What Flavor for Murder?

I know, I know. I've been MIA from my poor, neglected blog. But, I promised you one last Wednesday Story Time, and so I am finally honoring that promise. Here lies the final Glass Cases publication, What Flavor for Murder, an excerpt from a novel by Carol Thomas. It seems fitting that the final story on the blog is by an old friend of Glass Cases. Carol's story The Hand Your Dealt was published here back in November 2012. She is a retired English, reading, and creative writing teacher and has worked as a consultant and editor for the Middle Grades Reading Network of the University of Evansville in Indiana.

Thank you again to all of the writers and readers of this blog, especially those who have contributed their stories. The blog will continue as a place for anyone who wants querying advice, writing tips, and general pop culture nonsense. For now, enjoy!

What Flavor for Murder?

By Carol Thomas

You’re curious about the title, right? That’s good. You may not believe this story. That’s okay though. Abby knows it’s true and so do Dale and Burt and Grant. Or maybe you were at Snarko 20 years ago and know that all this really did happen.

Ever since I was a little girl, I kept track of my days in my journals. Each September, I smoothed my hands across the blank pages of my new journal, wondering what words would take shape to tell the stories of the new year ahead.

The Snarko journals lay in a box for many years. I knew someday they’d lead to a book. Why did I wait so long to write it? I’m not sure. Maybe the memories first needed to gather dust in the darkness. Well, it’s time to lift the lid on the box and bring the story into the light.

As I said, you may not believe what I’ve written. But if you think about what’s going on in far too many schools around the country, maybe you will. No headline, no matter how gruesome, shocks me. After all, I survived Snarko.

***

The Brothers Grimm would love this place, I thought, as I drove up to the school. Built in the 1890s, it was the quintessential medieval stone castle. Surely the Knights of the Round Table were gathered just inside to greet me. I love old buildings, and this one, with its Romanesque arches and sweeping curves, fired up my imagination.

Abby was waiting for me at the main entrance when I arrived early this morning. As long as I am with her, the sun is always shining. Even in her late forties, she is still the all-American girl: tall, blonde, energetic, ready at the drop of a hat to jet off on a safari or load her gear into the car to spend a day in the woods painting.

But this morning, her green eyes, usually dancing with mischief, were blazing angrily. Her lips pressed into a grim line. She waved an envelope toward me as soon as I walked up the stairs.

“I couldn’t wait for you to get here. Let’s go to my car,” she said, clutching my arm. “We can’t talk here. I swear I could kill her with my bare hands right now!”

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I said as we hurried toward the parking lot.

A pulse in my throat began to throb.

“You won’t believe this,” she said through clenched teeth. We got in her car and she thrust the envelope toward me. “I just found it in my mailbox. All of us from Evanswood got one.”

Inside was a letter from Vanessa.

I read it once, twice, even a third time.

The words blurred. The heat wrapped its fingers around my throat.

No, no, this can’t happen.

Even as I drifted in my head, I knew what was happening to me. Fear of blood tests used to trigger this vasovagal response. Ghastly sounding words for a ghastly feeling. Even as I squirmed and fought against fainting, I knew I was spiraling toward a brief loss of consciousness caused by a sudden drop in my heart rate and blood pressure.

I closed my eyes. The world tilted. Memories of being flipped by a wave in the ocean at Manasquan swept through me. Disoriented, plummeting to the bottom in the grip of the undertow, tossed like a rag doll as the water and sand filled my mouth, eyes, and lungs.

“Jane! Jane! Are you okay?” From far away, Abby’s words swirled around my head. “Oh, my God! Jane! Shall I call 911?”

Breathe, I told myself. You have to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Just like in yoga. Breathe! Slowly, slowly, the tumbling stopped. I didn’t faint. Sighing, I opened my eyes. Leaning my head back against the seat, I turned to Abby. She was eggshell white.

I didn’t need a mirror to know I was bleached of all color. Soaked in sweat, my hair matted against my head, I swallowed and focused on trying to breathe evenly.

“I’m okay now, Abby. Really, I am.” The words clumped like glue in my mouth.

“Are you crazy? How can you tell me not to worry? I thought you were going to faint or, oh, my God, have a seizure,” Abby said. She reached for a bottle of water on the back seat.

I drained the whole bottle and looked at her. She listened while I told her all about my vasovagal reactions in the past.

“So, we have Vanessa to blame for this right?” she asked.

I sighed. “I haven’t had one of these for years.”

“Oh, Jane,” Abby said, reaching for my hand. “How can I help you? Do you need a doctor? Do you want me to drive you home? Do you want me to call Burt?”

I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

“How could she have done this?” I finally said. “All the plans. All the promises. All the excitement.” I felt them slipping away like sand through my fingers.

“Yeah, we really did believe Vanessa could spin straw into gold, didn’t we?” Abby said.

I’d better tell you the backstory even though I hate to think about it. It makes me feel like a lemming. A stupid lemming at that.

