed my crispy bangs, only to find that we were back at the lake again, in the same spot where we'd taken our romantic dip. And the place was deserted, just like before.

"This looks familiar," I said, surprised by, well, the lack of surprise.

"Does it? Really? Look around," Mick encouraged. "You may find something different. Something that wasn't here before."

Sure enough, a quick scan of the beach revealed an aluminum rowboat, two life jackets, and two sets of paddles.

"Where are the fishing rods?" I asked, only half kidding, as we headed toward the boat. After all, he'd said this was a good fishing spot, so anything was possible.

"Fishing? No," Mick said, smirking and shaking his head. "Not a bad idea, but I had something more special in mind."

"Okay..."

"Turn around," he said, gesturing over my shoulder. "I think you missed something."

I followed his instructions, and, of course, he was right again. Behind us on the sand was a large wicker picnic basket I hadn't noticed before. "Lunch? On the water?" I asked.

He nodded. "Precisely. It'll be fun, right?"

"Sure. Yeah," I agreed warily. In theory, a romantic lake picnic was a smashing idea. But I wasn't exactly convinced we could pull it off. "I'm just warning you, though, I have no coordination. You might end up rowing this thing all by yourself," I said, tapping my toes against the side of the boat.

"Piece of cake. You don't even have to try if you don't want to. I've got it."

"Oh, I'll try," I objected, insulted by the idea I'd give up on something without first failing miserably. "Just don't expect much, that's all."

"Whatever you do will be perfect," Mick assured me with a sweet little peck on the cheek. Then he retrieved the picnic basket, hoisted it into the boat, and locked an arm around my waist to steady me as I stepped over the side. And once I was comfortably seated on the paint-chipped bench, he gave the boat a few manly shoves toward the water and hopped in.

Technically, we weren't actually floating yet; we were just kind of bottomed-out in the muck. "For you," Mick said, passing me a standard orange life vest from the floor. "Just to be on the safe side. Need help getting it on?"

"If I did, you'd be the one I'd ask," I joked.

But apparently I was at least proficient at putting on a life jacket, which impressed Mick to no end. "Good job," he praised, as I tied the last pair of grubby straps into a neat bow. "Those things can be very tricky. And you handled it like a pro on the first try." He winked at me playfully.

Okay, enough already with the unwarranted praise. I mean, sure, some sick part of me was getting a cheap thrill out of all the fawning, but such over the top sucking up couldn't continue forever.

I picked up the oars next to me and dangled them over the sides, while Mick attempted to dislodge us from the muck by brute force. "Want me to help you?" I asked, as he vigorously stabbed at the lake bottom.

"That's okay. Save your energy," he said. "We'll be out of here in no time."

With a few more jabs, he launched us on our journey. And while he rowed away in silence, I stared lovingly at his beautiful face and daydreamed of our unlikely future. Because already, in the impossibly short time I'd known him, Mick had changed me. He was the sunlight that made me bloom, and I never, ever wanted to fall back into the darkness.

"Do you believe in fate?" I asked. "Like things being meant to be?"

He pulled the oars inside the boat and let us drift. "Hmm... I don't know," he pondered, studying my face like he was trying to solve a riddle. "I think some things are more likely than others, if you know what I mean."

"Huh?"

"Well, I just mean some things are more natural," he clarified. "There are forces pushing us in predictable directions."

"Like fate?"

"I wouldn't call it fate. That sounds so final," he said, shaking his head. "Look at it this way: The universe presents us with opportunities, then _we_ decide. But the universe determines the opportunities, so predictable things end up happening. Does that make any sense?" he asked with a frown.

"Yes and no," I admitted. Really, all I wanted to know was if he thought we were meant to be together. "Do you think the universe picked us for each other?" I asked. "Is there anything special about _us?_ "

He shot me a perfectly-crooked, understanding smile. "Well, what I said about predictability—it's probably true in most cases: the expected thing happens. But sometimes something special—something out of the ordinary—comes along," he said, winking. "Sure, it's rare. Probably more rare than, oh, getting struck by lighting. But if you pay attention, if you look for them, these surprises can change your life."

"Is that what we're doing? Changing each other's lives?" I dared to ask.

"I think so," he said. "Love is powerful. It leaves a mark. And I can only speak for myself, but finding you, knowing you, loving you—it's marked me for life."

Once again, I was floored. My hot, sweet Mick was so insightful. So philosophical. And so in love...with me? It was all too good to be true, which made me wonder for a second if maybe it wasn't. I mean, maybe I was rowing around the lake by myself with my imaginary new boyfriend. Or maybe I'd conked my head back at the rest area, and now I was in a hallucinatory coma. Almost _anything_ seemed more plausible than the truth.

"I love you," I said. "And ditto on everything. I'm marked now too."

I leaned forward for a kiss, which predictably sent the boat sloshing from side to side. So Mick clamped his hands around my waist and steadied me for a deep, wet one. Unfortunately, though, our kissing had to come to a premature halt, because as hard as we tried, we couldn't stop the boat from threatening to drown us.

"Ready for lunch?" Mick asked, as I shimmied back to my seat. "I made you a birthday picnic."

"Yeah, that sounds good," I said. I mean, I didn't want to burst his bubble, but my dad had already surprised me with my favorite food on earth: Belgian waffles. In my opinion, it was all downhill from there.

Mick rowed us back toward shore, stopping only when the front of our boat dug into the sandy lake bottom.

"You'll need one of these," he said, passing me a rugged paper plate, which I balanced across my knees. "And these too." He handed me a white linen napkin and a plastic fork.

"Ooh, fancy!" I teased.

Mick just grinned. "Do you like salad?" he asked. "Because I made Caesar for the first course." He retrieved a Tupperware container and a big silver serving spoon from the basket and dished out two perfect portions.

"Salad's okay," I said, hardly believing a man would even make such a thing in the first place. But hey, maybe he thought all girls were on diets. After a few bites, I stopped to dab my face with the frou-frou napkin and said, "It's good. I like it. You're quite the chef."

The second I finished my salad, Mick moved directly to the main course: grilled cheese. Carefully, I pried the wax paper from the slightly soggy sandwich—which he had cut on the diagonals—and took a bite.

"Mmm..." I hummed, letting the rich, buttery bread and smooth cheese dissolve on my tongue. "This tastes different. What's in it?"

"Oh, it's probably the cheese. Instead of American, I used cheddar. It's much more flavorful."

"I'm a fan. Good idea," I complimented. The cheddar was definitely better.

Out of nowhere, Mick suddenly tensed up. "Are you having a happy birthday so far?" he asked expectantly.

"Absolutely. I love everything," I said. "How did you think of all this anyway?" I asked, waving my hand erratically from the lake, to the beach, to the boat, to the picnic basket.

"I like making people happy. And it's usually easy for me," he said—not bragging or anything, just explaining so I'd understand. "It's small things that make a difference," he continued. "I guess you could say it's my personality to pay attention to those things."

"Well, you're definitely on the right track," I said. "Because I don't think I've ever felt so special in my whole life."

In silence, we nibbled away at the rest of our sandwiches and drove each other crazy with love-struck goo-goo eyes, until Mick broke the spell by saying, "I have something else for you." He shot me a wide grin. "Something sweet for my sweetheart."

"Dessert?"

"Uh-huh." He drew a paper bag adorned with curly pink ribbon from the basket. "Happy birthday, birthday girl."

"Ooh, pretty!" I gushed, shaking the bag like it was a mystery gift from my secret Santa. "Cookies. _Definitely_ cookies," I stated emphatically.

Mick shook his head and smirked. "Very good. Were you spying on me?" he asked with mock indignation. "Well, go ahead. Open 'em up. I was going to make you close your eyes, but..."

Instead of carefully peeling the ribbon away, I eagerly tore through the thin paper, almost spilling the tiny heart-shaped cookies overboard. "I knew it," I gloated. "Two points for me."

Without pausing to offer any of the delicate treats to Mick, I downed like three or four of them in a row. And as I munched, I caught my sweetie in the most touching stare.

Until then, I never knew the word _heartache_ referred to a real physical feeling. But at the sight of Mick's unbounded love for me, my heart literally ached like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed it. It ached with happiness, and I began to cry.

Chapter 11

THANKFULLY Mick hadn't said a word about my girlie tears of joy, because even if he had, I would've been at a total loss to explain.

"Seven o'clock? Right here?" I asked, pointing at the tree in front of the Clubhouse with the wiener-eating contest sign.

Mick laughed. "Definitely. I'll be here," he said. "You know, your birthday's not over yet. I still have one last surprise for you."

"But you want to go to the dance, right?" I confirmed, just in case he planned to kidnap me for some other crazy adventure. "It might be lame, but..."

He shook his head. "It'll be fun," he said, sounding totally self-assured. "After all, _you'll_ be there. And we'll be together. That's all that matters."

Longing for the thump...thump...thump of his heart, I pressed my ear to his chest. "You're right. We're gonna have a great time," I declared. Then I tiptoed up for a quick peck. "But I really have to go now." I mean, as unpredictable as my parents were acting lately, I knew they'd never let me pull a complete disappearing act on my sweet sixteen.

Mick blew me a parting kiss from under the Weiner Tree. "See you soon," he promised. Then he stood watch until I was out of sight, which I only know because I couldn't stop looking back at him _just one last time_.

Back at Tupelo-9, everyone was waiting for me. And apparently my mother had even gone to the trouble of leaving Wild Acres to fetch a birthday cake—which, I must admit, made me feel a tad guilty.

"Well, _there_ she is!" Mr. Tightwad shouted, as I strolled into camp.

"Late as usual," Will mumbled, obviously irritated.

Like I'd figured, my mother was still mad at me. "Happy birthday, Flora," she said stiffly.

I took a goofy bow. "Yes, it's true. I have returned," I said. "Let the party begin."

I flopped my ass down at the picnic table, put my elbows up, and cupped my chin in my hands—which I'm sure made me look like a complete dope, but that was sort of the point. I mean, at least if my parents felt sorry for sad, pathetic little Flora, maybe they'd thank God any boy would even look at me. With all my obvious defects, maybe they'd be glad I'd found Mick—or that was the plan anyway.

"Cake or presents first?" my mother asked, averting her eyes so she wouldn't be forced to murder me. "I got marble. Your favorite."

"I love marble!" I enthused, licking my lips in slow motion to gross Will out.

Mission accomplished. "Nice. Real nice," my brother remarked.

My dad jimmied the flimsy plastic lid off the cake and divvied it up, offering me the first piece—a fat slice with an ornate purple flower smack dab in the middle. And as I devoured the thing in silence, something sad dawned on me: It was the first time my mother hadn't baked me a special homemade birthday cake. I guess it was another sign I'd graduated into semi-adulthood: My parents were done catering to me.

To break the ice, I asked my mother, "So did you win at bingo?" I mean, I didn't want her hating me forever.

"As a matter of fact, I did. Sixty-four dollars," she reported.

"Cha-ching!" I cried. "Awesome!"

Will laughed, but it was more of a _you're pathetic_ laugh than a _you're funny_ laugh.

Then my father bellowed, "Attention, ladies and gentlemen. The present-opening hour is upon us. Gather 'round one and all." Dramatically, he waved us toward the sputtering campfire.

The idea of celebrating my birthday in the wilderness was repulsive, to say the least. But unfortunately I hadn't gotten a vote in the matter. So I shuffled over to a lawn chair and settled in. Because hopefully once the whole present thing was over, I could escape again and land back in Mick's arms.

My mother passed me a shiny gold package from a teetering pile of gifts that was stacked on the cooler. And unless I was mistaken—which I was pretty sure I wasn't—it was a book. A paperback book. And a fat one, at that.

I slowly peeled the corners of the paper away and slipped the thing out of its crinkly wrapper, all the while blanking out my expression so my mother wouldn't be offended. Honest to God, she'd given me a self-help book written by Dr. Phil's kid. How insulting. I mean, I know _she's_ obsessed with Dr. Phil, but a self-help book? For my birthday? Could she get any more delusional?

"You like it?" she asked, studying my reaction.

"Uh-huh. Yeah," I lied. "It looks...interesting." What else could I say, really? It was atrocious.

The Mental Hygienist smiled. I guess she was so dense she actually believed me. "There are lots of good tips in there," she went on to explain, "to help you navigate the rough waters of adolescence. I think you'll get a lot out of it."

Holy shit. More expert-speak psycho-babble. I could hardly keep a straight face. "I'm sure it'll be great, Mom. Thanks," I said.

Finally relaxing the irritation in her voice, she said, "You're welcome."

Next, my father handed me a large box that was wrapped in the same reflective gold paper as the book. But this time I had absolutely no clue what the thing was. And I was beginning to think I didn't want to know. In case it isn't abundantly clear, I should point out that my family is pretty inept at gift giving. Hence, before I'd even opened my dad's gift, I was sure it was as bad as my mom's, just in a different way.

"Here goes," I said, ripping right into the thing. I mean, why prolong the agony?

Okay...so maybe _agony_ wasn't the right word exactly, since the contents of the box almost defied description altogether. Apparently my supposedly normal father thought I would enjoy a weird makeup-kit-contraption-thing with a zillion hidden compartments, all stuffed inside a giant pair of red plastic lips. Honestly, I was so confused just looking at the crazy mess of eye shadows and lipsticks that I felt like heaving the whole thing right in the garbage. I mean, even if I _were_ a makeup girl—which I'm not—this junk looked more like a make-believe kit for a five-year-old than serious beauty-enhancing cosmetics.

"What's the matter, Flowbee? Don't you like it?" my dad asked with a prematurely disappointed frown. "I know it's a little grown up and that you don't usually wear much makeup, but since you're sixteen now, I thought you might want to try it. Not that you need it, of course."

I didn't know where to start. I mean, the gift was definitely not grown up; it was childish. And to correct my father, I usually don't wear _any_ makeup, so I wasn't exactly sure who _he'd_ been looking at lately. As for whether I needed makeup in the first place, the obvious answer was yes. I have boring features and blotchy skin. You do the math.

All I could say was, "Um..."

"What's the matter? Too girlie for ya?" Will asked sarcastically.

Perfect. Just the motivation I needed to say something gracious—to my father, at least. "Actually I love it. I've been thinking of changing my look for a while now, so this will give me some good ideas," I said. "Thanks, Daddy."

Will looked deflated. With a shrug, he handed over the last package in the pile. "This is from me," he said. "Enjoy."

Of all the gifts, Will's was the smallest and potentially the most annoying—although it was hard to imagine anyone topping what my parents had already done. Still, I was afraid to open the damn thing. It was probably some hideous joke gift or something that was going to explode in my face. I swear, birthdays are not supposed to be like this. They're _supposed_ to be fun.

With trepidation, I pulled at the edge of the package until the wrapping came undone. "A flashlight?" I asked, confused by what I saw.

"It's not a flashlight," Will said, snickering. "It's Mace."

"Like for protection? To fight off muggers?" I asked, inspecting the metallic purple tube. To me, it still looked like a flashlight, except that there was no bulb at the end. Instead, there was a small hole where I assumed the pepper spray came out. "Huh. That's weird," I said, still unsure how to react to the sort of thoughtful gift.

"Well, I figured I'm not going to be around this year, so you'll have to look out for yourself," Will said. "I knew you didn't have any."

Again, my otherwise selfish brother surprised me. "That's really nice. I appreciate it," I said. "I hope I don't need it, but it's good to have. Thanks."

As far as I could tell, the Mace-on-a-stick concluded my birthday celebration. Because while my mother took the leftover cake to the campsite next door, Will retreated to his sleep pod for some alone time, or a nap, or whatever else he could dream up without batteries or electricity.

And as I pondered how to fritter away the minutes until seven o'clock, my dad called, "Hey, Flowbee. Come check this out."

What the hell. Some more brownie points couldn't hurt. I dragged my lawn chair over to where Mr. Tightwad sat displaying a detailed map of Lake Champlain that was all marked up with stars and dots and notes in the margins.

"Wow, this looks...complicated," I said. "Do you think we really have a chance of finding Champ?"

My dad smirked. "If I didn't think we had a chance, Flowbee, we wouldn't be going. I'm not _that_ loony," he said with a chuckle. "And don't assume that just because Champ _hasn't_ been found, he _can't_ be found. That's negative thinking. If Champ exists—and I believe he does—then he's findable. And this little cheat sheet here is gonna help us accomplish just that," he declared, tapping the center of the map like he was poking someone in the chest.

I was just about to explain that I wasn't questioning my father's obvious expertise, when my mother's voice surprised me from behind. "That's right," she chimed in. "We have a very well-researched plan. It's practically scientific."

Well, then...if it was practically scientific.

"I know. Dad's been telling me about it," I said. "Believe it or not, I'm actually a little excited about the Champ hunt. It might be fun."

"I'm glad you've come around," my mother said. "It's nice to have you on board with things around here again. That's all we've wanted, you know."

My dad looked like he was about to burst out of his skin in triumph. "See, Lu-Lu. I told you Flora was on our side. She's still one of us—even if she is going through a tricky phase right now. Aren't you, sweet pea?" he said, tousling my hair (as much as the fried, orange mess on top of my head could be tousled anyway).

"Sure, Dad. Yeah. I _am_ still a Fontain, right?" I said. Then I gingerly changed the subject. "So I'm going to head down to the Clubhouse pretty soon to see what's going on. I think there might be a dance tonight or something. Isn't that right, Dad?"

"Oh, the dance. Yes, I do remember something..." my father pondered. "Now where did I put that schedule?"

"That's okay, Dad. I think I still have it somewhere," I said. "I'll check it before I get going."

I stood up to leave, but before I even hit the road in front of Tupelo-9, my mother said, "Make sure you're not back too late. The dance gets over around ten o'clock, if I'm not mistaken."

Well, I guess I hadn't totally gotten away with my suck-up routine, but at least my parents weren't stopping me from seeing Mick. "Okay, Mom. No problem," I agreed. "I won't be too late."

Chapter 12

I GUESS it was past seven o'clock when I got to the Clubhouse, because Mick was already waiting for me.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, cocooning me under his rugged arm as soon as I got within his grasp. "I missed you."

I felt like a moron when I saw how Mick was dressed. I mean, it wasn't like he'd overdone it or anything; it was just that he had clearly put effort into his appearance, which I, very clearly, had not. His sexy cobalt blue button-down (partway _un_ buttoned, of course), his tight indigo jeans, and his scuffed black leather boots had drool-worthy written all over them. Meanwhile, I was the epitome of ordinary. Boring to the nth degree. Hopeless.

"I didn't know you were dressing up," I said, trying to excuse my shabby outfit. I could hardly believe I was still in the same ragged jean shorts and slub tee I'd worn all day. How idiotic.

He leaned in and planted a solid, forceful kiss right on my lips, giving me the tingles all the way down to the soles of my feet.

"I'm not dressed up," he said, still face-to-face with me. "I just wanted to look good for my birthday girl, who, by the way, looks perfectly spectacular." He took a step back and made a show of looking me up and down.

