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  I reached over, took another piece of bubble gum out of the pack, and put it in my mouth so I could add a little more bulk to my bubble.

  I chewed and chewed, getting past that first wave of sugar.

  “Oh yeah?” I said, and then I blew a big bubble, the kind that was definitely intended to send a message.

  Beanpole smiled. Brattany and Sofes stared at Kiki, waiting for her to make the next move.

  Kiki, not to be outdone, reached for two more pieces of gum. She chewed to get it soft.

  “Oh, you think so, do you?” said Kiki, and she blew a mammoth bubble.

  Aw, heck no, I said to myself. This wench doesn’t want to get into a bubble blowin’ contest with me.

  That’s when I opened the second pack and plunked three pieces of fresh gum into my mouth.

  It took me a minute to chew and chew and chew to get it all soft. There was so much sugar in my throat, I had to gulp it down twice.

  Allergy Alice looked up as I was chewing. Our eyes met. I could see she really wanted me, needed me, to nail this victory. And the fact that she was wearing those silly Dalmatian earmuffs was kinda my fault anyway. I mean, if it hadn’t been for my stupid brother, well…I owed her this one and I wasn’t gonna let her down.

  I began to blow.

  And blow and blow and blow. It was the biggest bubble I’d ever created. It was bigger than the first one I had blown, bigger than Kiki’s bubble, bigger than my whole, entire head.

  It was the biggest bubble ever blown on the campus of Grover Park Middle School, I was sure of it.

  Take that! I thought.

  Pop! Kiki reached out and stuck her finger into my bubble. Gum exploded all over my face. It went past my chin, around my ears, and into my hair.

  Kiki and her pet donkies stood up as I sat there with a face covered in pink goo.

  “Remember,” said Kiki, “we always win.”

  Brattany took out her camera and snapped a photo of me —click! Sofes gave a little airhead giggle. A moment later, they walked away.

  “Son-of-a-no-good-mother-frazzler-nufkin…”

  “You had her, Maureen. Nice job! You had her!” Beanpole exclaimed.

  “Excuse me?” I said. “In case you’re not aware, my cranium is covered in chewing gum.”

  “No, she’s right,” said Q. “You had her. And for a minute, she was scared. Did you see the look on Brattany’s face? She was nervous. Them witches”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeeshwhooosh—“we got ’em on the run.”

  On the run? I thought. I might have to shave my head.

  “Ooh, we’re gonna get ’em.”

  “And it’s about time.”

  I’d never seen Beanpole and Q so excited. I stood up.

  “Hey, where’re you goin’?” asked Beanpole.

  “Oh, nowhere,” I replied. “I mean, I guess I should just sit here WITH A HEAD COVERED IN SUGARY GOOP FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!”

  I screamed. They stared. For a moment it was silent.

  Finally, Q spoke.

  “You’re”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“funny,” she said as she readjusted her earmuffs.

  I shook my head and stood to walk away. Then I stopped. Of course, who else?

  Logan Meyers. All smiles at the pink-faced bubble gum girl with chewing gunk in her ear holes.

  At least my relationship with Logan wasn’t one of those up’n’-down rocky ones. I mean, we were steady as a cuckoo clock. I would show up at school, the ThreePees would embarrass me, and the silent, secret supercrush of my life would get a huge laugh-his-butt-off chuckle every day during lunch.

  That’s the key to strong relationships, you know. Consistency.

  Our next big meeting was at Beanpole Barbara’s house. Or, as I like to think of it, the Department Store.

  Why the Department Store? Because every time I go into one of those really nice department stores, into the Homes section, everything is just perfect. From the way every pillow is fluffed to the way every sheet matches every bed comforter to the way all the towels in all the bathroom displays have been color coordinated to match the wallpaper and the floor coverings.

  That was Beanpole’s house. It was like the nicest department store I’d ever visited. Matter of fact, I was nervous to walk across the white carpet because it looked as if it had been vacuumed in a way that created a symmetrical floor pattern, like virgin snow or something.