For 10 years Abby and I had been on her faculty at Evanswood Elementary School. Court-ordered busing had brought about the restructuring of several small districts into a large one soon beset with problems ranging from panicky middle class flight to the private schools to racial clashes among blacks, whites, and Hispanics. It didn’t take long before a bumbling, top heavy bureaucracy contributed to the district’s reputation as an educational laughingstock. But Abby and I escaped many of the problems because we were with Vanessa. Her brilliant leadership had created a pocket of excellence in the bubbling cauldron of troubled schools. It was no secret that every elementary teacher in town wanted a spot on her faculty.

When Abby and I found out that Vanessa was transferred to Garrett T. Snarko Elementary, we were stunned. The thought of losing her to Snarko was unbearable. It really was. Snarko! Yes, it looked like a splendid castle, but its reputation was so abysmal. But when Vanessa asked us if we’d like to transfer there with her, we jumped at the chance. We were convinced we could help her breathe life into something that had been long neglected. And there was more. Here’s the icing on the cake.

This year the spotlight was on the state’s nearly rock bottom writing scores. The students’ poor skills opened the door for Abby and me to establish a writing program that was the first of its kind. We were ecstatic about team-teaching to double classes in the school’s library. We gladly volunteered the whole summer to design a program for students in grades one through five. Abby had taught lower elementary grades for twenty-three years, and I had twenty-seven years’ experience teaching English in grades four through eight.

Sure, reading is essential. But teaching writing is like dabbling in alchemy. Creating magic with words.

So, it’s time to tell you what was in that letter, isn’t it? Quite simply, Vanessa had jumped ship! She had chosen not to accept the position as principal of Snarko after all. No explanation. No apology. Just good-bye and good luck.

Abby looked at the letter again.

Never in more than a million years would we have voluntarily transferred to Snarko if we had suspected for even one second that Vanessa wouldn’t be here with us.

I poked my finger at the letter. “Look, it gets worse," I said, my voice breaking. “Did you see that Vanessa mentions the new principal is Hannah Kilmer?”

Abby groaned and closed her eyes. “I know. I know.”

“Hannah’s been a kindergarten teacher at that tiny school out in the boonies for years, and those dimwitted bureaucrats downtown assigned her to Snarko as her first job as a principal,” I said.

A slide show unfolded in my mind. I’m powerless in a classroom filled with kids overturning desks, hurling books, chasing each other, laughing, hooting, screaming, cursing, mocking me, ignoring me.

The world tilted. The air around me darkened, and I could swear my heart splintered.

“What are we going to do?” Abby slowly bit off each word.

I felt hollow.

“Do? There isn’t a damned thing we can do. My God, Abby, school’s going to start in two days! And we’re stuck here in this awful place with Mother Goose as principal!”

The Truth of Beauty...

Hello friends. It's been a while since I've posted anything on Glass Cases, and the reason, unfortunately, doesn't get more exciting than simply not having time to devote to it lately. So, before I bring you today's piece, I have a bit of news...

Any submissions received after today's date, March 13, 2013, will not be read. I've decided to stop posting unpublished work on Glass Cases. 

To those who've read the blog since the beginning, you know this is not a decision I made lightly. I wanted to help unpublished authors even before I became an agent, and I thought this would be a nice way to do it. It was never intended to be a magazine, official online publication, or advance my career in any way. It was just a fun project I decided to start in 2009. I'm so happy with the authors who have contributed their unpublished work and those of you who support my little blog. Unfortunately, my time commitment to my job needs to take precedent, and I can't devote the same time to reading outside submissions anymore.

Glass Cases will still continue as it always had - not as an "industry" blog, but as a place for writers. I'll still have my sporadic posts about querying agents, offering writing advice, and general pop culture and literary fun times. (And, yes, probably pictures of corgis.) 

So, thank you to those who will stick around and still read the blog even without Story Time. I'll be posting the submissions that have been queued up, and so I'll revive Story Time with this first-of-the-last post by Francesca Grossman, a personal essay titled The Truth of Beauty is Hard to Endure.

Francesca is a writer from Massachusetts whose previous work includes a quarterly column for S3 Magazine, contributions to Interview Magazine and substantial educational writing in text books and blogs. She is currently working on her first novel, By Any Other Name. You can find her online at her website. Enjoy!

The Truth of Beauty is Hard to Endure

Francesca Grossman

Three strong daffodils stood on the backside of my white picket fence growing up. They got there early and quick, sprouting up through snow, sometimes, to trumpet the onset of spring.

I didn’t want them to know how I longed for them, as if being too desperate might delay their entrance, so I would walk casually by, on the other side of the fence, and peek over, looking for their green nubby beginnings.

Day after day I would pretend to be casual, and more often then not I would glimpse nothing more than a mound of dirty snow.

At the time, I thought the flowers were heaven sent – somehow strategically implanted against the fence, inches from the suburban cement. I imagined the plan of the universe was set and done before us all, and, like a natural in-vitro by a splendid doctor; all of the plants had been syringed into the earth with a higher purpose. Or something. That’s how my young mind worked. Now I know that my mother planted them as bulbs every fall, right before the frost.