"Thanks for being so polite," I said. "I feel like a mess, but I'm glad _you_ like me."

He laughed. "I more than like you," he said. "In fact, I don't know if I should say this, but..."

No way. Not fair. You cannot start an interesting sentence and just leave someone hanging. "What?" I demanded. "What shouldn't you say?"

He hesitated, like whatever was on his mind was just too dangerous to verbalize. "I don't know. You might take it wrong," he eventually risked saying.

"No, I won't. I promise."

Cringing like the mystery information was actually painful—or at least painful to admit—he said, "How do you know? You don't even know what it is."

"I'm not like that, I swear. Nothing shocks me," I said emphatically. And for the most part, it was true. "Besides, I can't even imagine you saying anything that would bother me. So go ahead, spill it."

"Are you sure?" He frowned. "Because if this upsets you, or scares you, or freaks you out..."

"Okay, I give," I whined. "The suspense is killing me. Just tell me what's going on. I won't freak out. Double cross my heart."

"Don't take this wrong," he hedged again, "but I think I might be obsessed with you."

I tried not to giggle—I really did—but I just couldn't help it. "That's it? You were worried about _that?_ " I asked, stunned.

"Yeah. And it's not funny," he complained. "I don't think I can control myself. Doesn't that scare you?"

"Not really. Because I _know_ I can't control _my_ self—when it comes to you anyway," I said, only half kidding.

"Very funny. Ha-ha," Mick said, shaking his head. "It's more than that. It's that I can't stop thinking about you. Not just here and there, but all the time. If we weren't together, I'm sure I would be stalking you. How about that? Doesn't _that_ bother you?"

There was no way on earth I'd admit it, but the stalker reference did freak me out just a tad. "It's not considered stalking if the stalk _ee_ is in love with you," I said, hooking my thumbs through his belt loops.

Still, he didn't seem satisfied. "There's something else I think you should know then," he said.

Suddenly my lungs froze. No ordinary boy would've poured his heart out to me like this. Mick was a different breed altogether. A breed my feeble teenage brain wasn't equipped to deal with. And the proof was, when I opened my mouth to say something, nothing came out.

Mick continued, "I know this probably isn't normal, but I think you should know about my experiences before you. About my past."

My eyes were tacked open in fear. What if he'd been in love like this before? What if he'd wanted to stalk a multitude of other girls? What if he'd had a lot more experience than I'd had, and I was just some hopeless amateur?

I gulped hard before I squeaked out, "Okay, go ahead."

"First of all," he said, shaking his head and smirking, "I'm a virgin. I don't know why, but I wanted you to know that. I've never been with anybody else, so..."

"So am I," I blurted. What the hell. If he was willing to put it out there, I might as well too.

"Oh. That's good," he said, obviously relieved. "But, well, on top of thinking about you all the time, I've also been feeling very physical around you—more than I ever have around anyone before. I just don't know if I can restrain my appetite," he said, breathing a little defeated sigh.

Unless I'd misunderstood him, which was certainly possible, Mick was saying I was making him horny. I, Flora Fontain, was making the sexiest virgin alive horny. Uncontrollably horny. Surely he must be joking.

"I know. I want you too," I said, flinging my arms as far around his neck as they'd reach. "And for the record, I'm just as new at this as you are."

He eagerly slipped his hands under my T-shirt and caressed my bare back; meanwhile, I peppered his neck with soft kisses. And just as I was preparing to start a hickey near his collarbone, he whispered in my ear, "I love you."

Reluctantly, I pulled my lips away. "I love you too."

For a while longer, we stood right there pressed against the Wiener Tree and made out. But as much as I hate to admit it, even sucking face with the man of your dreams can get boring after a while if you don't mix things up a little.

"Hey, wanna go watch karaoke?" I asked.

Sounding surprised by the idea, Mick said, "There's karaoke?"

"Yeah. I think it's in the..." I slid the wrinkled recreation schedule out of my pocket. "The Activity Center. Do you know where that is?"

"Uh-huh," he said, lacing his fingers around mine. "It's the white building over by the basketball court that sort of looks like a church. Shall we?"

"Well, this is a little sad," I said, as Mick and I claimed our metal folding chairs in the back row of the nearly deserted Activity Center.

"Oh, I don't know," he said optimistically. "Those kids seem to be having fun." He nodded toward the stage, squeezed my hand, and smiled

It was true. Maybe ten or twelve kids were huddled together at the front of the room, where a tiny brunette clutched a microphone and a teenage girl about my age (probably a Wild Acres employee) exercised fleeting control over the teenybopper chaos.

And after some heated disagreement among the teenybopper crowd as to which song the diva should sing, the little brunette finally started belting out the winning tune: _Genie in a Bottle_. And at first it seemed like an okay pick, at least for a seven-year-old. But then the diva's act dissolved into a lewd series of gyrations and pelvic thrusts, which just about made me lose my lunch. I mean, I guess it could've been funny in a _Little Miss Sunshine_ -esque way, except that unlike the girl in _Little Miss Sunshine, this_ girl had very smooth moves. Honestly, it was disturbing.

"Okay...that's a little sick," I said, wondering how Mick was taking the provocative display. Before I could inquire, though, his horror became apparent.

"Why is she doing that?" he asked, screwing up his face in disgust. "Isn't anybody going to stop her?" He glanced around anxiously, like he was expecting the karaoke police or maybe even the decency squad to intervene, but it was no use.

"Should we say something to someone?" I asked. It was a stupid question, really, since nobody but us seemed freaked out.

Mick stood up. "Wait here," he said. "I'm going to do something about this."

How chivalrous. My sweet, sweet boyfriend was hell bent on defending the kid's honor. But from where I sat, I couldn't see much of what happened when he stalked up to the stage and cornered the Wild Acres girl—although I imagined he was explaining that he had sisters not much older than the little diva, and that he found the child's behavior inappropriate and offensive. Whatever he was saying, though, it was taking a while.

I leaned over sideways to catch a glimpse of what looked like Mick giving the Wild Acres girl advice on song titles to ban. But honestly, it was rather ironic that a blatant face-sucker like him was trying to censor karaoke performances. I mean, who'da thought?

As another miniature starlet finished a less-than-accurate rendition of _Oops!... I Did It Again,_ Mick stepped onto the stage and took the microphone, which brought a rumble of complaints from the peanut gallery. But as soon as my sweet, sweet boyfriend opened his mouth, the crowd settled. I, for one, was riveted.

"Hi, everyone," Mick said in a rich, velvety showbiz voice that made me swoon. And unless I was imagining things, the rest of the room was swooning too. "I won't take much of your time," he told the audience with a wink, "but I do have something I'd like to say."

Huh? Was he actually going to rag these kids out in public? I was so mortified I could barely even watch—which was probably a good thing, since instead of embarrassing one of the precocious preteens, he took aim at an unexpected target: _me!_

With a twinkling movie star grin, he said, "I'd like to wish a very special girl a happy birthday."

Was he insane? This kind of embarrassment could kill me.

"She's sixteen today, and her name's Flora. And she's right over there in the back row," he announced, pointing straight at me. He encouraged the audience, "Let's all wish her a happy birthday, okay?"

So while I turned a hundred shades of pink and red and probably even purple, fifteen complete strangers bid me a joyous sweet sixteen. Then, like a sound effect from an action movie, Mick's voice boomed out again. "Happy birthday, sweetheart," he said, topping the spectacle off with a pair of air kisses.

On that sappy note, the crowd groaned in unison. I, on the other hand, vowed to get the boy checked for rabies at our earliest convenience. Yes, rabies was a definite possibility.

But as blindsided as I'd been by the _Happy Birthday_ ambush, I was still woefully unprepared for what came next. Because before I could even wrap my mind around what was happening, Mick launched into a love song in my honor. He was singing. To me. In public. I was completely blown away and so freaked out I felt like I might actually have ants in my pants.

Still...

There was no denying that my sweet, gorgeous boyfriend was to die for. I mean, even in my near panic, I could appreciate his guts. Plus, his voice was quite good. And the song he'd chosen— _I Swear_ —was akin to a marriage proposal. All things considered, I really couldn't complain.

"Thanks for doing that," I said—stifling a sob—when he returned to my side. "You're amazing, you know. And you're a great singer too, by the way. Is there anything you're _not_ good at?"

He just laughed. "Of course _you_ think I'm great," he said. "You're wearing love goggles."

"And _you're_ not?" I challenged. "I mean, I hate to break it to you, but you're the first guy who's thought I was special enough to sing to."

"Well, I can't help it if they didn't know what they were missing," he joked. "Hey, who are _they_ anyway?"

The truth was, I hadn't really had any serious boyfriends before Mick. I mean, sure, there was this one guy, Brian Moore, who'd pretty much strong-armed me into being his girlfriend in seventh grade. But other than that, I'd spent my life in the romantic desert. Of course, this information would never penetrate Mick's ears.

"There's no _they._ There's only you," I said, snuggling up to his chest and resting my head on his shoulder. "I love you."

If I did say so myself, I was getting pretty good at this mushy, lovey-dovey girlfriend stuff. I guess it was another way Mick had changed me: He'd turned my jaded negativity into visions of sunshine, rainbows, and butterflies. How fitting.

Chapter 13

MICK pulled the rugged iron handle and held the Clubhouse door open for me, but instead of just letting _us_ through, he played doorman to a stream of people flowing in behind us. And, of course, one of those hangers-on was my pain in the ass brother, Will.

"Yo, Flowbee," Will said with a laugh, bumping up against me in the crowd. "I didn't know _you'd_ be here."

"Don't even start," I muttered. "Buzz off." Right away, I knew what Will was up to. My parents must have begged him, or coerced him, or maybe even paid him to spy on me. And I wasn't having it. I mean, even if I had to have Mick remove him from the Clubhouse by force, my brother was absolutely not going to tail me like a puppy-dog all night. "Get lost," I ordered again.

Predictably, Will didn't budge. "It's a free country."

"Yeah, well..." I started, but I was stumped for a convincing argument or a motivating threat.

And before I could dig anything useful out of my addled brain, Mick was back at my side. "Who's this," he asked, with a slight edge to his voice. I guess maybe he'd assumed Will was a rival for my affection, the idea of which sent my stomach lurching.

I sighed. "Mick, this is my brother—Will," I admitted reluctantly. "Will, this is my boyfriend—Mick." While I made the obligatory introductions, I tried to shoot Will an evil, menacing glare, but it just didn't take.

"Oh, hi. Nice to meet you," Mick said, relaxing and shaking my brother's hand in this macho, man-to-man way. "I didn't know Flora had a brother."

"Well, I didn't know she had a boyfriend," Will claimed. "So I guess we're even."

What a liar. Golden Boy knew very well that I was madly in love. "All right. See ya later," I said abruptly to Will. Then I grabbed Mick's hand for a quick getaway, but unfortunately my sweet, polite boyfriend wasn't blessed with a heart of stone like I was.

"Are you here alone?" Mick asked Will, not responding in the least to my urgent tugging. "Because you can hang with us if you want—if Flora doesn't mind, that is."

Will just blinked away in disbelief. I guess he must've figured I had already poisoned Mick against him. "Um, no...that's okay," he finally said. "I'm not gonna stay too long, so I'm gonna mingle."

Yeah, right. I didn't believe that lame excuse for a second. The truth is, it's a lot harder to spy on people in plain sight, since they're usually on their best behavior. If you stalk your prey from afar, however, you're much more likely to get the juicy, salacious dirt you're after.

"Bye-bye, then," I said, shooing Will off with a flick of my wrist.

Amazingly, my dirtball brother actually took off. But Mick gave me a confused, disappointed look, which, of course, made me feel like a meanie.

"Wow, this is...nice," I said, stuck for just the right adjective as I surveyed the Clubhouse, which reminded me of a gigantic Swiss ski chalet, complete with log cabin walls, a massive stone fireplace, and wrought iron chandeliers that lent the huge open space an enchanted, romantic feel.

"It's beautiful. Very impressive," Mick agreed, as he nestled his muscular arm around my waist and settled his big, rough hand on my hip.

Just then, I had a disturbing flashback to a Punxsutawney High dance, where I played the third dorky wheel to my madly-in-love best friend and her man of the moment. Thank God, though, an unexpected sight interrupted my memory of the shudder-worthy experience.

"Hey, isn't that your cousin over there?" I asked, poking Mick gently in the...liver?

He squinted. "What? Where?"

"Over by the snack table," I said, dipping my head toward my shoulder. "His name's Cal, right?"

Mick still looked confused. "What does he have on?"

"Like for clothes, you mean?" I asked like a retard.

"Yeah. What's he wearing?"

"Well, _if_ it's him, he's wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt, jeans, and construction boots."

Mick's expression morphed from skeptical to dead sure. "That's Cal, all right," he said. "And Donny's over there too."

"Donny?"

"I told you about him, didn't I?" he asked. "He's another one of my cousins."

Maybe it was just me, but Mick's family seemed really hard to keep track of. I mean, I was used to the nuclear family: a mom, a dad, one point five kids. You know, _normal._

"I think I remember you saying _something,_ " I lied. "But the details are a little fuzzy."

He chuckled. "That's all right. It's not that important. I just thought I may have mentioned that Donny and Cal work together. They have an internet business."

I nodded.

"They buy things—antiques mostly—at garage sales, flea markets, pawn shops...wherever. Then they re-sell the stuff on eBay. It's very profitable, if you can get your hands on the right items."

Quick cash for minimal effort? I was intrigued. "How do they know what to buy?" I asked. Heck, maybe _I'd_ start an eBay business if it was really that easy to make a killing.

"I'm not sure," Mick said, shaking his head. "Nobody knows, really. They just developed a knack for it and, well, they must know what they're doing, because they've always got loads of cash in their pockets," he reported, obviously impressed by—and maybe even the teeniest bit jealous of— his cousins' business smarts.

"I like what _you_ do," I said. "You have so many talents. You're a great mechanic. And an amazing artist. And let's not forget your sensational singing voice," I kidded him.

He sighed. "I know. I know," he said, dismissing the compliments. "But Cal and Donny are already so successful."

Geez, his cousins were starting to get on my nerves, and I didn't even know them yet. "Good for them," I said. "But you're only sixteen. I'm sure you'll be even more successful than them someday."

"You think?"

"Absolutely," I said again, dying to change the subject. "Now let's dance."

I clutched Mick's hand and dragged him to the middle of the dance floor. Because at least if we were surrounded by people, any embarrassing moves we might make could go unnoticed. Not that Mick had to worry. Good-looking people always come across better on a dance floor. It's a rule. And my magnificent boyfriend did not disappoint. His smooth moves and superior rhythm put me to shame. But of course he still acted like my hand-on-my-hip, pointing-at-the-stars disco moves were top notch. The best part of our first dance, though, was that neither of us could look away. We were locked onto each other like we were alone in the eye of a hurricane and everything else had dissolved in a chaotic, whirling blur.

"Wanna get a drink?" I asked—breathless and sweaty—after only fifteen minutes on the dance floor.

"Huh?" Mick said, apparently unable to hear me over the music, which for some unknown reason had started blaring at an ear-splitting volume three songs back.

"Drink?" I repeated, tipping my hand to my mouth.

We emerged from the sea of dancers, only to find Cal and Donny still loitering next to the punch bowl. And the odd thing was, I had an inexplicable urge to avoid them. An urge that spiked to a new high when my traitor brother stepped into view and handed Cal a plastic-wrapped, baked goodie.

"Isn't that your brother over there with my cousins?" Mick asked, surprised. I, on the other hand, was just plain livid.

"Not for long," I fumed, tugging my hand from his grasp to crack my knuckles.

I guess my evil tone must have scared him a little, because he went straight into calm-Flora-down mode. "Whoa, hold on there, bulldog," he said with a little chuckle. "What's the problem?"

"The problem _is,_ my brother sucks and he needs to butt out of my life," I huffed.

"Okay..."

"Listen, I'll explain later. Just back me up on this, okay?" I pleaded.

We were within ten feet of my slimeball sibling, and I was transitioning into attack mode. Unfortunately, though, Mick objected by seizing my shoulders and spinning me away from my target. And he didn't let go. He held me there at arm's length, like he was prepared to shake some sense into me if it should come down to that.

"What I think you should do," he instructed in a soothing tone suitable for a small child, "is take a deep breath."

_Duh._ If I wanted to calm down, a deep breath might help. But I wanted to kill someone. Specifically, the pipsqueak spy who shared my DNA.

"Thanks for the suggestion," I said. "But Will deserves this. Trust me."

Mick wouldn't budge. "Whatever he's done to upset you, I guarantee it's not worth the trouble," he argued. "If you let him get to you, then he's already won."

Damn it. Why did my sweet, sexy boyfriend have to make so much sense?

I sighed. "I suppose you might be right," I admitted. "But I'm still going to get back at Will for this, just not right now."

Mick slid his hands around my back and pulled me in for an intimate hug. "Now doesn't that feel better," he cooed, stroking my hair. "Let's forget about all of this and have some fun. It's still your birthday, remember? And I have one last surprise for you."

"I surrender. I surrender," I cried. "You win."

I planted my hands on his muscular chest and craned my neck back for a hot, delicious kiss. And when we finally _un_ twirled our tongues, he reminded me, "You wanted a drink, didn't you?"

It was suffocatingly hot in the Clubhouse, and I was parched beyond belief. "Uh-huh," I agreed, still unsure if I'd be able to keep my cool with Golden Boy, who was blocking the punch bowl.

With our arms looped around each other's waists, my hunky boyfriend and I sauntered over to the snack table. And Mick had just finished pouring me a drink, when Cal the Creeper spoke up. "Eh, Mick. We didn't know you could dance," he said with a sneer.

On cue, Cal, Donny, and Will cracked up.

"Of course he can," I jumped in. "He's gifted." Mick shot me a warning glance, like I shouldn't be starting trouble with _his_ family either. "I'm Flora, by the way," I said to Cal, extending my hand. "Mick's girlfriend."

With the limp clamminess of a sea slug, Cal gave my hand two quick pumps. Then the elusive Donny stuck out his meaty paw for me to sample. I must say, it was still hard to believe that either of these guys could be related to my perfect Mick Donovan. I mean, Cal looked the same as before: greasy hair, zit-riddled pizza face, missing spine. And Donny...well, he reminded me of a cross between the Pillsbury Doughboy and Forrest Gump: well-meaning dimwit swallowed by a suit of blubber.

"Eh," Cal grunted.

"Hey," Donny clarified.

That was it. The two mastermind entrepreneurs couldn't even muster a proper greeting. How lame.

Out of nowhere, a question struck me. "Which one of you is older?" I asked, probably coming off as rude.

Of course, neither of Mick's dopey cousins responded. Maybe they thought I was wondering whether my own brother was older than the love of my life, or vice versa. I guess I couldn't blame them for their ignorance, though, since you'd probably have to stick lit matches in their ears to spark a thought.

"Cal's older than Donny by around nine months," Mick finally explained. "Cal's mom used to say Donny's mom decided to have another kid once she saw how beautiful Cal came out."