  “Oh, you must be Maureen,” said Beanpole’s mom, stepping out of the kitchen to greet us when we entered. She was wearing a checkered red-and-white apron that made her look as if she wasn’t really a resident of the house; she was more like a floor-model mom who simply worked at the Department Store. “And you must be Alice,” she said. “May I take your earmuffs?”

  “No thank you,” said Alice.

  “Very well,” replied Department Store Mom. “Cookies are baking, and tea will be served soon. Please, make yourselves at home and let me know if you need anything.”

  And with that, Department Store Mom walked back into the kitchen.

  She hadn’t even messed up the virgin white carpet where she’d walked. Weird.

  “Oh hey, sporto,” said Beanpole’s father when we walked into the living room. He was wearing a plaid colored sweater vest over a white collared shirt and tan trousers.

  “Let me come give you a peck,” he said as he put down his magazine, rose from his chair, and walked over to kiss his little girl on the cheek.

  “We do that every day when she comes home from school,” he said to Q and me with a glowing smile. His teeth were so white he could have been in a dentist commercial.

  Yep, Department Store Dad.

  “I’m Alice,” said Q, extending her hand for a shake. I did the same thing.

  “I’m Maureen,” I said. We shook. His hands were soft, like he had never picked up anything in his entire life more rough than a bag of silk.

  “Well, I’ll let you gals get to work. I know you’ve got some big stuff in the making. While I was carving the roast beef last night, you two were all my little princess here could talk about.”

  Beanpole blushed. I wondered if they had carpet stain remover in the kitchen for when I puked on their floor. This perfect family stuff from the 1950s was straight out of a television show.

  Department Store Dad disappeared to go buff his leather slippers or something, and Beanpole took us to her room. As we walked through the halls, I saw all their family pictures on the walls.

  Beanpole as a little bean. Department Store Mom in her department store wedding dress on their department store wedding day. And Department Store Dad.

  Wearing sweaters.

  I looked more closely at the pictures. I’d never seen so many sweaters worn by one man. He had photos in zip-up sweaters, pullover sweaters, V-neck sweaters, turtleneck sweaters, and crewneck sweaters. Wool, cashmere, cotton, Department Store Dad had them all.

  I nudged Q to look at all the photos and spoke quietly so Beanpole couldn’t hear me. “I bet if this guy goes swimming, he wears a sweater in the pool.”

  Q looked at me and squinched up her face.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh. “I don’t get it.”

  “Aw, nothing,” I said, moving on. “Let’s just get to work.”

  A moment later we walked into Department Store Daughter’s bedroom, otherwise know as the Pillow Department. I’d never seen so many pillows on a bed before. Pink and white and ruffled and decorative. I counted eighteen of them before I was interrupted.

  “Knock-knock, snacky-wackies are here,” said Department Store Mom as she entered the room carrying a silver tray. “The tea is oolong raspberry—organic, of course—which should complement the flavor of the spiced shortbread cookies, which are organic, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I’ll just set this down right here and let you girls be girls. Tee-hee.” She giggled and then closed the bedroom door behind her.

  I stared.

  “What? You don�
�t like shortbread?” asked Beanpole.

  “The cookies are shaped like three little schoolgirls holding hands,” I commented.

  “Yeah,” said Beanpole. “Friendship cookies. My mom is big into motifs.”

  “Motifs?” I said.

  “Yep,” Beanpole answered with a proud, perky smile. “Motifs.”

  “Does your mom always do stuff like this for you?” asked Q as she poured herself a cup of tea.

  “You mean like making sure I have a balanced snack after school, or folding all my socks and putting them in my dresser drawer according to the height which they’ll go up my ankle when I wear them?”

  “She does that?” I said.

  “Unless I want them color coordinated,” Beanpole answered. “Then she’ll arrange them according to their hue of brightness.”

  “Their hue of what?” I said.