Ugh. Now I had this sick vision cemented in my brain of the Goofball Goons' oversized heads on tiny baby bodies, which was disturbing, to say the least.

"That's funny, because Donny actually looks older to me," I said. I guess the size difference made me assume Donny was the senior Goofball Goon, since he was about six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Cal.

"Nope," Donny said.

"Other way around," Cal added.

On that genius note, I'd had just about enough of the Goofball Goons for one day. And for all I cared, my brother could just rot where he stood. Because honestly, I was beginning to think an hour alone with Cal and Donny was enough punishment for any crime Will had committed against me anyway.

I squeezed Mick's hand as an escape signal, which thankfully he recognized. "This is our song," he suddenly said with a grin. "We'll see you guys later."

We sprinted back to the middle of the dance floor, where we slipped easily into a slow dance. "You're brilliant," I said, hoping Mick could hear me over the music. "What song is this anyway? I want to remember it forever."

He screwed up his face in contemplation, but he still couldn't come up with the title. And neither could I. "Can we pick another one?" he asked, disappointed. "One we both like?"

"I know!" I squeaked. "We can have the karaoke song. It's already special."

I could tell by Mick's physical reaction that he agreed, because even though we were already dancing pretty close, he pressed his hot body even tighter into me. So tight, in fact, I could literally feel the blood pumping through his veins.

" _You're_ special," he breathed in my ear.

I wanted to say something back, to explain that nobody on earth could compare to him. But the intoxicating blend of his warm flesh, velvet voice, and raw animal magnetism was so overpowering I slipped into a state of speechless nirvana, I swear.

Chapter 14

EVEN though we'd planned to stay at the dance until the oh-so-late hour of ten o'clock, Mick and I skipped out about half an hour early to enjoy some alone time as my perfect sweet sixteen came to a close.

"It's so beautiful out here," I gushed, inhaling as much of the crisp night air as my lungs would hold. It was no lie either. The evening was magical in a way that only happens under the moon and the stars, in the arms of the one you love.

Instead of admiring the beautiful starry night, though, Mick had gone quiet. Quieter than he'd ever been around me before. And for the most part, I was okay with the silence. But after five solid minutes of nothingness, I started to wonder if something was wrong with Mick—or with us.

"Is everything okay?" I asked. "You seem..." There was really no good way to describe what I was sensing. "Tired?"

"Oh, no. I'm all right," he said with a low sigh. "It's just that...I've been thinking."

"About?"

We had wandered back to our private cove, where we flopped down on the squishy sand. And when my eyes met Mick's, I saw this desperate, pained look that, I swear, I never want to see again as long as I live.

He shook his head and frowned. "I'm gonna miss you," he forced out sort of shaky. I'd never heard a man's voice crack like that before, which made the words sound wrong in my ears.

"What do you mean?" I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew what he was referring to. After all, I'd already had the same breakdown over our inevitable separation. I guess Mick was just a step behind me in the disturbing realization.

"Well, our time is so limited," he said. "You're leaving when? In a few days?"

I nodded.

"And I didn't want to say anything before, but my family's scheduled to leave tomorrow," he said with a wince.

"Tomorrow?" I repeated, incredulous. Suddenly our separation was not only inevitable, it was immediate.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you right away," he admitted. "But I was afraid you wouldn't give me a chance if...if you knew I was going to be gone so soon."

"No. You're wrong," I said, insulted. "It wouldn't have made any difference."

He shifted the topic. "What about Michoacán?" he asked. "You'd love it. I promise. It's surreal: the landscape, the mountains, the people, the culture, the butterflies. It's the best place I've ever been, and I've been lots of places," he declared. "Don't you trust me?"

Trusting him wasn't the problem. The problem was that as cooperative as my parents were acting at the moment, they would never in a million years let me run off to a foreign country with a bunch of gypsies. I mean, I'd literally have to escape in the night, disappear off the face of the earth. And if I ever wanted to go home again, I'd be in for a backlash so severe it would make a tsunami look appealing.

"Of course, I trust you. And I want to go. I really do," I said. "Maybe..."

Desperately, I wanted to agree to his insane request, to take all the pain out of his face and off my heart, to make everything better. But every option I played out in my muddled brain ended in the same disappointing conclusion: We were destined for our own separate paths; Mick Donovan and Flora Fontain were never meant to be.

"At least say you'll think about it until tomorrow," he pleaded. "If we had Michoacán to look forward to...well, it would make things easier."

I wasn't so sure that dreaming about an impossible future would really blunt the pain of our separation. I mean, maybe the self-deception would eventually backfire, and when Michoacán never happened, I'd kill myself out of disillusionment. But I couldn't turn him down.

"Sure. Michoacán sounds perfect," I said. "And I don't have to think about it. I'd love to go. Nothing would make me happier."

What the hell. If I was going to agree to think about it, I might as well just agree to the trip. I'd break the bad news to him later, when we were back in our own separate universes.

Mick cradled me to his chest, and finally the devastated, heartbroken look faded from his eyes. "Thank you so much," he whispered. "We'll have a wonderful time. You'll see. The best time ever."

I was still having trouble believing that our little window of happiness was coming to a premature close. "So this is it for now? Our last night together?"

"Temporarily, yes. But we'll be together again soon," Mick promised, kissing me gently on the forehead. "Right now, though, we have one more thing to do. So close your eyes, birthday girl."

"Do I have to?" I whined. I mean, knowing that the love of my life was deserting me in just a few short hours had put me in a pretty _un_ festive mood.

"Absolutely. I promised you one last birthday surprise, and I plan to deliver on that promise. But I can't begin until I'm sure you're not peeking."

He pushed himself up off the sand and stared down at me disapprovingly.

"Okay, okay, okay," I caved. "You win." I leaned back, tucked my hands behind my head, and shut my eyes.

In his talking-to-a-little-kid voice, he said, "Very good. Now stay right there. I'll be right back."

I must admit, I was a little annoyed that my strapping boyfriend had left me alone in the dark on a secluded beach. After all, what if there were psychos skulking around ready to pounce on me at the drop of a hat?

"This'll just take a minute," Mick promised from somewhere behind me. Whatever he was doing was creating a cascade of crinkly, crackly sounds. How mysterious. "Almost done. Just a bit longer," he strung me along.

Even though my eyes were closed, I was still getting some pretty big clues about what was happening. Case in point: I could smell something burning, and there was a distinct hissing sound that was getting louder by the second. Plus, somehow I could tell it was brighter outside, like when you close your eyes but you can still sort of see the sun.

"Okay, open up!" Mick yelled excitedly. "Happy birthday!"

The only word to describe the scene was _magical._ My sweet, sweet boyfriend had planted a bunch of Morning Glories—the big sparklers with the hot pink sticks and rainbow wrappers—in the sand and lit them up. The beach was alive with erratic, sputtering bursts of color.

Mick jogged the few steps that separated us, swallowed me in a big bear hug, and peppered my face and neck with ticklish kisses. Meanwhile, I stared agape at the glittering display.

"You like your birthday candles, I see," he said, beaming like a first-grader with a report card full of straight A's.

"Candles?" It took a second for the idea to penetrate my brain. "Are there sixteen?" I asked, finally grasping the fact that he'd arranged the beach like a giant birthday cake.

"Uh-huh," he said with a satisfied grin. "But go ahead and count 'em if you like."

A couple of the sparklers had already burnt out, and most of the rest weren't far behind. "Yup. Four rows of four," I verified. "That's sixteen, all right." I eagerly kissed him soft and full on the lips. "Thanks for being so sweet," I said. "You're the best boyfriend ever."

As the last Morning Glory fizzled, he released me from his love-grip and headed toward the water. But when I tried to follow, he cautioned, "Stay there. I don't want you getting too close to this."

_Too close to what?_ I wondered. But in a matter of seconds, I understood exactly why Mick had ordered me to keep away. He was lighting more fireworks. Not just sparklers this time, but shooting, aerial ones.

As soon as he'd lit the fuses, he rushed back to my side, where we held hands and gawked wide-eyed at the whooshing streams of light as they shot over the water, burst in a shower of flames, and fluttered away.

"You know what those are, don't you?" he whispered.

"They're beautiful."

He laughed softly. "Yes, they're beautiful," he agreed. "Beautiful _butterflies_. See?"

Okay...I wasn't aware this was a test. Hoping desperately that a clear outline of a butterfly would miraculously present itself, I squinted into the distance. "No, sorry. I don't think I see it," I was forced to admit, defeated.

"Just _un_ focus," Mick suggested. "You're trying too hard." He stepped behind me and slung his arm over my shoulder. "See, there are three lines: There. There. And there." He traced the red streaks into the sky with a grease-stained finger until they exploded. "Wing. Body. Wing," he said. "Do you see it?"

"Maybe." I mean, I could sort of see what he was getting at, but it was still very abstract.

"On the next one, _pretend_ you see it," he instructed. " _Expect_ a butterfly. But keep an open mind. It's a bit like looking at an impressionistic painting. You have to use your imagination."

Great. Dead French guys again. Just my luck.

"Ready?" he asked expectantly. "Think butterfly."

I heard the pop, and then there it was: Wing. Body. Wing. A butterfly explosion.

"Oh my God!" I shrieked. "I see it!"

Mick squeezed me tight around the waist from behind. "I love you, Flora," he breathed. "Happy birthday, sweet sixteen."

To say letting go of Mick that night was excruciating would be the understatement of the century. Because even though he said he'd see me in the morning, I had an unshakable feeling that the last time I'd ever lay eyes on him was just before midnight on my sweet sixteen. I guess that's why I openly wept like a deranged two-year-old the whole way back to camp.

But by the time we arrived at Tupelo-9, I was just about cried out. And the shoulder of Mick's nice dress shirt was soaked in snot and tears. Of course, when I tried to apologize for the mess, he wouldn't let me. And then we hugged. If you've never had one of these kinds of hugs, count yourself lucky. It was the kind of hug you give someone when you know what's about to happen, but you just don't want to accept it: a long, quiet, desperate embrace, where you latch on so tight you try to disappear into the other person's soul. I swear, the sadness of it was so heavy and deep that I seriously thought dying might be easier than recovering from the searing pain that had just cracked my chest wide open.

After what seemed like both an eternity and a nanosecond, we slowly began untangling our bodies until we'd separated everything but two fingers, as if we were in an unspoken—yet meaningful—pinkie-swear. Honestly, I've never dreaded anything like I dreaded that last little tug that would break us apart forever. And I couldn't bring myself to do it. In a way, I hoped Mick wouldn't be able to do it either, since somehow to my mixed-up brain, that would prove we were equally in love and equally in pain.

But then he let me go. It was over. For a few steps, he walked kind of sideways and kept his eyes on me, while I tried to burn an everlasting picture of him in my mind.

Chapter 15

AS I stumbled into our campsite brokenhearted, my parents bombarded me with a firestorm of questions: How was the dance? Did I see Will? Was I hungry? Blah. Blah. Blah. I couldn't really tell you how I responded to these assaults, however, because I felt like I was trapped in a blurry nightmare, where someone else's voice was coming out of my mouth. I guess whatever this alien-me said to my parents was normal enough, though, because without a fight, they let me flee to my sleep pod and collapse in a heap of doom.

And I could tell right away it was going to be a long night. Because for what seemed like hours, I tossed and turned—and turned and tossed—to no avail. Was this some cruel joke? I mean, first the love of my life was snatched away from me, and now I couldn't even fall asleep to escape the sad truth of my new reality?

Life sucks and then you die. That about summed it up, I figured. Maybe if I just screamed at the top of my lungs, I could get all the crazy, stopped-up emotional junk out of my brain, and then I could catch some shuteye. Or they'd take me away in a straitjacket. Either way, I'd be guaranteed some rest.

At about two o'clock in the morning, I finally gave up on trying to force myself to sleep. After all, blocking out the whole Mick situation wasn't working anyway. It was time for a new plan. And as painful as this might sound, I decided to pretend Mick was in the pod with me, cuddled up in the sleeping bag, exhaling an intoxicating fog of hot, sweet breath for me to inhale.

Now I've never really lost anyone close to me, but I imagine what I was doing—pretending someone I loved was with me when they weren't—was some kind of coping strategy (credit Dr. Phil with my descent into psychobabble, please). Whatever you wanted to call it, my make-believe Mick was warm and tender and soothing. And he was there loving me with all his heart, as I slipped over the edge of consciousness toward some much needed slumber.

I'm not sure how long I was out exactly, but it must have been just long enough to get into that deep, relaxed kind of sleep that feels like a coma, which is called Delta Sleep, by the way, not REM. Trust me, two super-geeks had a spastic argument on this topic in Freshman Bio. that ended in tears. Anyway, I only say I was in Delta Sleep because when I eventually realized someone was touching me, I was so confused and disoriented I didn't know _where_ I was—let alone _who_ I was—for thirty seconds at least.

"Eh, Flora." I heard the words, but they didn't quite register. "Eh, c'mon. Get up."

I tried to push myself awake, but whatever was happening seemed a million miles away, at the end of a stretched-out, warped tunnel.

"This ain't gonna work," a second whispery voice said.

"Just be quiet and help me. Get her legs."

"She's too heavy," the whispery voice complained.

Who was touching me? And why? I blinked a couple of crusty-eyed, gooey blinks, but nothing came into focus. Then, with the ferocity of a gerbil, something nibbled at my feet—which was more annoying than threatening, but was freakish enough to jolt me awake.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" I protested. "Stop it. What're you doing?"

"Mick's gone," one of the voices said. "He took off. You have to help us find him."

"Huh?" I said, staring hard at the guy in the dark. Even though I couldn't quite make out his features, something about his squirrelly profile gave him away. It was Mick's cousin, Cal the Creeper. And unless I was mistaken, he'd brought along Forrest "Donny" Gump for the ride.

"What do you mean Mick took off?" I asked. Nothing was making sense.

"Because you guys broke up. He was upset," Cal said.

"We did _not_ break up," I objected.

"Well, he's gone. And it's your fault," Cal repeated.

"Stop saying that. I didn't do anything. And we're not broken up."

Donny finally worked up the nerve to speak. "Just help us," he pleaded. "He won't listen to us. We need you."

"But...I don't get it? Where did he go?" If Mick was actually missing, I was very concerned. But such a rash move just didn't seem like his style.

Cal sighed impatiently. "Are you gonna help us, or not? We don't have all night to talk this to death. Either you want to find Mick, or you don't."

I was stuck for a response. "Umm..."

"Forget it. Let's get outta here, Donny," Cal muttered. "This is a waste of time. She doesn't even care."

That was it. How dare he say I didn't care about Mick? I cared about Mick more than anyone else on earth, I was sure. "Wait! I'm coming!" I called, spastically grabbing for my Converse as the Goofball Goons shuffled off. "Hold on!"

Dumb and Dumber just kept walking. Either they were deaf, or they were ignoring me. I tried again, "Hey, wait up!" I could hardly believe I was doing it, but I jogged past the campsite next door to catch up to them. "Thanks a lot for waiting," I said, as I joined their little search party. "Now tell me what happened. Where's Mick?"

Cal laughed. "If we knew where he was, would we be lookin' for 'im?" he asked with a condescending sneer.

I already knew I didn't like this guy, but now I had absolute proof.

"That'd be stupid," Donny said.

Really? No duh. "I didn't mean it like _that,_ " I said defensively. "I just meant...well, what did he say? Did he say where he was going?" The thought of Mick being upset enough to run away made me ill.

"He got in a fight with Cy about a trip he wanted to take you on," Cal said, beaming a small flashlight around in the dark, like he thought he might find Mick sleeping under a pine tree or hiding behind a rock. "Right, Donny?"

"Yeah. Right."

Me? Mick was fighting with his dad over me? "I thought you said he was upset that we broke up," I said, confused. Because even though I knew Mick and I weren't broken up, I was still trying to figure out what the hell the Goofball Goons were talking about.

Cal rolled his eyes, as if I was a retard. "If he didn't take you on the trip, _then_ you'd break up. That's what he told Cy. And when Cy said no, Mick said he was leaving and never coming back."

"That's right," Donny said again.

Huh? Mick and I were going to break up if we couldn't go on some mysterious trip? At first I thought Cal was wrong, that he'd misunderstood. But then I remembered Michoacán. Mick had been fixated on the place since we saw the milkweed, since he told me about the butterflies.

"We've gotta find him," I blurted. "Where have you guys looked so far?"

"Easy there," Cal said. "We're gonna find 'im—since we got you anyway."

The Goofball Goons stopped on the side of the road near a beat-up SUV. I couldn't tell for sure in the dark, but it looked like one of the vehicles from their family compound.

"We're gonna drive around and look for 'im," Cal said, erasing any doubt about the origin of the vehicle. "You comin'?"

I glanced back at Tupelo-9, certain my parents would've had a total hissy if they knew I was out in the middle of the night with two strange guys—and without their permission. On the other hand, though, what if I was the only one Mick would listen to? There was no guarantee anyone but me could convince him to come home.

"Around Wild Acres, you mean?" I asked Cal. "Then you'll drop me back off after?" One thing I knew for sure was that, to avoid being held prisoner until I turned eighteen, I had to be back in my sleep pod before my parents woke up.

"Uh-huh," Cal mumbled.

"Yep," Donny confirmed.

What the hell. Mick needed me. And there was no way I was getting any more sleep now anyway.

I leaned into the SUV. "Where should I sit?" I asked, sliding into an empty spot on the stained backseat.

Cal grunted something unintelligible in my direction, which I took as permission to sit wherever the hell I damn well pleased.

"Are these for your business?" I asked, surveying the Goofball Goons' vehicle, which was crammed to capacity with cardboard boxes.

"Huh?" Cal muttered, seemingly unable to carry on a conversation and scour the dark corners of Wild Acres for Mick at the same time.

"Your eBay business; Mick said you guys sell antiques on the internet."

"Oh, yeah. Our _eBay_ business," Cal said with a chuckle. "Yeah, those are definitely for our _eBay_ business. Right, Donny?"

Like a robot, Donny gurgled, "Umm-hmm, eBay."

I changed the subject. "Hey, can we check the other side of the lake?" I asked, sensing I was onto something. I mean, if I had to pick a specific spot Mick might have escaped to, the secret fishing cove was definitely it.

"After we finish this loop, we'll do the whole lake," Cal said flatly.

Good. Hunting for Mick on foot would've taken all night, but in the SUV we were covering a lot of ground really quickly. Somehow I just knew we'd find him soon, and I'd be able to convince him that, despite whatever had happened between him and his dad, he should go home and work things out. After all, he'd given me the same advice when I was gearing up to knock Will's block off, so I owed him one.

Cal cruised along the dirt road in front of the Clubhouse, periodically flashing his high beams at anything that moved in the dark; meanwhile, Donny and I just stared trance-like at, well, nothing. There was no sign of Mick whatsoever.

And we were almost to the Wild Acres entrance, when Cal suddenly floored the SUV and zoomed right out of the campground.

"What're you doing?" I panicked. "Go back! I can't be out here!" Weren't these idiots listening to me before? I had limits. Clear, obvious limits.

The Goofball Goons just laughed. Apparently they still didn't get it. "I _said_ I'm not allowed to leave the campground. You're gonna have to take me back before you go...wherever it is you're going."

"We don't _have_ to do anything," Cal said menacingly.

"That's right," Donny muttered.

"Okay, _please_ take me back," I tried. Maybe they just wanted me to suck up or beg or something.

"Wow, relax," Cal said. "You wanna help us bring Mick home, don't you?"

"Yeah...I...well," I stammered. "Where are we going then? Do you know where he is?"

Cal sighed and Donny imitated him. "We've got an idea," Cal finally revealed. "A cabin in the mountains, where we usually go every year for a family vacation. It's an hour or so from here."

"How did he get _there?_ " I asked, skeptical. I mean, the more I thought about it, the less anything these morons said was making any sense. Plus, if Mick wanted to run away, shouldn't he have at least asked me to go along?

"Probably hitchhiked," Donny said, his first original thought, as far as I could tell.

"We always do that," Cal explained. "We've hitchhiked from Alaska to Arizona. Ain't that right, Donny?"

"Yup."

Okay, _that_ was definitely a lie. I'm pretty sure you can't hitchhike from Alaska to _anywhere_ —unless you catch a boat, or a plane, or a spaceship somewhere along the way. But for the sake of the Goofball Goons' egos, I decided to let the nonsense slide.

"So what's this cabin like?" I asked, changing the subject yet again. Who knew, maybe there was a legitimate reason Mick would have gone there.

"Nothin' special," Cal downplayed. "Just wood and stone and mortar. Mick was born there."

"Huh?" I managed to say. Mick was born in a cabin in the mountains? That was quite unusual. And he hadn't even said a word about it to me. For half a second, I heard my mother's critical voice in my head, warning me that I didn't know enough about Mick to even date him, let alone decide he was the love of my life.

"Not a one of us was born in a hospital," Cal went on, like it was a badge of honor. "Not me, Donny, Penny, Helen, Abby, Sean, Mick, Jo-Jo, Kat. Not even the older generation neither. We was all born on the road."

You _were_ all born on the road, I wanted to say. But I let that slide too. I mean, I had bigger things to worry about than grammar, like: If I married Mick and we had kids, would _they_ have to be born on the road? Was this anti-hospital thing a Donovan family code I'd have to abide by if I wanted to be Mick's wife someday? Somehow I doubted Mick would enforce any such rules against my will, since all signs indicated he was more the spoil-Flora-like-she's-a-princess type.

As we whizzed along toward the middle of nowhere, I started to get drowsy again. So I tilted my head toward the window and rested it on an empty cardboard box. I must admit, the lack of pillows on this trip was getting downright alarming. It was the one thing I was looking forward to about returning to Punxsutawney: my own squishy, saggy bed.

Chapter 16

"WE'VE got a problem," Cal said right off, before I'd even had a chance to _un_ goo my eyes. From the looks of the Goofball Goons, they'd caught some pretty sweet z's too.

"We've still got fifteen miles to the cabin, and we're about outta gas," Cal continued. "And I ain't got no money on me."

I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or Donny.

"Whatcha wanna do?" Donny asked.

Cal pointed at me, which I probably wasn't supposed to see. "Eh, Flora. Got any money?" he asked, like we were good ol' pals.

"No."

"None?"

"None."

"I'm hungry," Donny complained.

Well, this was turning into quite the adventure. We were stranded with no money, no food, and _almost_ no gas. "Can you call someone?" I suggested. I mean, Mr. Tightwad had confiscated _my_ electronics back in Punxsutawney, but surely these young entrepreneurs had cell phones.

"Not unless we wanna get Mick in even more trouble," Cal said with a snort. "If you ever wanna see him again, we've gotta solve this on our own."

"Okay, what's the plan then?" I asked, dumbfounded.

Again, Donny moaned, "I'm hungry."

"Oh, shut up. I've got an idea," Cal said. There's a Garett's Department Store just up the road, and we've got something in the back we can return."

How convenient. The Goofball Goons just so happened to have something valuable stashed in their dilapidated vehicle that might save the day. Yipee. Honestly, whatever would get us closer to Mick—and back to Wild Acres ASAP—was fine by me.

I glanced out the window, wondering how far we were from civilization. The narrow country road we were traveling along was surrounded by trees, mountains, and maybe some wildlife. Other than that, _we_ were the main attraction.

"What time is it?" I asked. "Is this store even open?"

"It's almost eight. They'll be open," Cal said, sounding irritated I'd even opened my mouth.

So for the next few agonizing minutes, I sat silent in the backseat and prayed that the miniscule amount of gas we had left would at least get us to Garett's Department Store. I mean, how stupid were these guys anyway, driving into the middle of nowhere with an almost-empty tank? _Please_. I didn't even have a license, and I knew better than to pull a dumb-ass move like that.

I was starting to doubt Garett's Department Store even existed, when we finally rounded the corner from desolate wilderness to semi-civilization.

"We're here," Cal said, swinging the behemoth into the lot and killing the engine. "It's the black and white box in the back. The Blu-ray player."

Okay...was he talking to me? I pretended to be deaf.

"Eh, Flora, didja hear me? Black and white box," he said again.

Why the hell was he telling _me_ which box it was? It was _their_ Blu-ray player or whatever.

"Huh?" I said, hoping that if I played dumb, they'd get impatient and deal with it themselves.

Or not.

"Hey, dodo brain. Cal told ya to get the box," Donny chimed in. "What's the holdup?"

"I...um..."

"We ain't got all day," Cal said. "Get the damn thing out of the back, bring it in the store, get a refund, and bring us the cash. Got it?"

"I...uh, um...guess," I stammered. I mean, the way he'd presented the idea didn't really leave me much room to argue. If the morons had thought about it for half a second, though, or even asked my opinion, they might have reconsidered sending a sixteen-year-old returns-virgin to do their dirty work.

I stomped my way to the rear of the SUV, flipped open the little trunk doohickey, and forcefully tugged the black and white box out from under a bunch of other cardboard. And who would've thought a Blu-ray player could be so heavy anyway? I mean, the stupid, bulky thing was already giving me a backache by the time I lugged it unevenly through the automatic sliding doors.

Now what? Returns, returns, returns. I swear to God, if the returns desk had been staring me any closer in the face, it would have bitten me for sure. I walked the empty rope-maze like a zombie, until I came face-to-face with the returns clerk.

"Can I help you?" the cute old grandma behind the counter asked.

Could she help me? I doubted it. Not unless she could get the Goofball Goons to disappear off the face of the planet, my runaway boyfriend to come home, and my parents to cut me a little slack once in a while.

"Um, yeah... I need to return this," I said, dropping the box on the counter with a little thud.

Grandma smiled, like she knew how dopey and inexperienced I really was. Then she asked, "Do you have a receipt, honey?"

"No...uh...I don't," I admitted.

See, _this_ was why the Goofball Goons should have done the job themselves. Maybe _they_ had the all-important proof of purchase.

Grandma frowned. "Well, is there anything wrong with this, dear?" she asked, spinning the box around to check for damage.

"No. I don't think so," I said. "My parents just, uh, got another one, so they want a refund."

I'm not exactly sure what made me drag Mr. Tightwad and the Mental Hygienist into the mix, except that the real story was just way too complicated to explain.

The returns clerk shook her head, like it was doubtful I'd get my hands on any cash in _this_ lifetime. "You just wait here," she said. "I'll see what I can do. I have to talk to my manager." Through a heavy mirrored door, she disappeared.

Great, now _the manager_ was involved, which gave me the urge to bolt. I mean, nothing good could come of such a complication, I was sure.

Still, for an eon or so, I stood there waiting like a nervous beggar for whatever handout the Garett's folks were willing to toss my way. I'd even resorted to drumming my fingers on the counter and humming to myself for amusement, when Grandma finally emerged from the golden door.

"Okay, dear. All set," she said, smiling like she'd done me a really big favor. "Just sign _here,_ and print your name, address, and phone number _here,_ " she instructed, pointing out the appropriate spots with a ballpoint pen.

I took a deep breath and tried to return the same happy-go-lucky smile she'd given me. And while I scrawled out my life history, she started piling a stack of bills on the counter next to the cash register.

"You know," she whispered, leaning over just a little, "we aren't supposed to do cash refunds without a receipt—especially for big-ticket items. But I told my manager it was for the sweetest little girl, so she approved it," Grandma said with a wink.

"Oh. Thank you," I managed to reply. How lame.

"So that's three hundred and twenty dollars and ninety-nine cents. Do you have a penny, dear, to make it an even three hundred and twenty-one?" Grandma asked.

Three hundred and twenty-one dollars? Yikes. I hadn't expected _that_ kind of dough. "No, sorry," I said. "I don't have one."

"Ah, that's all right. It's on me." Grandma dropped the coins back into the drawer and pulled out a crisp one dollar bill. "Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty..." she counted off until, dropping the final dollar on the thick stack, she said, "Three hundred and twenty-one."

Feeling a powerful, just-won-the-lottery rush, I chirped, "Thanks a lot."

"Have a good day, dear," she said, as I folded the bills in half and shoved the wad in my shorts.

"You too."

Well, there's a first time for everything, I guess. And all things considered, my first experience with the returns counter had gone pretty smashing, if I did say so myself. I mean, the Goofball Goons were bound to be tickled pink, because now we could eat, gas up, and—most importantly—find Mick. I already missed him more than any human being should miss another, I swear.

"Here you go," I said, chucking the whole pile of cash through Donny's open window. "Enjoy."

At the sight of the loot, Cal smirked. And, I swear, Donny looked like he was about to either wet his pants or start licking the bills one by one.

"Good job," Cal complimented, as I scurried into the back. "I knew you had what we were looking for." Before I could even buckle my seatbelt, he cranked up the SUV and peeled out of the parking lot.

"Huh?" I said, confused.

"Freshness. Innocence. Believability," Cal listed off.

"Okay..." I still didn't get it.

"Why don't you enlighten her, Donny?" Cal said with a sadistic chuckle.

I couldn't help noticing that we were cruising back along the same road we'd taken in the other direction—and away from Mick.

"You just committed your first felony," Donny announced matter-of-factly. "How does it feel?"

"What do you mean?!" I cried. I was starting to get a sick feeling Donny and Cal weren't just messing with me.

"It's simple," Cal said. "Donny stole that disc player last week, and we took it out of the box and sold it on eBay. How much did we get for that anyway?" he asked Donny.

"Hundred and ninety-five."

"So we got a hundred and ninety-five for that," Cal said. "Then we put a decoy in the box, taped it back up nice and neat, and had our pretty little accomplice here return it. And you got how much, Flora?"

"Three hundred and twenty-one," I mumbled.

"So the total take was a hundred and ninety-five plus three hundred and twenty-one. That's round about five hundred and twenty, give or take," Cal said. "Not bad for two days' work."

Holy shit. I was a criminal. How had this happened? My mother had warned me...

"What about Mick? Was he in on this?" I asked. Just thinking the thought felt like a betrayal, but I had to know.

Donny laughed a big belly laugh, like I'd just told the most hysterical joke he'd heard in his whole life. And he was still doubled over clutching his guts, when Cal said, "Oh, don't worry, princess. You can relax. Your perfect little Prince Charming is completely ignorant. He hasn't got a clue."

Knowing Mick wasn't involved _was_ a relief, but I still had tons of unanswered questions. "Where is he then? Did he really run away?"

"Mick?" Donny said, still breathing all ragged from the gut-busting laughter. "I'd imagine he's just wakin' up about now."

Well, that comment must have been the second funniest thing the Goofball Goons had ever heard, because they both went wild snorting and cackling like a pair of deranged farm animals. I, on the other hand, was not amused.

"Take me home," I demanded. "Back to Wild Acres. My parents are probably looking for me."

"No can do," Cal said. "We've got more work to do. And we've still gotta train our new employee." He shot me a slick, slimy smile that made me want to spit in his face.

"You're kidnapping me?" I protested. "You...you...you can't do that."

"More like recruiting," Cal corrected. "And whatever happens, you're gonna keep your mouth shut about it. Got it? You're in this as deep as we are now. You're on camera. Nobody's gonna believe your little innocent act anymore."

"But I _am_ innocent!" I screamed. "You tricked me!"

"Tell it to the judge," Donny said, taking obvious pleasure in my freak-out. "We've got business to do."

Yeah, right. Business my ass. These guys were nothing but scammers. Criminals and scammers. And now I was one of them. Boy, my dad was going to have a field day with this turn of events, especially after what he'd said about gypsies being cheats and thieves. I could already tell he was going to rub this one in my face, big time.

Chapter 17

FOR lack of anything better to do, I spent half an hour fuming in the backseat (and trying to hatch a getaway plan) before I could restrain my anger enough to ask a few more questions of Cal the Creeper.

In the middle of a fascinating conversation about monster trucks, I interrupted my captors. "What's my cut?" I demanded, trying to sound serious and self-assured. "I did the work; I get paid, right?"

I figured the Goofball Goons probably wouldn't believe I'd suddenly become their friend, but maybe they would believe I was greedy. After all, greed is universal. Even teenage girls—or should I say _especially_ teenage girls—want stuff. And I was no exception.

"Fifty?" Cal offered uncertainly.

Donny grimaced, like he thought they shouldn't give me anything. Like he thought I was some kind of slave. Like he thought they owned me.

Ooh, I sensed weakness. Divide and conquer. "No way!" I half-whined, half-shouted. "I did most of the work. I took the risk. I want fifty percent."

"Are you wacko?" Donny spat, spinning around to glare at me. "The only reason you're here is 'cause you're a juvie. If _you_ get caught, you get a slap on the wrist. Community service or some bullshit. Me and Cal, _we_ do time."

"Ain't my problem," I said with a shrug. "I just want my share. You need me, remember?"

Cal sighed. "All right, a third. We'll split it even."

Donny looked totally pissed. I mean, if he could have shot steam out of his ears like they do in cartoons, I'm sure he would have. But for some strange reason, he didn't argue with Cal. I was starting to get the impression Cal was the brains of the operation (which was a stretch by any definition of the word _brain_ ) and Donny was the muscle (which was also a stretch, since he was mostly composed of blubber).

I shoved my hand between the seats, like I was expecting an immediate payout on my share of the loot. "Let's have it," I said.

"After the next job, _maybe,_ " Cal said. "We'll see."

"Hey! Hey! Pull over!" Donny squealed, poking a chubby finger out the window at a run-down gas station. "I'm just about starved."

I never would have admitted it, but I was getting pretty hungry too. And I was also starting to obsess about two very important things: First, did my parents know I was gone yet? And second, was Mick looking for me?

"Eh, whadda ya think _you're_ doin'?" Cal barked, as we bounced to a stop in front of the gas pump. I guess he'd noticed me popping the back door open.

"Me?" I asked innocently. "Nothing. Just getting something to eat."

"No, you're not," Donny said. "You ain't got no money, and you've gotta stay out of sight. Tell me what you want, and I'll get it."

Well, at least he had pity on the hungry.

I clicked my door shut _._ "A Twinkie?" I pondered aloud. "Ooh! Ooh!" I squeaked, as he exited the vehicle. "And a Yoo-hoo."

"A Twinkie _and_ a Yoo-hoo?" he repeated, like I'd asked him to mainline some heroin into my jugular. "It's your funeral," he said, shaking his head as he walked away.

So while Donny and Cal shopped for snacks in the mini-mart, I rolled my window down and hung my head and arms outside. I must say, it was a good thing the Goofball Goons weren't up for criminals of the year or anything, since they'd left me unrestrained in an unlocked vehicle. I mean, it wasn't like I couldn't have escaped if I'd tried. In their defense, though, there was really nowhere to go except inside the mini-mart, so I guess maybe they'd given their plan at least a shred of forethought after all.

"Here you go," Cal said, tossing a Twinkie toward my lap. Instead of landing the jump, though, the thing just bounced off my knee and dropped to the floor. It figured.

"Thanks," I reluctantly replied, rescuing my breakfast from the ground and flicking off all the obvious floor scum. How delicious.

"There's no Yoo-hoo, so I gotcha this instead," Donny said, shoving a bottle of chocolate milk at me over his shoulder.

I don't really like milk of any kind, including chocolate, which I know sounds illogical coming from someone who loves Yoo-hoo. But at least Donny got points for picking Hershey's. I mean, since I'm from the great state of Pennsylvania—the home of all things Hershey—I've developed quite an interest in their products (chocolate kisses, mostly) and, of course, their amusement park.

After scarfing down the Twinkie in four or five bites, I asked, "What's next?" Honestly, I was hoping to move the Goofball Goons' lame plan along, so I could see Mick one last time before he left me forever.

Cal was driving with one hand and shoving a breakfast burrito down his throat with the other. "Well, Donny's gotta lift something first," he explained, spitting chunks of food onto his shirt as he spoke. "Then you're gonna do the same thing you did this morning: make us some easy money."

"And after that?" I asked, trying to gauge how detailed their plan really was.

Before Cal could respond, Donny sputtered, "Ain't that enough work for one day? We gotta be careful. If we do too much too quick, they'll grab us for sure—even _with_ our secret weapon," he said, smirking at me.

_Me?_ _I_ was their secret weapon? _As if_.

"Have you guys ever been caught?" I asked, partly out of curiosity and partly out of self-interest. After all, maybe if the Goofball Goons had a successful track record, I wouldn't end up getting nabbed either.

"Only as juvies," Donny reported. "We were... What's the word...?" he contemplated, with every brain cell in his possession. " _Careless_. Yeah, we were careless back then. Got caught once for lifting at a K-Mart. But that was before we discovered the internet. Now we've gone pro."

I giggled slightly at the idea of the Goofball Goons _going pro,_ like they'd been drafted into the NFL or something.

"Uh-huh," I said with a big yawn. "Wake me up when we get there. I'm exhausted."

I settled into a big stack of cardboard boxes for a catnap, my second favorite pastime after making out with my sexy boyfriend, of course. And since the Goofball Goons were blathering on and on with no end in sight, I was _this close_ to demanding some quiet me-time, when I realized they thought I already _was_ asleep.

Cal lowered his voice a little, but not nearly enough so I couldn't hear. "I told you she'd never figure it out," he said. "Which means nobody else would've either. So next time, don't panic, okay?"

"I don't know," Donny muttered. "It's not just getting caught. It's that... _That's people's stuff,_ you know. I don't like takin' people's stuff."

"What's the difference? If some idiot leaves two brand new I-pods on the front seat of his van, I say he deserves to lose 'em," Cal declared.

Suddenly something clicked in my mind: Mick's cousins had tried to rob our neighbors at Tupelo-8 or Tupelo-10, depending on how the numbering system went at Wild Acres. And _I_ had scared them off. It was them all along. It figured.