  “Their hue of brightness,” she explained. “You know, light tones on the left, moving through medium colors in the middle, working toward dark shades on the right, ending with black.”

  “And you find this normal?” I said.

  “Uh…I never thought about it,” she replied.

  “Well, think about,” I said, reaching for a cookie. “And think hard.” I looked at the piece of shortbread I’d picked up.

  I looked at Beanpole.

  I looked back at the cookie.

  One of the girls in the shortbread design was frosted in colors that exactly matched the colors of Beanpole’s outfit that day. Beanpole and the cookie were even wearing the same thick, blue belt.

  I set the cookie back down. Too spooky.

  “Come on, we need an idea,” I said, taking out a pencil and notebook to jot down our thoughts. “I mean, what kind of talent are we going to put on for this stupid show?”

  “Card tricks?” said Beanpole.

  “Do you know any?” I asked, ready to write that down.

  “No,” she answered. “How about comedy routines?” Beanpole offered.

  “Do you know any?” I asked, ready to write that down.

  “No,” she answered. “How about unicycle riding?” Beanpole offered.

  “Do you know how to do that?” I asked, losing my patience.

  “No,” she answered. “How about magic?” Beanpole offered.

  “Do you know any magic?” I said, grinding my teeth.

  “No,” she answered. “How about…”

  “Beanpole!” I shouted. “Why do you keep suggesting things that you don’t know how to do?”

  She paused. “I’m not sure. Just brainstorming, I guess.”

  “Well, unfortunately, you need a brain to brainstorm!” I turned to Q. “Do you have anything to add to the list? Anything at all? Anything like training a monkey to fly, or creating an underwater opera while dressed as ballet-dancing mermaids? Anything, Q? Anything at all?”

  I must have been turning purple with frustration. Q raised her eyebrows, then slowly raised the scuba tank to her lips. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  “Don’t say it,” I warned. “Don’t say it.”

  Q cracked a doofy grin. “You’re funny.”

  I threw the paper in the air.

  “Oh my gawd, we’re terrible!” I shouted. “And we’re gonna get trounced! Humiliated. Thoroughly embarrassed! Doesn’t it bother either of you that we are the most pathetic creatures in school? Doesn’t it bother you one little bit?”

  The room fell silent. Neither offered an answer. Finally, after what felt like ten thousand million minutes, Beanpole spoke.

  “Wanna know a secret?” she asked softly.

  “What, Beanpole,” I snapped. “You’re growing armpit hair and wanna comb it onstage?” I said. “With your toes, of course?”

  “No,” she said in an uncharacteristically non-perky tone. “It’s just that, well…when I think about girls like the Three-Pees, I just wonder…” She paused. “I just wonder if, ya know, I’m ever gonna have a boyfriend.”

  I looked up. Silence filled the room.

  “I mean, who’s ever going to want to be with someone like me?” she said.

  I turned to Allergy Alice. She lowered her gaze. I looked back at Beanpole. Sadness filled her eyes.

  The room was silent for a whole thirty more seconds. Q took another quiet slurp off her scuba tank.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  Finally, I stood up.

  “Well, that’s a nice note to end this meeting on. Permanent loneliness.” I picked up my backpack. “Can’t wait till we meet up tomorrow and figure out another way to make me want to slash my wrists.” I headed for the door. “Next meeting is at your house, Q.”

  “We can’t,” she answered.

  “Why?” I said.

  “We just can’t,” she replied.

  “I said, Why?”

  “We just can’t!” she insisted. And then she started hyperventilating.

  Like seriously hyperventilating.

  “Alice?” asked Beanpole, the look of concern on her face growing with each hyperventilation. “Alice? Are you okay?”

  Q didn’t reply.

  “Alice?!”

  Suddenly, Allergy Alice started desperately gasping for air; her face turned red, then purple, then blue as she sucked and sucked and sucked, but she couldn’t seem to get any oxygen.

  “Q?” I said. “Q! Quick, call her mom!”

  Beanpole rushed for the phone. “I don’t know the number.”