I was _so_ tempted to inform Donny and Cal that their little secret was out of the bag, but the nosy gossip-hound in me couldn't help eavesdropping for more dirt. So for a while longer, I played dead, hoping for something else I could use against my captors. Unfortunately, though, all I overheard was some gross guy-talk about this girl Morgan's nice ass (gag me!) and details of how the Goofball Goons wanted to pimp their ride with some sweet woofers and tweeters—whatever the hell those are. And just when I thought I'd die of disgust, Cal swerved off the road into a parking lot.

"Geez, nice driving," I complained in the best just-woke-up voice I could fake. "I'm trying to sleep here."

"Nap time's over," Cal said. "We're going to work."

Honestly, it was pretty ironic that Cal was always talking about work, since as far as I could tell, he was allergic to it—unless, of course, you counted driving the getaway car. The truth was, Donny took all the risks. And now they'd forced me into indentured servitude. The only thing Cal was good at was pulling Donny's puppet strings.

"This is what you're after," Cal said, handing Donny an internet printout. On one side of the page was an image, which I couldn't see too clearly because of the way Donny was holding the paper, and on the other side of the page was bold black print that read: $599.

I gulped.

Donny studied the page for a few moments, then stuffed it in his back pocket. "Be ready. This might get tricky," he warned Cal. "These are under glass, ya know."

"I know," Cal said. "But that's the fun of it, right?" He shot Donny an evil, mischievous grin.

"If you say so," Donny agreed reluctantly. "See ya in a few." With the determination of a kamikaze, he abandoned the safety of the SUV and stalked deliberately into the face of danger.

And all I can say is, I was scared enough for all of us. I mean, my heart was chugging away like a freight train on an uphill track. Plus, I had to remind myself to breathe. But the strange thing was—as hesitant as I am to admit it—the whole stealing thing was kind of exciting. After all, we were outlaws.

Now before anyone assumes I agree with what the Goofball Goons were up to, let me assure you I do not. I'm totally anti-theft. One hundred percent. But I wasn't on this little outing voluntarily; I was kidnapped. And I couldn't help feeling the rush of exhilaration that comes from doing something naughty and hoping to get away with it.

"Keep that on," Cal ordered, the second he heard my seatbelt unclick. "Trust me, this ain't gonna take long. And if there's any trouble, I might have to perform some evasive maneuvers."

Evasive maneuvers? He must have gotten that phrase from TV. Still, I followed his directions and re-buckled, since the last thing I wanted to do was perish in a police chase without first professing my undying love to Mick one last time. _Damn,_ I missed him.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Nine fifty-five."

Good. It was still early, which meant my parents probably hadn't even discovered I was missing yet—unless, of course, Mick had come looking for me.

"So after this I just return that thing or whatever?" I asked optimistically. "Then we're done?"

"Depends," Cal said.

"On what?"

"On whether you can keep your mouth shut. We can't have you blabbing the details of our operation to _anyone,_ " he said. "Got it?"

"I swear, I won't. I won't say a thing," I promised. "I...I don't want to get in any trouble."

"That's the right attitude. You're cooler than we thought, you know. For once, Mick was right about _something._ "

I _so_ wanted to jump to Mick's defense, to drill into Cal the Creeper's pea brain that Mick was his superior and always would be. But I bit my tongue; I kept my big, fat mouth shut and my eyes on the bigger prize: freedom. Because if I could just get through the next hour or two with these idiots, this whole ugly mess would be over—or so I hoped anyway.

"There he is," I spat. While Cal fiddled with the radio dials, Donny coolly strolled in our direction with a box tucked under his arm. "There's Donny," I repeated louder.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cal said, in a tone that suggested I was an overreacting nag. Then he cranked up the engine and cruised alongside Donny at the edge of the parking lot.

"Change of plans," Donny said, as he hopped into the passenger seat. And the weird thing was, he sounded kind of out of breath, which I never would have guessed by the casual way he'd exited the store.

Donny shoved the box at me sideways between the seats. It was another Blu-ray player. Maybe even the same one they'd made me fake-return before.

"What about the camera?" Cal asked, peeling out of the parking lot so fast he almost wiped out a stop sign in the process. _Evasive maneuver,_ I guess. "That was worth like twice as much as we're gonna get now," he complained.

Donny sighed. "I'll get it next time. The bitch behind the counter wouldn't take her eyes off me," he explained. "There was no opportunity."

"How do you steal all this stuff anyway?" I asked, amazed he'd made off with anything at all. I mean, a free Blu-ray player was a pretty big score in my universe.

"Trade secret," Cal muttered.

"Two words: human error," Donny said with authority. "They can have all the security devices and cameras and whatever else they want, but we get away with stuff because people make mistakes. And that's never gonna change. People'll always make mistakes, and we'll always be there to take advantage of 'em."

Wow. Donny's explanation made total sense. I mean, it was probably the most logical string of thoughts he'd put together in his whole life. Too bad his insight was limited to criminal endeavors. Because I was beginning to think that, even though he was clearly no Mick Donovan, there was a miniscule chance Donny could be saved from himself. Maybe. If he wanted to be.

Chapter 18

WE drove for about another forty-five minutes before Cal pulled off the road to set the stage for part two of the day's plan. And this time we'd stopped at a McDonald's, which was a great relief since I desperately needed to pee.

Cal tucked the SUV in behind a dumpster and shut it down. "Whadda you guys wanna eat?" he asked. "You've both been seen already, so you should keep a low profile."

"I have to use the bathroom," I interjected. "Like _now_."

I whipped off my seatbelt, threw open the door, and sprinted toward Mickey D's. And as I burst into the grungy ladies' room, an amusing thought occurred to me: I was in love with Mickey D. _Mick Donovan._ I could already see how the coincidence might lead to some humorous misunderstandings, or, at the very least, some lowbrow entertainment. So for however long it took me to empty my bladder (which seemed like about a week, by the way), I dreamt up funny Mickey D sayings I could add to the graffiti that already littered the stall—if I only had a pen.

And when I finally exited the bathroom, the Goofball Goons were right there in the narrow hallway, poised to pounce on me. "What're you tryin' to do, get us caught?" Cal rumbled under his breath. " _We_ make the decisions. Got it?" He reached for my arm, like he was going to drag me from Mickey D's by force. But I pulled back before he even laid a finger on me.

"Should I have peed my pants?" I asked sarcastically.

"No. But we have procedures. We operate below the radar," Cal said. "You're gonna get us all nailed if you can't follow simple directions."

"He's right, you know," Donny agreed.

"Fine. Get me a chocolate shake. I'll be in the car." Sheesh, for supposedly bad-ass criminals, these guys sure got jittery over the tiniest things. I mean, give me a break.

I returned to the SUV for a few good minutes of pouting before the Goofball Goons showed their faces again. And to be honest, the whole drag-Flora-along-on-a-crime-spree thing was starting to get on my nerves. Because if something didn't change—and fast—I was going to miss my last opportunity to see Mick for God only knew how long.

"Here," Cal said, thrusting the shake at me.

I smiled real bitchy, so he'd know my patience was wearing thin. "Thanks a lot," I snipped. After all, there was only so much nonsense I could take from these idiots. If it weren't for the fact that they were Mick's cousins, I would've made an incredible escape by now for sure. But as crazy as this sounds, I wanted to impress Donny and Cal; I wanted them to like me. I guess I thought that if _they_ liked me, maybe Mick would keep liking me too. You know, the whole blood-is-thicker-than-water thing. I didn't want to be the water; I wanted to be the blood.

With a sick sucking sound that just about gagged me, Donny slurped up the end of whatever he was drinking. "So who's on package duty?" he asked Cal, when the last possible drop of liquid had passed his lips.

"You and Flora."

"Package duty?" I asked.

"Somebody's gotta prep the box for return," Cal explained. "Take out the merchandise. Replace it with a decoy. Wrap it back up again, nice and neat."

"Why us?" Donny complained.

"'Cause I'm logistics, remember?" Cal said, like it should have been obvious. "And you guys are labor."

Well, that seemed right—at least the part about Cal _not_ being labor, that was. "Come on, Donny," I said, rolling my eyes. "Let's get this over with."

At the back of the SUV, Donny and I began "package duty" by weighing the stolen Blu-ray player on a postal scale. Then Donny carefully slit the box open with a razor knife and removed the contents. I could tell by his skill and speed that he'd performed the operation many times before, probably _every_ time the Goofball Goons had run this particular scam.

As for me, _my_ job was to re-pack the Blu-ray player in a plain cardboard box for shipping to an unsuspecting eBay customer. And while I did that, Donny filled the original box back up with bricks and Styrofoam peanuts, pausing occasionally to weigh the thing as he went along. I guess the closer he got to the original weight of the box, the smaller the chance that anyone behind the returns counter would get suspicious.

"You can do this part," he said, handing me a big roll of clear tape. "I'm not that good at getting it on straight."

He chuckled a little, probably at his supposed impairment. But _I_ laughed at him saying _getting it on straight_. How mature.

As precisely as possible, I stuck a new layer of tape over the old one and asked, "How's this?"

Donny squinted. "Good," he said. "I think we're done." He shifted the real Blu-ray player to a safe spot, thrust the decoy at me, and slammed the tailgate shut.

And that's when it first hit me that I was about to knowingly commit a crime. I mean, sure, I could claim I'd been influenced, coerced, threatened—all of which was technically true. But _I_ knew I was making a choice. And the strange thing was, the stealing didn't really bother me that much. After all, I'd already done it once, even though I hadn't known I was committing a crime at the time. It was a genius move by the Goofball Goons, really: They'd desensitized me to criminal activity.

But even though I was kind of desensitized, I was still super nervous. A million times more nervous than before. Because for the most part, I'm a pretty sucky liar. So pulling off a crime without giving myself away was bound to be a monumental challenge. And before I was ready, of course, Cal tripped the blinker and whipped into the Garett's Department Store lot.

"Garett's again?" I asked. The idea made me squirm.

"Yep," Cal said. "Ready?"

Right at the curb, he stopped to let me out. "But...isn't this stupid?" I complained. "The same store twice in one day?" As far as I was concerned, I'd already tested my luck enough with Garett's.

"It's a different store," Donny pointed out. "We're over two hours from where we were this morning."

Okay, I'd give him _that_. It wasn't the _exact_ same store. But it was still the same chain. They couldn't be so lax about security that I'd slip through the cracks again, could they?

"What if I get caught?" I asked.

Cal huffed, "You won't. Just play it like you did before. Now get out of here. You're drawing attention to us."

I took a deep breath, hopped out of the SUV, and dragged the box out behind me. And as I bumped the door shut with my hip, Cal pulled away from the curb, leaving me naked, exposed, transparent, as if my private thoughts were scrawled across my forehead in permanent marker. Everything about me screamed: I am a liar. I am a criminal. Don't trust me.

Still...

I stepped through the automatic doors and slowly proceeded to the returns counter, where I waited in line behind a plump young woman returning a defective vacuum cleaner. From her shopping cart, her baby goo-gooed and ga-gaed at me, which, I must say, made me feel like a total creeper. I mean, what kind of poor excuse for a human being would even consider doing what I was preparing to do anyway?

The good thing about the wait, though, was that it gave me an opportunity to size up the returns clerk. And even though the guy was no sweet, old grandma, he looked pleasant enough and sort of dopey, which almost always worked to my advantage. I could only hope my experience with him would be painless, lucrative, and exceedingly brief. Because honest to God, I felt like I was about to hurl.

"Hello. How may I help you?" the returns guy asked, as I stepped up to the plate.

"Hi...uh...I need to return this," I sputtered, sliding the box across the counter.

"Do you have the sales receipt?"

"Oh, yes," I lied. "Hold on." I patted my hips, like the nonexistent paper was just going to pop out of my pocket and save the day. "Shoot," I said, frowning. "I must've left it at home. Is that a problem?"

The guy was unreadable. Honestly, I couldn't tell if he was buying my feeble acting job, or he was onto me. "It would be better if you had it," he said flatly. "But sometimes we can make exceptions—in certain cases."

"That'd be great!" I gushed, like I assumed _my_ case would qualify.

"What's the problem with this, um, Blu-ray disc player?" he asked.

I shot him a charming smile. "Actually there's nothing wrong with it," I said. "My parents bought it for me for my birthday—I just turned sixteen—and my boyfriend also got me one too. So I don't need them both. That's why I want to return on this one."

Okay... _way_ too much information; I was rambling like a motor-mouth with ADD.

The returns guy just stared at me like I was a mental freak. "All right. Let me check with my manager. You said you have the receipt at home, correct?"

"Uh-huh," I lied again.

He shook his head. "Because we've been having some problems with fraud lately, so I'm not sure we'll be able to help you without the receipt. But I'll give it a try. You can wait over there," he said, pointing to a metal bench on the wall near the photo machine. "I'll be right back."

As he ducked through the door to work his magic, I tried to squeak out a _thank you,_ but my vocal cords were paralyzed. After all, he'd just mentioned fraud. To me. The fraudster.

For what seemed like enough time for the returns guy to build a Blu-ray player from scratch, I waited in silent terror. I mean, what the hell was taking so long? This was supposed to be a quick operation. In and out. Instead, it had turned into a torture-fest that was going to kill me for sure. And I wasn't the only one getting antsy either; a steady stream of customers had piled up in the rope-maze to wait for the Incredible Disappearing Refund Dispenser.

And to be honest, I was on the verge of disappearing myself, when the returns guy finally graced us with his presence again. But the peculiar thing was, he didn't even look in my direction. He just pushed the fake Blu-ray player aside and stared straight ahead at the next customer like I didn't exist.

Determined to reclaim my spot in line, I stood up and took a step toward the counter. And that's when I heard the most frightening sentence of my life.

"Excuse me," the gruff voice said, "we're going to need you to come with us." Before I could even respond, the muscle-bound brute and his scrawny assistant cornered me. "We're store security, and we'd like to ask you a few questions."

The brute nodded to a well-dressed woman who had suddenly appeared behind the returns counter.

My mind was blank. "I...I..."

By the reaction of the security guard, it was entirely possible I was shaking like a leaf. "Just relax and follow us," he said. "If you cooperate, there won't be any trouble."

Now I've never had a near-death experience before, but I'm pretty sure it would be exactly like this. Because my mind had inexplicably detached from my body, and I was watching myself march into the Pit of Doom as if my life were a flickering reel-to-reel movie.

"But...what?" I tried, still unable to form a coherent sentence.

The men led the way and the woman followed behind me, lugging the box I'd tried to return. Meanwhile, I shuffled along on autopilot as our little troupe slugged through the _Associates Only_ door, up a wide, industrial staircase, and into a bare, claustrophobic cubicle of a room.

"Sit down," the scrawny security guard ordered, pointing to a weathered wooden chair in the corner.

All three of my tormentors squeezed into the narrow space beside me, which made me feel like a million invisible bugs were crawling under my skin.

"Would you care to tell us exactly what's going on here?" the muscle-bound brute asked.

I just blinked uncontrollably.

The brute took the Blu-ray box from the woman and dropped it on an empty desk, where he zipped a sharp tool—maybe a razor blade—across the tape I'd so meticulously applied.

"You don't know anything about this?" he asked, pulling a single brick from the Styrofoam peanuts. "I find that hard to believe."

My mouth refused to move. It was as if I'd swallowed a bucketful of stones, and they were creeping up my throat to choke the life out of me. The last thing I remember is an out of control sensation, kind of like falling off a cliff in a dream. Then things went blank—that is, until I recovered from fainting and the police hauled me off, handcuffs and all.

Chapter 19

I'LL spare you the gory details of my arrest and the dramatic, emotional scene that played out when I was released from jail. Suffice it to say that my parents nixed the hunt for Champ, hired an excellent defense attorney, and encouraged me to rat out Mick's cousins, which I eventually did after much prodding.

And lucky for me, I guess, the voodoo lawyer pleaded my case down to a charge of Disorderly Conduct, which is technically a violation in New York, not a crime. And my parents paid the two hundred and fifty dollar fine, pending repayment by me through a sick method of their choosing. Meanwhile, until the whole ugly mess got sorted out, my family and I bunked down at a grungy, rat-infested motel adjacent to a meat processing plant. How stellar.

Now given the circumstances, you'd probably assume getting arrested was the most disturbing experience in my universe at the moment. But tragically, you'd be wrong. Because instead of obsessing over the consequences of my criminal activity, like the absolute certainty my mother was going to monitor me like an air traffic controller until I turned eighteen, I was wrapped in a bubble of distraught self-pity over losing the love of my life. After all, nothing held any significance—good _or_ bad—in a world without my sweet-hearted, gorgeous Mick Donovan. Even a ground-splitting earthquake or a raging wildfire wouldn't have fazed me much. I'd given up caring.

"Hey, Flora. Your bag," Will said, nudging my arm as we pulled into our driveway back in Punxsutawney.

Oh boy, now I could wallow in misery somewhere more familiar.

At the pace of an inchworm, I dragged myself around to the back of the Maroon Monstrosity, where I attempted to sling my duffel over my shoulder. Instead, though, I just ended up scuffing the thing along behind me limp-armed in the dirt.

I guess you could say the Valium my mother had slipped me was still in effect, because I felt about as flat as humanly possible—unless, of course, you counted psychopaths. At least I was still more in touch with my feelings than _they_ were.

"Are you okay, honey?" my mother asked, as I hiked the stairs to my bedroom in a foggy daze. "Can I get you anything?"

Instead of considering me a criminal, like the courts had, or a victim, like my father had, my mother had simply decided I'd lost my mind. And that's how she was treating me: like I was such a fragile, unpredictable mess she'd better tiptoe around in my presence. And even though I probably should have been offended by the insinuation I was an incurable mental case, somehow I figured it was better than the alternatives. I mean, at least if she thought I was crazy, she'd probably leave me alone.

"Nope. All set," I said. "See you in the morning."

"Um...uh...okay," she stumbled. "Let me know if you need anything."

I just nodded.

Still dazed, I wandered into my room, dropped my bag on the floor, and collapsed on my unmade bed. It was almost nightfall, but I didn't bother turning on any lights. Because honestly, the mere thought of returning to my old life like nothing had happened, like I hadn't suffered an immeasurable loss, was just too sad to bear. All I wanted to do was linger in the warm, happy memories of Mick. So I pulled the covers over my head and closed my eyes, determined to fall asleep—for one last night, at least—knowing I was the center of Mick's universe and he was madly, deeply, unyieldingly in love with me.

I'm pretty sure it was because of the Valium, but I got an amazingly solid first night's sleep back in Punxsutawney. So solid, in fact, I didn't even wake up until after everyone else had eaten lunch.

And on the first day of my new life, reality was already starting to set in. Because as much as I wanted to continue ignoring the truth, Mick was gone; he wasn't coming back. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I could wish and hope and dream all I wanted, but it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Mick Donovan was nothing more than a stranger to me now. A stranger without even an address or a phone number. A ghost.

Without warning, my bedroom door creaked open. "Hey, Flowbee," my dad said, all upbeat. "Want something to eat?"

"Nah," I mumbled. Whatever he'd cooked smelled pretty good, but my appetite was nonexistent.

He frowned. "Well, if you get hungry, let me know. Oh, and Jessie called. I told her you'd call her when you got up."

Since when were my parents intervening in my social life? I guess they were even more worried about me than I'd realized. "Uh-huh," I agreed half-heartedly. "I'll call her later."

But the funny thing was, I had absolutely no desire to talk to Jessie. I mean, don't get me wrong, she's great and everything. But she could never really understand how hard I'd fallen for Mick, which meant she'd probably try to cheer me up. And I didn't want to be cheery. I wanted to be as miserable as I'd been happy with Mick. It was the only way I'd know for sure our love was real. Because if there was even a shred of a chance I could just snap my fingers and get over him...well, then our relationship wasn't what I'd thought it was to begin with.

For another few seconds, my dad lingered in the doorway staring at me before he finally left. And that's when I noticed just how unfamiliar my room had become. How it didn't seem to fit me anymore. How it seemed like it belonged to someone else. And the longer I sat there, the more uncomfortable I became. So even though I didn't want to talk about Mick, I decided to walk over to Jessie's and see how her trip to Europe had panned out after all.

"Oh my God! Come in! Come in!" Jessie yelped, as I moped through her front door. She threw her arms around me and squeezed. But when I didn't squeeze back, she didn't seem to notice. "I've been calling you for like two days," she complained.

We pulled our regular stools out from the kitchen counter. "I was on that lame camping trip with my parents, so..." I started to say.

"Ugh. I know," she interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Tell me all about it."

I was sure she didn't mean it literally. "How was Europe?" I deflected. "I wish I could've gone."

"No, you don't," she said. "I mean, it _should've_ been fun, but just about everything went wrong. You're lucky your parents went all Nazi on you."

"What do you mean everything went wrong?" I asked, trying to act interested when all I could think about was Mick.

She sighed. "Well, let's see... First my dad threw his back out and we had to spend like a month in the hospital in Paris."

"That sucks," I muttered.

"Yeah, for _him_. He spent the rest of the trip all drugged-out and hunched over," she said, chuckling at her father's misfortune as she passed me a chubby pretzel rod that resembled a cigar.

I still wasn't hungry, but what the hell. It couldn't hurt to suck all the chunky salt crystals off the thing until it was naked and soggy.

"So promise you won't think I'm a total freakazoid..." Jessie said, like I was supposed to know what the hell she was talking about.

I took the pretzel out of my mouth. "Huh?"

"I wouldn't tell this to anyone but you, I swear. But I caught some weird virus, and my parents barely let me out of the hotel. It was a disaster," she said, pausing for my reaction.

"What kind of virus?" I asked. Maybe if she gave it to me, I could just die already and get it over with.

"I don't know. It had some freaky name like Parvo-something," she said. "Do you think it's French?"

"I have no idea."

"Sounds French to me," she said. "Anyway, first I thought I just had a cold—like a runny nose and a sore throat and stuff." She stuck out her tongue in disgust. "But then I got this crazy red rash all over my face. It was hideous."

I stared, but there was nothing visibly wrong with her. "I don't see anything," I remarked.

"Oh, it's gone. It only lasted like a week or so," she explained. "All better. But of course my parents treated me like I had the Bubonic Plague, so I missed Big Ben, Madame Tussaud's, Buckingham Palace..."

"London?" I asked, confused. "I thought you said you got sick in France."

She shook her head. "No, not really. I probably _caught_ it in France. In the hospital. At least that's what my mother thinks. But I didn't actually get sick until we got to London."

"Bummer," I said, trying to work up the appropriate amount of concern in my voice. I must admit, though, I'm a pretty bad actress. If Jessie didn't catch on to the fact that I was severely depressed, she wasn't paying much attention.

"So basically Europe was a bust," she continued without missing a beat. "Ridiculous." She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "What about you? Did you have fun in... Where was it again?"

"It was supposed to be Lake Champlain," I said, "but we never actually made it there." I was toying with the idea of telling her the whole sordid story, but I stopped at, "There was a problem, and we had to come home."

"Like what? A dental emergency?" Jessie joked.

It _would've_ been just like the Mental Hygienist to drag us back to Punxsutawney so she could assist in some gory dental procedure. "No, nothing like that—believe it or not," I said. "Just something that screwed everything up, that's all. I'll tell you about it later. Promise."

"Uh...okay."

Obviously, Jessie was stuck for words. And I couldn't blame her. I mean, in our whole friendship, I'd never intentionally kept anything from her—until now. And it wasn't like I didn't want her to know about Mick; it was just too soon. I'm sure if the shoe had been on the other foot, I wouldn't have known how to react either.

I broke the ice with a change of subject. "Five more weeks 'til school," I said. "What's the plan for the rest of the summer?"

With a grin, Jessie said, "Chillaxing, of course. And vegetating. Or maybe vegetating and chillaxing," she mused. "I haven't decided."

There it was, the reason Jessie Haskell was my best friend on earth: Even at the worst of times, she could pick me up just by being herself.

"Sounds perfect," I agreed, feeling the tiniest shred of true excitement. "Count me in."

After all, the only thing that could've trumped chillaxing and vegetating with Jessie was breathing the air my sweet, gentle Mick had just exhaled. But as much as it killed me to admit it, the possibility of that happening ever again was near zero. _Near_ zero, but not _absolute_ zero. A trivial difference, I know, but one that gave me a reason to go on. A convoluted reason, maybe, but a reason just the same.

Chapter 20

THE next two weeks dissolved in a fog of loneliness, despair, and Twinkies. I guess I'd developed a taste for them during my misadventures with Donny and Cal that never quite went away. And since they were about the only thing I could stomach nowadays, my mother indulged me. Apparently she figured a Twinkie habit was par for the course when you had a mental case for a daughter.

So even though I'd promised Jessie weeks of chillaxing and vegetating, I'd dodged all of her calls and visits with one lame excuse after another. Because despite the fact that I would eventually have to crack and rejoin the outside world, for just a while longer I needed to mourn the loss of Mick. I wasn't ready to let him go.

In the meantime, though, when I wasn't sleeping, or crying, or choking down Twinkies, I was glued to the internet, Googleing such vague topics as _first love, broken heart,_ and _loneliness_ —which, I must say, yielded some interesting results, but unfortunately nothing that could actually help me regain my sanity.

I had just finished a rather fruitless search on the consequences of Twinkie overdose, when a brilliant idea hit me (thank you, God): I could learn about the Monarchs; I could trek down to Mexico; I could be with Mick again—assuming he made the trip too, and we were both there at the same time, and...

A rush of pure joy washed all the details and complications from my mind. Because all I wanted was another chance. Some more time. A proper goodbye. Mick deserved that much, and so did I.

With renewed hope, I banged out the closest spelling of my destination I could manage: MEE-CHO-AH-KAHN. And all I can say is, God bless Google and my sweet, sweet Mick's perfect pronunciation. Because immediately, I found the correct spelling of Michoacán and a plethora of websites on Monarch butterflies. Bingo.

Now I fully admit, I am not the science-y, nature-y type. But I found this NOVA page about Monarchs and, well, I was hooked—and not just because Mick likes them either. What sucked me in was how these fragile little creatures go to such extraordinary lengths for the chance to mate. Each year, the newly transformed butterflies migrate about two thousand miles from Canada and the United States to the mountains of Mexico, where they spend the winter before they fly back to Texas and reproduce in the spring. And the crazy thing is, nobody really knows how they make the journey. Some scientists say they use the sun, or the mountains, or the earth's magnetic field, or even their own internal clocks to guide them. Of course, the brainiacs are free to debate the _how_ of the Monarch migration all they want, but what _I_ was interested in was the _why_. If you asked me, the obvious answer was love. Maybe the Monarchs were driven to create something beautiful together—like another generation of butterflies—before their fleeting lives were stomped out by Mother Nature. And in that creation was love. There had to be.

So by now any rational person would probably agree with my mother that I'd lost my mind. I mean, what sane human being would propose the idea that butterflies endure a perilous, epic journey for love? It's ludicrous. And maybe it was just the Twinkies talking, but I believed my own nutball theory. I really did. After all, _I_ was considering making an epic journey of my own, so I could relate. And in my case, there wasn't even a frantic need to reproduce. I could only imagine how desperate I would have been for Mick if my last chance to make a beautiful mark on the world was swiftly slipping away.

It's kind of weird, really, but thinking about those crazy butterflies put me in a dramatic mood. Suddenly the idea of doing something over the top romantic—of making a grand gesture—exhilarated me. I decided to go for it. I'd meet Mick in Mexico. I'd surprise him. And if I actually made it there on my own, I'd surprise myself too.

Before I lost my nerve, I ditched the NOVA site and pulled up the Greyhound bus schedule. Because if I was going to run away with Mick, I had to start nailing down some details. With a hint of apprehension, I punched Punxsutawney, PA into the _departure_ field and Michoacán, MX into the _arrival_ field and crossed my fingers.

But of course my effort was a spectacular failure. So for a few dimwit moments, I stared at the computer screen like the _arrival_ field might just magically fill _itself_ in with the right information to get me where I wanted to go. When nothing miraculous happened, though, I finally decided to try the only other location in Mexico that was popping into my head: Mexico City. Hey, at least it actually had the word _city_ in its name, which would probably make Greyhound's website very happy.

Anyway, after another breathless moment, I got my first glimpse of what I'd be in for if I followed through with my quest: two and a half days (give or take) and about twenty-five _hundred_ miles on a total of six busses. And that was just to get to Mexico City. I still had no idea how I'd get from there to Michoacán—and then to Mick.

To say the details were intimidating would be putting it mildly. I mean, I was mortally terrified at even the thought of such a challenging solo journey. But I loved Mick, and I'd do things for him I'd absolutely never do under normal circumstances.

Plowing full speed ahead, I pulled up a map of Mexico on the computer. But just then a loud rap on the front door interrupted me. Shit. I was the only one home, since my parents had finally dared to go back to work and leave me alone. Maybe if I didn't answer, whoever was outside would just go away and let me continue disintegrating in peace.

Or not.

When the door banged again, I pulled my curtains back, hoping to see a band of religious freaks I could legitly ignore. Instead, though, I caught the profile of the buff FedEx chick as she catapulted back into her truck.

Huh? That was weird. The Mental Hygienist usually only ordered stuff off the internet at Christmastime. And even for her, it was a little early for that.

A mysterious package? Hmm. I threw my rumpled bathrobe over the disheveled mess of an outfit I was wearing and shuffled down the stairs. And I was about five feet from the door when a sick feeling hit me out of nowhere. It was that stupid fortune from the rest area. The damn thing had said something about an unexpected package and bad luck infesting my pathetic soul. Shit. Was there a bomb in there waiting to kill me? Maybe Cal or Donny—or one of their slimy vermin friends—wanted to rub me out, so I couldn't testify in court.

I opened the door a few inches and peered outside. And sure enough, right on the doorstep was a plain box—hand-addressed to me—with no return address. Great. Now what should I do? Call the bomb squad?

I stuck just my arm outside and snatched the thing one-handed. So far, so good. No kaboom. Then, handling the box like it was a priceless heirloom, I carefully tiptoed to the dining room and sat down at the table.

It was just me and the box, and the box was winning. But as I stared the thing down in search of clues, one small detail stood out: a postmark from Portland, Oregon dated August thirteenth. The problem was, I couldn't think of anyone from Oregon who would've sent me anything, so I was pretty much back to square one.

Unless...

My heart started thumping like crazy. Mick. It _had_ to be Mick. He'd sent me something. A present. As I tugged the tape from the bottom of the box, my irrational bomb fears transformed into an odd mix of dread and excitement.

And all I can say is, it was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful. Mick had given me a treasure box with a gorgeous floral pattern on the lid. I took a deep breath and flipped it open, utterly unprepared for what lay inside.

On a fluffy bed of milkweed sat an exquisite pendant on a delicate silver chain. The jewel was deep orange, patterned with thick black lines that reminded me of Honeycomb cereal, framed by a white polka-dotted border.

I swear, I didn't mean to, but I let a couple of stray tears escape my eyes at the sight of it. After all, it looked more like a piece of fine art than jewelry for my plain, old ordinary neck.

With my jagged thumbnail, I pulled the clasp back and hooked the ends of the chain together at my collarbone. And I'm pretty sure it was just my imagination running wild, but when I pressed the jewel to my chest, it felt like it was radiating warmth, like Mick's love was flowing through _it_ to _me._ So for maybe a whole minute, I sat there alone in the quiet dining room with my hands clasped over my chest, my eyes closed, and a whisper of a contented smile on my lips, until...

I heard a car in the driveway. And since I couldn't have my parents—or even Will—finding out Mick had contacted me, I hurriedly grabbed all traces of his gift and fled to my bedroom.

And once my door was safely locked, I plunked down on the floor and spread my treasures out before me. That's when I noticed something that took my breath away. From under the milkweed, the ragged edge of a piece of notebook paper peeked out. Mick had written me a letter.

Of course, my heart went back to thumping like I'd just run the hundred-yard dash. I wanted nothing more than for that letter to explain how Mick and I were going to be together forever. But I was terrified it was a goodbye. A permanent one. I swear to God, I almost threw the thing in the trash without even reading it to spare myself the pain of Mick letting go of me in his own handwriting, in his own words. But I had to know. I had to know exactly how he felt about me. And I had to hear it from him.

Dear Flora,

I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I feel terrible about everything that happened with Donny and Cal, and I can't help thinking you must blame me for getting you mixed up with them in the first place. I hate them for what they did to you. I mean it. Please believe I never would have introduced you to them if I had any idea what they were capable of. You're too important to me.

With everything that's happened, I hope you're doing okay. And I hope your parents don't hate me too much. Please explain to them that you are the most precious thing in the world to me, and I never would have knowingly put you in harm's way. I hope they can understand how much I love you.

Do you like the jewelry box? I made it for you as a reminder of the wonderful times we spent together at camp. Did you know there's a Roman goddess called Flora? I painted the top of the box to match a Botticelli painting of her, but I'm not sure it came out exactly right. I hope you like it anyway.

The butterfly necklace was Penny's idea, because she felt bad about what Donny did and also because she knows how much I like Monarchs. We collect the wings when they die, and the girls turn them into jewelry. Please think of me when you wear it, and think about Michoacan and our future.

For the next few months, my family is going to stay put in Oregon on my mother's cousin's farm, and I'm going to try to get my license. I want so desperately to see you again. As soon as I get my license, I can get a job out here and save up for a car. Then I'll be able to see you whenever I want. I can't wait.

Until we can be together, please remember all the good times we had in just those few short days. And imagine how happy we would be if we could have that every day. That's what I want, Flora. I want us to be together. Just you and me. Forever. You asked me once if I believed in fate, and I don't think I did before I met you. But now I do. I know we were meant for each other. Please take care of yourself until I can hold you in my arms again. I love you more than words.

Mick

If you've never been totally happy and totally sad at the same time, I recommend that you try it. It's a life-changing experience. That's how I felt when I read Mick's letter: bittersweet. Because part of me believed his happily-ever-after version things, while another part of me saw heartbreak and tragedy written on the wall.

I must admit, there's one big difference between Mick and me: He's an eternal optimist, while I'm a natural-born buzz-kill. I swear, I could even find something wrong with world peace. I'm _that_ bad. But maybe Mick could change me. Maybe he could teach me how to see things differently. Maybe _he_ was _that_ good.

I closed the jewelry box, rewrapped it, and tucked it under my bed. What had Mick said on my birthday, when I couldn't see the butterflies? I shut my eyes and tried to recall him leaning over my shoulder, breathing on my neck, whispering in my ear. _Pretend you see it,_ I heard him say. _Expect a butterfly._ And that was exactly what I intended to do.

### ALSO BY MAGGIE BLOOM . . .

LIFE sucks and then you die, at least as far as sixteen-year-old Flora Fontain is concerned anyway. Because at the moment, just about everything in her averagely pathetic universe has taken a gigantic leap into the Pit of Doom: She's been separated from the love of her life, gotten assigned the junior year schedule from hell, gained like fifteen pounds in Twinkies alone and, oh, the hot new foreign exchange student has a thing for her, which wouldn't be such a problem if Flora's best friend didn't have a mad crush on the guy.

And just when things couldn't possibly get any more complicated, of course, they do. Because the moment Flora starts to fall for the new hottie, her long-distance love-muffin rolls into town, grinding her universe to a heart-stopping, brain-wrenching halt.

If something doesn't change, and pronto, Flora just might end up six feet under—or, at the very least, eating up valuable space in a rubber room. Either way.

### FILM AT ELEVEN

### SNEAK PREVIEW (CHAPTER ONE) . . .

One

IF you'd asked me at the end of sophomore year, I would have absolutely, unequivocally declared junior year was going to be _the_ year. After all, it was the year you got a license (and if you were super lucky, a car). It was the year you got your first lame, gag-me part-time job (and the spending money that went with it to blow on a shi-shi new wardrobe). It was the year you worried yourself sick about the SAT (but at least once it was over, you knew your fate: Ivy League elitist snob or community college girl-next-door). And it was the year that, if the stars aligned just right, you had your first real adult love affair—or so I'd heard anyway.

But in just a few short months, a lot can change. And doing things out of order can have tragic consequences. Take me, for example. _I_ found the man of my dreams—a sexy, sophisticated gypsy boy named Mick Donovan—the summer _before_ junior year. I loved him madly, and he loved me back. But it was the wrong time, the wrong place. And I ended up losing my sweet, sweet Mick—at least for the foreseeable future. Now nothing would ever be the same.

Okay...so maybe some things would be the same. The _same old,_ that is. Like the same old skuzzy bus I'd have to ride to school. And the same old faces I'd have to stare at in homeroom. See, Punxsutawney is a pretty small place, and as different as I was, everything around me was still stuck in a pre-Flora-falling-head-over-heels time warp. Irritating, to say the least.

The bus pulled right up in front of my house, a convenience the Mental Hygienist (a.k.a. my mother) had arranged with the school department, probably by telling them I was such a fragile basket case I couldn't be trusted to walk the two blocks over to my usual stop alone.

I moped aboard, shuffled to the back, and plunked down beside my best friend, Jessie Haskell, for another miserable day of my Mick-less existence.

"You _are_ alive," Jessie joked, as I shimmied in next to her.

I guess I'd been ignoring her pretty hard recently due to my severe separation anxiety/depression over losing Mick. "Sorry. I've been kind of out of it lately. I should've called you back," I said. "Forgive me?" I offered her the best puppy-dog eyes I could muster.

"I suppose," she relented easily. "But you owe me an explanation. No more of this strong, silent-type thing. I need _details,_ you know. Or I can't help you. _Capiche?_ "

I hadn't told Jessie anything yet. I wasn't ready. And it was all too painful anyway. "Lunch," I said. "I promise. I'll tell you everything."