  “Then call nine-one-one!”

  Beanpole started to dial.

  “No,” Q managed to protest through gasps and wheezes and shortness of breath. “Don’t.”

  She looked like she was about to have a seizure.

  “Yes, do it!” I shouted at Beanpole. “Don’t listen to her. Call!”

  Beanpole froze, not knowing what to do. Q dropped to her knees.

  “Call!” I shouted again.

  “No!” Q shot back. Then she bent over and played doctor to herself.

  She interlocked her fingers around her neck and lifted her head up and down in some kind of steady rhythm, and then, even though a moment ago it looked like she was about to have some kind of crazy spasmo attack, she managed to slow down her breathing and get a grip on herself.

  In and out, in and out, in and out, her breathing went.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” she said. “Sometimes, I…I just get short of breath.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Do you need your inhaler?” I offered, trying to do something, anything to help.

  “No, I just need to walk,” she answered.

  “Walk?”

  Beanpole and I stared, not knowing how to respond. Once Q felt strong enough, she stood up.

  “We can’t go to my house, okay?” she snapped at me. “We just can’t.” She picked up her backpack and prepared to leave.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Home. I’m walking.”

  “You’re walking?”

  She opened the door and made her way out of Beanpole’s room. We followed behind her.

  “Really, Alice, you should let us call your mom or something,” said Beanpole as Q exited through the front door.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Or let one of our moms drive you,” I said.

  “I’m not an invalid, you know,” she said. “I can walk. Besides, it’s the only thing that helps me deal with panic attacks.”

  Allergy Alice marched down the street without turning around again. Beanpole and I just stood there watching her. I don’t think either of us had ever seen Q so angry before.

  “What’s...” I asked, “...with her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Beanpole. “I don’t know.”

  Q, freak-o that she was, showed up to school the next day as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all. No word about the breathing, no word about the walking, no word about being so angry. She simply set out her garden-grown carrot sticks and container of purple ho
meopathic beets, and began to eat lunch like there was never a problem in the world.

  We even got the same old slurping sounds off the scuba tank every now and then.

  Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.

  Beanpole and I looked at one another and shrugged. Whatever. If she didn’t want to talk about it, we knew she wasn’t going to talk about it. Besides, there were bigger fish to fry, like the ThreePees, who just so happened to be practicing a few of their steps on the other side of the courtyard, where, like, the whole school could see.

  Wow, were they good.

  And even more depressing was that, aside from having an amazing amount of God-given ability, they had professional choreography too. Kiki’s mom, we’d just discovered, had hired an ex-NFL cheerleading coach to bring an extra touch of razzledazzle to their performance this year.

  “I can’t believe we don’t have our talent yet!” I said.

  “Aptitude, remember?” said Beanpole. “It’s an aptitude display. Not a talent show.”

  “Whatever,” I replied. Lunch for me today consisted of fruit: blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries.

  Otherwise known as berry cobbler.

  “So who’s our biggest competition?” asked Beanpole. She was eating some sort of quiche made into the shape of the Eiffel Tower.

  “You mean aside from the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders?” I said.

  “Forget them,” said Beanpole. Kiki had just done some kind of double backflip that ended in a split. If I tried something like that, there wasn’t a pair of pants on this planet that wouldn’t split.

  “I want to hear who our other competition is,” Beanpole said. “Gimme the scoop.”

  “Right now,” answered Q, taking out a sheet of paper with notes scratched all over it, “Mousey Mitchell and Lame Larry are going to do a finger puppet show, Puking Patty Pamplin is going to do some kind of Chinese New Year’s dance with scarves.…”

  “Is Puking Patty Chinese?”

  “No, but she’s half Irish, and they like to celebrate international culture in her family.”

  “Go on,” said Beanpole.

  “The Hammerstrudel triplets are going to do a traditional Dutch dance, and they are going to do it in clogs, but supposedly two of them already have sprained ankles from their practice sessions, so they might not compete.”