What the hell. I needed to get some things off my chest. And Jessie was probably going to die of curiosity if I didn't let her in on the specifics of my summer romance pretty soon anyway. Maybe once I'd spilled my guts, we'd both feel better.

"Deal," Jessie said. " _If_ we have lunch together, that is."

"We _better_ have lunch together, or I'm gonna make Ms. Aggie's life a living hell." See, Ms. Aggie is my guidance counselor; hence, she's responsible for the good, the bad, and the ugly of my personal problems and my academic life. This year, I had a feeling she was going to have her work cut out for her.

"That would _so_ suck," Jessie said. "I think if you're not in my lunch, I'll eat with Mr. Morrison—as long as he doesn't mind if I drool into my food."

"He's like forty, you know," I pointed out, only mildly disgusted. After all, I'd found Mick's father pretty attractive, so who was I to judge?

Jessie grinned. "Old guys rock," she declared, pumping her fist in the air. And the sick thing was, she was only half kidding.

I rolled my eyes.

"Oh my God!" Jessie suddenly squealed, poking her finger at the grimy bus window.

We were at the last stop before Punxsy Middle, and a bunch of snooty twerps from the rich side of town were filing aboard. But from the aisle seat, I couldn't see much. "What?" I whined. I mean, it's no fair to yelp in excitement if you're not willing to elaborate.

Jessie didn't say a thing. She didn't have to. Because as Carla Pearson boarded the bus, I followed Jessie's shocked stare right to Carla's swollen belly. Obviously, Carla was pregnant. Exceedingly pregnant. Pregnant beyond a reasonable doubt. And she was _my_ age—sixteen—and just barely a junior, like Jessie and me. Plus, she was sort of my friend, which made the whole teen pregnancy thing pretty up close and personal.

I gulped.

"Hey, guys," Carla said, all mellow and relaxed, like everything was just A-okay.

I tried not to stare _too_ blatantly as she squeezed sideways into the seat in front of us. "Uh, hi," I muttered.

Jessie had somehow managed to press her lips back together, but she was still unresponsive, so I elbowed her. "Yeah, hi," she finally spat.

Carla turned around. "Huh?"

"Nothing. I just said _hi,_ " Jessie repeated.

"Oh, hi," Carla said, disinterested. Then she went back to focusing on the bus driver's head.

_Holy shit_ , I mouthed to Jessie.

She leaned over and cupped her hand to my ear. "Who's the father?"

I shrugged.

She bit her lip, as if she was ticking through a mental list of all the sex-crazed boys who could've knocked up the relatively tame Carla Pearson. As for me, _my_ mind was a total blank on the subject. Last _I_ knew, Carla was a virgin—like Jessie and me.

Jessie shook her head. Apparently she'd drawn a blank too. And it wasn't like Punxsy High lacked obvious man-whores either. I mean, the place had more testosterone-engorged apes than I cared to count. But to my knowledge, none of them had ever hooked up with Carla Pearson.

Since we couldn't openly gossip about Carla's sex life—or the resulting pregnancy scandal—Jessie and I just sat there like mimes as the bus rumbled along the last few blocks to school. Personally, I couldn't stop thinking about Carla's fingernails. Obsessing, really. Because ever since fifth grade, I'd secretly begged God for fingernails like hers: long, sculpted, always perfectly polished.

So by the time we careened into the drop-off loop at school, I'd devised a preliminary theory about Carla's _situation:_ The fingernails were to blame. Maybe sexy fingernails led to other sexy things, which led to the whole pregnancy predicament in the first place.

I glanced down at my own nails, pondering what _they_ might predict about _my_ future. If Carla Pearson's alluring nails led to sex and pregnancy, my disastrous nubs had nunnery written all over them. Or ninety-year-old virgin. Maybe I should have taken advantage of Mick while I'd had the chance, since it might be quite a while before I got another shot at any serious action.

"Mr. Xavier! Mr. Xavier!" I chirped, bouncing around in my seat like one of those annoying know-it-alls who's dying to answer the super-hard question nobody else even understands. "I have to go to Guidance."

My homeroom teacher sighed. "For what, Miss Fontain?"

"My schedule. It's all wrong," I declared. "The computer must have had a...a malfunction."

"A malfunction?" Mr. X said, narrowing his eyes.

Okay, so the old guy wasn't as gullible as I'd hoped. "Or someone made a mistake," I offered, not naming any names.

Mr. X shook his head. "Add/drop for seniors starts tomorrow. Juniors are Thursday. You can take it up with Guidance then."

"But..."

I glanced around the room for some emotional support or a little backup muscle, but nobody came to my defense. Nobody but Ryan Goodman, my not-so-secret admirer.

"My schedule's wrong too," Ryan claimed. "They've got me in Latin instead of Spanish, and I'm no good at languages. If I miss even two days, I'll fail for the year."

Ryan winked at me a couple of times, but instead of coming off as slick, he just ended up looking like he was having a mild seizure. Still, I could tell he was going to get away with putting the screws to Mr. X.

"If you insist, Mr. Goodman," Mr. X said reluctantly. "If two days will make or break you, then I guess you should..."

Ryan stood up and offered me his hand, but I had no interest in even going to Guidance if it meant I'd owe Ryan Goodman a favor—even _if_ the result was two days of AP hell. Don't get me wrong, Ryan's a nice guy and everything, but he's definitely not my type. Plus, I already had a boyfriend—at least a long-distance one anyway.

"Thanks anyway," I said, frowning. "But I'll talk to Ms. Aggie later. I don't want to be late for first period."

"Oh, okay," Ryan said, leaving his hand stuck out in midair for a couple more awkward seconds. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Hoping he'd take a hint, I ignored him and stared down at my schedule. But I could tell he hadn't taken my hint at all. Instead, he was hovering over my shoulder like a stalker-freak.

I pretended not to notice.

"Hey, Flora. Do you have Braeburn for AP History?" Vivian Fisk asked, saving me from an uncomfortable confrontation with Ryan _the stalker_ Goodman.

I took my schedule over to Viv's desk, and Ryan finally got the hint—or at least I assume he did, since as I set my schedule down next to Viv's, he stomped out into the hallway in a huff.

"Uh...no. I've got Emerson. Not that I'm staying in there, but whatever," I said, wrinkling my whole face in disgust. "Braeburn's teaching AP again?"

Viv shrugged. "I guess so. According to _this thing,_ " she said, shoving the paper aside.

Great. If like half the junior class wanted to nix their schedules, we were all going to get screwed. I mean, there was no way Ms. Aggie could make everyone happy.

So if the worst happened and I got stuck with the crappy classes I'd already been assigned, junior year would suck according to the following schedule:

1-Fundamentals of Theater

(They must be joking)

2-AP U.S. History

(Ugh)

3-Spanish III

(I'll suffer through it)

4-Advanced Math

(Thank God for small miracles)

_Lunch Block 2_ (Jessie had better be in my lunch, or I'll...)

5-Honors English

(Ugh, again)

6-Study Hall

(Snooze-fest)

7-Astronomy

(Maybe I'll learn how to read tea leaves)

8-Probability/Statistics

(A light at the end of the tunnel?)

Okay... so at least they'd given me the two math classes I'd requested. And maybe Astronomy would turn out to be tolerable. But that was about it. Mostly, junior year was shaping up to be a heavy load of doom and gloom, and it hadn't even started yet. If I had the energy, I would've sighed.

### Good Luck, Fatty?!

### by

### Maggie Bloom

Spunky North Carolina teen Bobbi-Jo Cotton is overweight, oversexed, underloved and misunderstood. When Dr. Harvey Lassiter—her former high school principal turned bicycle shop owner—sponsors a charity bike race, Bobbi sees an opportunity to test her Schwinn and her fortitude. And when Tom Cantwell, her best (and only) friend, reveals he's crushing on her, Bobbi figures it's time to quit passing out screws like they're dentists' office suckers.

What Bobbi is having a harder time letting go of is the resentment she feels toward her missionary parents, who, after abandoning her in the night, have flitted back into her life with a surprise: she's about to be a big sister.

Will Bobbi win the race (and maybe even lose the weight)? Can she overcome her promiscuous past and earn the trust of the boy she just may love? Will her parents care enough about her—or her new baby brother—to stick around (and if they don't, will she be tough enough to survive another of their betrayals)?

The only way to find out is to come along for the ride. The way Bobbi sees it, all of life's questions can be answered from the seat of a bicycle. And if they can't, at least your hair will look great fluttering in the breeze.

### GOOD LUCK, FATTY?!

### SNEAK PREVIEW (CHAPTER ONE) . . .

## One

I'VE SCREWED lots of boys. No, wait. Let me rephrase that. I've been screwed by lots of boys. It's passive. They're the actors, and I'm the flabby, pockmarked receptacle.

"Hurry up in there, Bobbi-Jo!" my cousin Orville demands with a hearty thump of the bathroom door. "Miss Esther's waitin' on me."

Bobbi-Jo is short for Roberta Josephine. My last name is Cotton. "Almost done," I say. I swipe some shimmery blue shadow over my eyelids and shove the makeup into my backpack, where it will no doubt vanish in a black hole of Milky Way wrappers.

A car horn blares in the driveway, signifying Miss Esther's waning patience. Orv sighs. "Jesus, Bobbi-Jo, if I told you once..."

I turn the crusty old knob and yank, hauling the door past a catch in the jamb. Orv just brushes by and flips the toilet open, starts pissing right in front of me. I shake my head and slip out. Under my breath, I mutter, "Goddamn uncivilized ape."

Before I get two bites into my oatmeal—the cheapo instant kind with artificial apple flavoring Orv's girlfriend, Denise, stuffs the cupboards full of as if it's a health food—Orv is on my case again. "You never took the trash out yesterday," he says as he rummages through the refrigerator for his lunch pail. He wiggles the pail out and sniffs the air. "Smells like a sewage plant in here."

Orv's a decent enough guy: a little nice and a little annoying, like most people. I have a soft spot for him because of how he's taken care of me. Maybe not soft enough, though. "Look who's vying for Jerk of the Year," I say, immediately regretting it.

Miss Esther's horn makes a last-ditch, squealing attempt at teasing Orv out of the house.

Orv chews his thumb, hocks a loogie strait onto the chipped linoleum. "Just get this place cleaned up before Denise sees it," he says stiffly, glancing around the ramshackle kitchen. "We had a deal."

I want to say something like, _I didn't ask for this_ or _Don't do me any favors._ Instead, I force a plastic smile and shoot him a salute. "Aye-aye, Captain."

Orv huffs out through the screen door, which rattles as it skids shut across the uneven porch. I think about that door a lot, how it's my protection from things like thunderstorms and random violence (like the shooting last week, a block from the toothpick factory where Orv works). That door also keeps out the taunts of my peers and the love of my wayward parents, not that they'd bother to come knocking.

Sometimes it lets things in too. Things like Denise. Peppy, upbeat things that are so cheery I can't help liking them when they bounce my way. "Did I miss Orv again?" Denise asks with a frown, an expression that seems to bother her face. She tosses her purse onto the countertop and plops down in a chair beside me.

I nod and swallow. "By about half a minute."

Denise is twenty, which makes her a year younger than Orv and five years older than me. She pulls the overnight shift at Welcome Home, an assisted living facility by the train station. Usually she gets back here fifteen minutes after Orv slides across Miss Esther's front seat, but today she's early. "Want a ride?" she asks me.

This falling-down house Gramp left Orv and me is only five-eighths of a mile from Industry High, where, four long weeks ago, I hit the tenth grade.

I twirl a spoon in my oatmeal. "Nah," I say, even though I should accept the quasi-parental escort. Bullies are energetic in the morning. "I told Dr. Lassiter I'd help out at the shop later." This means I'll need my bike to get across town.

Denise pops out of her chair, smiles and pats my shoulder on her way to the sink. "Don't say I didn't offer."

****

My bike is in the garage, which is even more falling-down than the house. I jimmy the garage door a few inches off the cracked pavement and, with all of my two-hundred and twenty pounds, heave it toward the rafters. And, for once, it gives on the first try.

Riding a bike when you're as fat as I am is part algebra, part circus act. A bit of math and a touch of magic. I cinch the straps of my backpack tighter, shimmy onto the undersized seat and kick off to a wobbly start. But in no time, I'm coasting along the weed-infested sidewalk, a cool breeze undercutting the tenacious North Carolina sun.

I don't say this out loud, wouldn't have the courage to let even Denise in on a dream so tender, but...

I want to be a cyclist. A competitor. The female Lance Armstrong.

When I reach the first crossroad on my route, Marigold Way, I stop at the sign and plant my feet in a patch of loose gravel, wait for the intersection to clear. Before it does, though, a shitty old beater car—a Dodge Dart, according to the once-proud insignia on its rear end—rolls up beside me, a cloud of pot smoke trailing out its open window.

I try not to look, but I can't help it.

The guy in the passenger seat, a smartass freshman named Sydney Vale with goldfish-orange hair and giant, splotchy freckles, makes eye contact with me and bursts out laughing.

I snort softly to myself, peer deeper into the Dart, where I note Evan Richter slouching behind the wheel, his sunken squirrel eyes glassy and dazed. He screwed me three weeks ago, behind a dugout at the Little League field. Took all of five seconds.

The traffic on Marigold dies out, and the Dart glides away. As it goes, I spot Craig and Corey Benson, their twin black 'fros unmistakable through the Dart's rear window. They screwed me in the brush by the river over the summer, one after the other. Corey was better.

I put my feet to the pedals and pump, do the math on the Dart as I clear the intersection. Three out of four. I've been screwed by everyone but twerpy little Sydney Vale (mostly because I have a rule: no one younger than me). Otherwise, I could've been nailed by a hundred percent.

Around the corner from school, a scraggly stray cat I call Buttercup strides out from between two houses—much nicer houses than the hole where Orv, Denise, and I live—and starts trotting along behind my bike. By the way he hounds me, I figure the fleabag must have gotten it into his head he's a dog.

"Shoo!" I holler over my shoulder. I flail my arm around to convince him to go, but he refuses to bug off. I wouldn't mind the puny sucker so much, but he's one of the main sources of material for the jerkwad bullies. And I'm sort of sick of being referred to as "The Pussy Whisperer."

I pull over and drop my bike in the grass. I'm close enough to school now that the torment may begin at any moment, but, for now, no one seems to notice me.

I slip my backpack off, unzip one of its cavernous pockets and root around. Buttercup mews a few words of encouragement, nudges my hand deeper. Eventually I come up with a mostly melted Milky Way (the end of my stash) and a few errant corn nuts that escaped the last garbage dump.

"Good kitty," I coo. I deposit the corn nuts on the sidewalk, and Buttercup gives them a perfunctory sniff. With my teeth, I rip through the candy wrapper and squeeze the gooey chocolate into my mouth.

I scratch Buttercup behind his ears and on the back of his neck. _This is sad,_ I think. _Pathetic even._ As sick as it makes me to admit it, I love this doofus cat more than my parents love me.

You know what's worse than being abandoned by your parents, though? Not being allowed to be ticked about it. Because when your parents jet off to dig wells in remote third world villages, eradicate malaria, and funnel medicine to AIDS babies, _your_ hurt turns selfish and insignificant pretty quickly.

****

Dr. Harvey Lassiter is the closest thing I've got to a parent nowadays, because as hard as Orv and Denise try, I'm not sure they've got it in 'em.

I fly over to Harvey's shop on my Target-special Schwinn, jam on its brakes and squeal its tires to a dusty stop. At a chunky metal rack out front, I chain it up.

A little bell over the door jingles merrily as I rumble inside. "Hey, kiddo," Dr. Lassiter says with an open smile. He doesn't even have to look up from the jumble of tools and bicycle parts on the carpet in front of him to know it's me. "Hope you're ready to roll up your sleeves today."

Dr. Lassiter—Harvey, as he insists I call him—is sixty-something years old with a full head of silver-white hair (the only feature that makes him look his age) and a trim, sinewy build. He used to be the principal of Industry High, where I landed in his office because of a schoolyard brawl I decided to win. A month later, he caught Noah Rice screwing me in the janitor's closet. We both got a week of in-school suspension.

Harvey retired in June. The same week, he opened The Pit, a bicycle sales and repair shop in Industry's shuttered downtown. Besides The Pit, three other establishments survive on this strip of baked earth: a payday loan store, a liquor emporium, and a Baptist church.

"Whatcha got for me?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. The phrase "roll up your sleeves" has me hoping Harvey's going to let me do more than spiff up displays or punch sales into the computer.

"I need you to design some fliers," he tells me. "I tried to do a mockup, but it didn't go very well, I'm afraid." He frowns, gestures at the counter. "Have a look-see."

I wander toward the register, dip my hand in a fishbowl of Milky Ways and pull one out. "A race?" I say, more to myself than Harvey, as I eye the stick-figure drawing he's scrawled across the back of a paper grocery sack. I peel the wrapper from the candy and pop it (the candy, not the wrapper) in my mouth. As I chew, I gurgle, "You're having...a bike race?"

"Not until spring," he says. "I want to give folks a long lead-time, so they can train. Plus, I've gotta iron out some kinks with the town clerk. Permits and such." A slippery grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, as if he knows what I'm about to say next.

"Can I...?" I ask, tucking my lip under my teeth. "Do you think I'd be able to...?"

He shrugs. "No reason why you couldn't," he says optimistically. "But this is going to be a pretty rigorous affair. Not for the faint of heart."

The paper sack advertisement, in its charming, childish way, informs me that competitors in The Pit's inaugural "Yo-Yo" race will zing from Industry to Desolation, North Carolina and back (hence, the Yo-Yo moniker, I assume). "How far is it?" I wonder aloud. With just one car and forever-limited gasoline, Orv, Denise, and I seldom venture beyond a three-mile radius from home.

"Twenty-four miles and some change," Harvey says. "Clocked it myself the other day. Of course, I'll have to get a more precise measurement before the starting gun blazes."

There's a tub of art supplies jammed in the back of the closet in The Pit's grubby office, including a quality array of acrylic paints I hauled down here myself (a final gift from Gramp) and used to decorate the display windows with exploding fireworks and lopsided, wavy American flags. That was back on Independence Day, and the damn paintings are still there. You'd almost think this place is too busy for me to take them down.

I duck out and return with the tub balanced on my hip, its handles digging into a roll of flab around my midsection and compressing my liver. "What about the windows?" I ask. I shuffle over to the bigger of the two panes and struggle to tuck the tub into a corner, where the few customers we get in this place won't be bound to trip over it. "I could paint a sign up here." I give the glass a friendly tap. "Something eye-catching and colorful. A kid on a bike, _walking the dog?_ " I suggest, referencing the yo-yo trick.

Harvey shakes his head, smirks as if I'm the smartest person he's ever known. "That's why you get the big bucks," he says, and we both laugh.

Harvey doesn't pay me in money. He can't afford to. Instead, he keeps the fishbowl stocked with candy and slips me a few cans of cat food here and there, which I pass along to Buttercup.

The truth is, Buttercup is about as much of a stray as I am, since he's always welcome at our falling-down door. (Not inside, though. Orv claims to be allergic.) At least the cat's got people who care about him, I figure, even if they're not the ones who are supposed to.

****

Tom Cantwell is waiting for me outside The Pit when Harvey locks the place up for the evening. Tom wants to screw me. He's a virgin. And my friend. I don't do friends (another rule). Virgins, on the other hand? My specialty.

"Night," I call over my shoulder at Harvey, who is already strapping his helmet on and mounting his Trek. (He doesn't own a car, only the most awesome bike known to man.) He throws me a courtesy wave and vanishes.

I turn to Tom. "What're you doing here?"

He stares into space and kicks his stumpy BMX's front tire, which is underinflated, as I unchain the Schwinn. "Nothing," he says.

I roll my eyes, straighten up and, with a sigh, say, "Not this again." The whole lack-of-screwing thing has driven a wedge between me and Tom, one of the few people in town I can count as a friend.

"What?" he says with mock confusion, as if screwing me wouldn't dial down the tension between us.

"You know very well what." I get the Schwinn going (admittedly slowly, since I'm not really trying to flee him).

"Maybe I do," he says coolly, following me in a nice straight line, his bike upright and all business as I sway mine playfully from side to side.

"I told you my policy."

He snorts. "What if _I_ hated you, like _them?_ " he says, the word _them_ sounding as if it's infested with maggots.

"What if?" I shake my hair in the breeze, pretend not to care.

He buzzes ahead of me, waits for me to catch up. "Your policy is dumb," he says. "I mean, it's dumb that you have a policy."

As I go to pass him, he cuts me off and skids to a halt, forcing me to stop too. Barely. I dig my toes into the dirt and say, "Can we change the subject?"

I pause long enough to really look at Tom (not my usual _M.O._ ), something about the way his pale eyes shimmer in the setting sun weakening my defenses.

Another thing seducing me is the aching strum of cricket wings bowing against one another, their songs consuming the early autumn air. It's been nine years since my parents dumped me (quite literally) on Gramp's stoop in their harried rush to catch a midnight flight to Uganda. I stopped sensing the crickets seven years ago.

But tonight they return. "Do you hear that?" I say, my voice tinged with awe.

Tom cocks his head, strains as if he's listening across a great distance. "Hear what?"

I rock my bike closer to his until we're side by side, near enough to touch. "The crickets," I whisper. "They're singing."

He chuckles faintly, leans in and says, "Yes, they are." Awkwardly he lays a hand on my arm. Then, with supreme boldness, he kisses me, his lips as moist and warm as I've ever imagined any boy's.

It's my first time.

### Love Over Matter

### by

### Maggie Bloom

Sixteen-year-old Cassie McCoy would do anything to contact George—her best friend and secret crush—beyond the grave, including dabbling in dark magic. But her "powers" are stuck in neutral. Everyone is on her case to move on with her life. And there's a lot she never knew about George—or so says a mysterious, familiar-looking stranger, who may not only be the key to George's hidden past but, if the storm clouds align just right, the means of delivering Cassie's bittersweet goodbye.

### LOVE OVER MATTER

### SNEAK PREVIEW (CHAPTER ONE) . . .

### One

If I believed in heaven, I'd be dead right now. Instead, I'm ricocheting around in the back of Ian Smith's crappy, hand-me-down van—the Love Machine, as he sickeningly refers to it—like a pinball on LSD.

"Hey, watch it!" I spout as the van hits another beach-ball-sized crater in the road. Something heavy with the feel of metal (a giant Maglite flashlight?) bounces off my forehead in the dark. "Ouch!"

Now, in addition to the rug burns that are splashed across my shins and palms, I'll be sporting a happy little bruise or a nascent egg over my unkempt, white-blond eyebrows. A fugly third eye.

The van zings around a turn, tossing me into the wheel well and literally rattling Clive's cage. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have toted a rescue crow along on a clandestine recovery mission. But Clive is my insurance policy. If my powers go wonky, he'll be there with his twitchy British accent to save the day.

With a pinch, I trigger the glow light of my sports watch. The time is 1:33 a.m., an hour at which I'm normally curled into the shape of a cinnamon bun beneath an avalanche of blankets, sleep whistling in and out of my nose.

But Ian needs me—or, more specifically, his father needs my gift. And I haven't spent two years turning into a psychic voodoo princess (seriously, there's _got_ to be a better way to refer to the extrasensory perception I've honed!) to deny a sick old dude my potentially life-saving services.

"We're almost there," I whisper to Clive, who's been abnormally mute since our little quintet slithered out the back exit of New Beginnings, the temporary housing complex where the Town of Milbridge is stashing Ian and his dad.

Even in the inky blackness, I sense Clive doing a peppy hop around the forest of branches I've constructed in his jail cell to lend it a bit more ambience and authenticity. To be honest, I didn't think the dumb bird was going to last very long after his mate got squashed by a semi and he nearly ended up as bobcat food. But now he seems poised for a comeback.

A few silent minutes pass, and the van makes a series of left-hand turns, followed by a half mile (or so I'm guessing) of low rumbling along a gravel road before meandering to a stop.

_I hope this works,_ I think. Because even though I've been sequestered for the better part of an hour, I'm not in the zone tonight.

The back doors of the van squeak and groan as they inch open on Ian's mousy profile. For a guy two years my senior, not to mention a senior in high school, he sure has a lot of growing left to do. "You all right?" he asks warily, his gaze hesitant to meet mine.

"You can look at me," I say with a huff, scooting toward the moonlight. "I won't turn you to stone." I sweep a cross over my chest. "Promise."

Ian slips past me, clambers into the van and gropes around for something. Soon a flashlight beam hits my face. "What the heck?" blurts Haley—my wise-mouthed little sister—from the shadows, referring to the obvious whack I've taken to the skull.

I shimmy off the tailgate and skid the back of my hand over my forehead. "Job hazard," I mutter.

"Looks like crap," Haley says.

While Ian wrestles the metal detector from its cubbyhole, I glance from my sister who is, as usual, clad in black from head to toe (and not just because we're aiming for ninja stealth) to her Goth-in-training sidekick, Opal. _Why did I bring these irritants along again?_ I wonder. _Oh, yeah: blackmail._

"Just get Clive," I tell Haley. "Opal can hold the divining rod."

"She's such a freak," Haley whispers about me, a tone of reverence in her voice.

Opal gives a shaky nod that reverberates through her eighty-pound frame. "I know."

These kids could have worse role models, I figure. The funny thing is, I'm not what they think I am. I'm more a desperate, heartbroken girl grasping at any means possible of contacting the boy she's lost than an exalted priestess of the occult. But why split hairs?

Haley bangs Clive to a rocky stop at my feet, and he caws a silence-shattering, " _Hell_ -o!"

"Shh!!!" I hiss, giving his cage a little kick. Because the last thing we need is this nutso bird alerting the neighbors, who may then alert the police, to our technically illegal hijinks. Then again, we're loitering at the edge of a tree line, a hundred yards from the camp Ian's grandparents used to own, in a lakefront community populated by seasonal residents who have yet to arrive for the summer. And it's two o'clock in the morning. So, really, who could possibly hear us?

" _Hell_ -o!" shrieks Clive again.

It's hard to explain, but this bird and I have a weird case of simpatico. A kinship of grief. "Come on," I tell him, wiggling my fingers into his cage. He gives my pinkie a peck. "Be a good boy."

Ian pops up at my side, the metal detector slung over his shoulder. "Ready?"

I haven't thought this mission through. Not totally. "I guess," I say with a shrug. I hate to ask this, since it might call my powers into question, but . . . "Which way?"

Ian squints into the trees, trains the flashlight on a muddy spot of earth that could be a rough footpath or the tire tracks of a 4-wheeler. He heads for the mud, and Haley, Opal, and I traipse raggedly along behind.

"What are we looking for again?" Opal asks.

My tennis shoes sink into a mucky pit of dead leaves and storm water. "Buried treasure," I whisper. And, for once, I'm not kidding.

In a heavy voice, Ian grumbles, "Slim chance we're gonna find it, though."

My feet are so sopping wet they're going numb. I shift off the path onto some trailside brush, which scrapes at my ankles as I trudge ahead. "Thanks a bunch," I say, "for the vote of confidence."

" _Hell_ -o!" squawks Clive.

"Pipe down, birdbrain," I mutter.

Opal shoots me a sidelong glance. "Is that all he can say?"

I shake my head. "Uh-uh. He also says _yellow_ and _mellow_ and _fellow_." I give her a grin she probably can't see in the weak glow of the moon. "And a few other choice things."

In ten more feet, we hit the perimeter of Ian's grandparents' former property. Ian abruptly stops and the rest of us clatter into each other like runaway train cars. "Sheesh," I say when Haley slams Clive's cage into my knee. "Be careful, would ya?"

The air is heavy and storm charged. Fat raindrops spit at my face. "This is it," Ian says, motioning at a boarded-up, weather-beaten cabin that, in the dark, reminds me of a haunted house.

"Any idea where I should start?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Under a tree? That's where it's supposed to be."

"What is it? Bars of gold or something?" asks Haley.

I pry the divining rod from Opal's death grip (who knew someone so tiny could be so strong?). "Something like that," I say. "Coffee cans full of—"

Clive ruffles his feathers, mimicking our cleaning lady, Rosie, shaking out the bed sheets.

"Gold coins," Ian explains. "My old man says Uncle Ted buried loads of 'em here during the Great Depression, even though it was illegal. Even though the government was confiscating them."

Haley pulls a quizzical face. "So your uncle was a traitor?"

" _Great-_ uncle," Ian corrects.

"Cool," whispers Opal.

I can't help rolling my eyes. "I'm freezing," I say, wrapping my arms around my chest for warmth (and nearly poking Haley's eye out with the divining rod). "You guys stay here. I'm gonna get started."

Ian taps me on the shoulder with the Maglite. "Forget something?"

"Oh, yeah. I guess you're gonna have to come with me," I reluctantly admit, "so I can see."

Haley and Opal exchange anxious glances. "What about us?" my sister asks.

"You'll be fine," I say. "Clive will protect you."

Haley snorts. "More like the other way around."

I take a step and Ian follows, as do Haley, Opal, and Clive (but at least they pretend to be sneaky about it).

_Now I'm doomed,_ I think. Because as scattered as my mind is already, I've just become the grand marshal of a parade of misfits and oddballs.

And suddenly I can't stop thinking about George.

Two years = 24 months = 104 weeks = 730 days = way too many hours, minutes, and seconds since I last saw George Alfred Brooks, the only boy I may ever love.

And I never told him.

And now he's gone.

And it's my fault.

"Hey, Cass," Ian says across what seems a great distance, "you okay?"

Sometimes I go into a trance, and I have a hard time coming out of it. With effort, I focus on the tips of my tennis shoes until they're as clear as the crystal pendant slung around my neck. "Yep," I report.

Ian shines the flashlight at the base of a thick tree, on which I concentrate intently, the divining rod weightless and alive in my slack grip. Before George died, I thought of myself as ordinary. Simple. Destined for the meaty part of the curve. But then I found my powers—or _they_ found _me_.

"We're getting warmer," I say with confidence, the rod humming gently against my fingertips. I conjure the sight of an empty white room, an imaginary place where walls, floor, and ceiling meld together, forging a hole of nothingness. The epicenter of my gift.

The rod tugs left around a tree, to a spot equidistant from the mouth of the lake and the cabin's lopsided screened porch. I stop at this unmarked place, the rod going still and my feet starting to prickle. "Try here," I tell Ian, who is already firing up the metal detector, its gauges sputtering to life with a series of beeps and clicks.

I step aside and he scans the earth, anticipation thickening the night air. "Do we get a share of whatever we find?" asks Haley, the metal detector's chirping intensifying.

"Are you sure there's no one out here?" I ask, suddenly nervous. My radar is pinging.

_Mice,_ I think. _Or raccoons. Hopefully._

Instead of answering, Ian kicks a clod of dirt from the spotty lawn, carves a rough X in the earth with the heel of his boot and powers the metal detector down. I hold it upright while he reaches into his backpack for the shovel, a collapsible number folks keep in the trunks of their cars or the beds of their pickups for snow emergencies in our untamed part of Vermont (though, technically, we've now crossed over into New Hampshire).

Ian snaps the shovel into being and takes a thunking stab at the ground.

" _Hell_ -o!" Clive coos, as if he's wooing a pretty lady.

"That's it," I say. Until I need good ol' Clivey— _if_ I need him at all—he's going undercover.

Despite the rain and even the cold, I unzip my hoodie and slip it off. Then I rezip it around Clive's cage, stretching the fabric until it's as tense as an overblown balloon. _Poor George,_ I think. _Look at what I've done to his most cherished possession._ If I had the guts, I'd try to shrink the thing back into shape with an overdose of fabric softener and a spin through the dryer on permanent press. But the chances of that happening are next to nil.

Ian chips away at the dirt one measly shovelful at a time, prompting Opal to ask, "Can I help?"

"Nah," he answers. "Maybe when I get tired."

Opal shrugs, marches in place like she's a toy soldier from _The Nutcracker_.

"I think I hear something," I whisper, straining an ear toward the cottage.

But it's already too late.

"Hold it right there!" a gruff voice barks, stopping my lungs midbreath.

I disobey, swivel toward the source of the command. Haley and Opal stiffen to attention at each other's sides.

"What do you think you're doing?" comes the voice again, booming like a conga drum.

"Nothing," claims Ian, his hands suddenly still, the shovel balanced against his boot, his gaze fixed on the cottage's rickety porch.

A shadowy figure steps into view. "Looks like you're up to no good."

_We_ are so _up to good!_ I think. _We're trying to save a sick old man's life!_ I risk a step toward the silhouette. "He used to live here," I say, throwing an elbow at Ian, "in the summers. You know, the Smiths? Maybe you remember them?"

The shadow advances on us. Finally, I make out a guy my father's age with a scraggly beard, lips the color of new plums, and the coal-black eyes of a snowman. Oh, and a shotgun aimed, generally speaking, at our heads. "'Fraid not," he mutters.

"We can leave now," Haley offers, her voice quavering. "It's no problem."

_Don't run, Sis,_ I tell her telepathically. _He won't need any other reason to shoot you._

"Let's just—" I start to say.

"Not until we get a few things straight," the man interrupts, lowering the gun.

My pulse switches from quadruple time to time and a half. "Like what?" I inquire softly.

It's muffled, thank God, but Clive lets out another garbled, " _Hell_ -o!"

The man raises his gun, sidles up to Clive's cage and pokes at George's hoodie with the muzzle. "Whatcha got here?"

_Please don't let him be a hunter,_ I pray. But, of course, he is. I can just tell. "Oh, that's my bird, Clive," I explain. "He's a rescue crow."

The shotgun muzzle, by way of the stranger's unusually long forearms, pries half of George's hoodie from the cage. "He rescues people?" he asks with astonishment.

I shouldn't laugh, but . . . "Uh, no," I say with a nervous chuckle. " _I_ rescued _him._ His mate died in a car accident."

A curious look comes over the man's face. "Take him out."

"I'm cold," says Opal. When I glance her way, it's clear she's serious, her bony body racked by an all-out shake.

Ian studies Opal too. "We've gotta get going," he says, sounding as if he's trying to talk himself into the idea.

"Take him out," the man repeats.

_Don't kill my bird,_ I want to say. _He didn't do anything to you._ But instead I fidget with the zipper of George's hoodie until it comes loose, then unlatch Clive's cage and shove my hand inside. "Here, baby."

The bird doesn't know any better. He really doesn't. I feel the soft pinch of his claws on my wrist and the heft of his body balanced over my hand. "Okay," I say, withdrawing my arm, "here we go."

Clive flutters his wings, tosses his head from side to side. The man simply stares. "He bite?" he asks, nodding Clive's way.

"He might," I admit, not wanting to hold out false hope. "Not usually, though. He's pretty well tamed."

The stranger cocks his head, moves in on Clive and me. The birdbrain cocks his head right back. "Mind if I pet him?"

Of course, I mind. "I dunno. I guess you can if you want."

Haley pipes up. "I wouldn't." I shoot her a withering glare, but it doesn't take. "I mean, sure, he's cool and everything," she goes on, "but for all we know, he could have the bird flu. It's not like we've had him tested."

The man rests his shotgun on the ground beside the metal detector, which I've long since abandoned. "I ain't too worried about it," he says. He reaches a thick, grungy hand—replete with gruesome nicks and scrapes, calluses and ropelike scars—at Clive's face.

I swear to God, if this weirdo snaps my bird's neck or bites his head off like that sicko Ozzy Osbourne used to do (not to Clive, obviously, but to his feathered friends), I'm going to lose my marbles. "Go slow," I caution as his fingers make contact with Clive's back, "and be gentle."

My words of warning are unnecessary, though, because he pets my bird with the delicacy of a chef trying to crack an egg without breaching its yolk. "Good birdie," he whispers.

I can't believe my eyes when Clive takes a dancing leap from my hand to his.

And neither can Haley. "Wow," she says, "he's _never_ done that."

What my sister means is that Clive is skittish; I'm the only human allowed to touch him . . . until now. "He likes you," I say, the notion so shocking I'm having trouble processing it.

A giddy expression comes over the man's face, and suddenly he looks more like a Chihuahua than a Doberman. Clive inches up his arm and comes to rest on the round of his shoulder. "Arrrgghh!" the man squeals, his lips curled into a fiendish smile, an eye pinched shut as if he's channeling a pirate. He takes a couple of lurching steps, one foot clomping along stiffly behind him as if attached to a wooden leg.

"Not bad," Ian remarks on the performance.

"So, uh, it's getting late," Haley points out unnecessarily.

I line up shoulder to shoulder with the man, encouraging Clive to make the leap back to me. As soon as he does, I stuff him into his cage and secure George's hoodie around it once again.

"You never answered me," the man says, the shotgun back in his hands, his hollow gaze pinned on Ian's forehead.

Opal's voice is small. "Huh?"

"What exactly are you kids doin'?"

Kids? Do we look like we rode our tricycles here? "Listen," I say, toying with the idea of spilling the beans, "we don't want any trouble. We're just trying to find something that belongs to my friend's great-uncle." I tip my head in Ian's direction. "His dad needs it real bad."

The stranger lifts an eyebrow. "Needs _what_ real bad?"

"A liver," I say. "He's got a disease. If he doesn't get a new one soon, he's gonna die."

"Sorry," he says, "I ain't followin'."

Fine. I guess it's come down to this. "There's something buried here," I clarify. "Money. Coins. My friend's dad needs them to pay for the operation."

The man beams a gummy, gap-toothed smile. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

A NOTE TO READERS:

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to write a review and/or share with a friend. Reviews and word-of-mouth are the lifeblood of authors and are greatly appreciated. Thank you!

MAGGIE BLOOM grew up in the '80s, under the influence of acid-washed jeans, hair bands, leg warmers, and John Hughes films. She currently resides in coastal Maine with her family (and the world's smartest cat, Twinkle).