When they would come up, finally, and tiny, I’d smile to myself and hold the knowledge quietly in my palm, under my mitten. Once I glimpsed the green sprout I knew I’d have the secret only for an instant, because the bright yellow bud was only a day or two away. And then everyone would know. But for then, only me.

When I was small, I spent a lot of time looking at things I thought were beautiful. That sounds boring, I know, and I guess in a way it was. But the plain truth is that I would look closely and carefully at the beautiful things, and fantasize about where they came from.

Almost always the real answers paled in comparison to my imagination. I would look hard at a tree formation in the woods near my house and imagine the alien troupe that settled the seeds to send themselves a homing message for later. I would feel leaves for brail, considering that Mother Nature would want to talk seriously with the blind for all they were missing. I would stare for hours at the ocean, looking for patterns and messages, desperate for meaning, for some indication of my own uniqueness, some proof of my own magic.

My two-year-old boy is a wizard in his own right, crafting words and constructing scenarios, diving in and out of reality with ease. Last weekend we strolled, me holding the sleeve of his jacket because his hands were tucked up under his armpits, for fun. We walked over to the lake by our house and flung rocks into the icy water.

“This is my lake.” He said and then corrected himself. “This is our lake, right Mommy?”

“Yep,” I said, “It’s the lake by our house.”

“No,” he said, “It’s our lake because we have it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It’s our lake because we hug it close to us like a blanket and it’s wet so its cold but we don’t mind because we love it and inside there are fish that smile.” He smiled.

“Yes, of course, you are right, our lake.”

I’ve spent a lot of my adult life searching for the beauty and the magic my son is so fluent in. I look for it in music, and in art, and in children. I find it most in children. The wide-eyed look of discovery mixed with mystery. The wonder. There it is.

And as I grew, and answers kept coming in books and then classes and then websites, it was like the beauty and the magic was being erased fact after fact, line after line. The more I knew, the less I believed.

Gravity controls the moon.

Pheromones decide attraction.

Chemicals can make people cruel.

Magic is the art of manipulation.

Beauty is relative.

And on and on.

And for the longest time, the years in between being a child and having a child, I didn’t believe in much of anything at all. Feeling betrayed by reality, I approached problems systematically, emphatically yes, but with out wonder.

And then it came tumbling back in.

When I put my son to bed is when he is the most mystic.

“Where does the moon sleep, Mommy?” He asked one night, gazing out of the window next to his bed. The moon painted the room blue, like we were underwater, or inside of a balloon.

“On the other side of the earth, baby,” I replied.

“But doesn’t the man in the moon have to sleep?” he asked, lying back on his bed, his little flexed feet shooting up in the air, poking out of his skinny Buzz Light Year pajamas, just a little too tight.

“ I think he sleeps during the day, maybe,” I said, and touched his face. I touch his face a lot, feeling his smooth rubbery skin, tracing his button nose, rubbing his hair, kissing his temple.

“I think the man in the moon goes inside, and he must have something, something like bunk beds or a bubble or something that he can get into and turn out the lights and go to bed, even if it is light out, because, he has a really lot to do during the night time.”

“I can see that, yes.”

“I think that’s right,” he said, and turned away from me, starting to fall into sleep.

The wonder that my son has about the world is only rivaled by the wonder I have for him, and his sweet sweet face. The truth of beauty is hard to endure.

Truman Syndrome

I'm quite fascinated by today's piece of flash fiction because it was inspired by a very real condition I didn't know existed called The Truman Syndrome, which is a paranoia that one's life is part of a secret reality TV show. (A la The Truman Show.) The author, Chase Will, is from Sandusky, OH, and graduating from Bowling Green State University in the Spring with a degree in Theatre. He is currently completing his first Young Adult novel. Enjoy!

Truman Syndrome

By Chase Will

Angelica knew they were watching her—from the air vents in her bathroom, from behind the blinds of her bedroom window while she slept, from cameras hidden in the cracks of her walls—but superstardom was becoming monotonous. The cameras demanded she go through the same routine every day: wake up at 7am to go work at the call center, take a lunch break at 12:35pm sharp to walk toward the Dunkin’ Doughnuts, then leave work at 5pm to go home and stare at the television as it stared back at her in reflection of her life. What sort of niche audience was tuning in so faithfully? She’d never asked for this fame. She’d never asked for the bus driver to smile at her so knowingly every morning as if to say, “I watched the breakdown in front of the mirror last night and replayed it twenty times on YouTube,” or, “I caught the last ten minutes of the fight with your ex-husband and loved it! Good show!”

Day-in, day-out: they watched her.

But not after tonight. Not after she destroyed her inadvertently-created celebrity icon. They’d never be able to look at her the same way—all they’d have left to fawn over would be reruns of her last twenty-three years. She’d finally have peace and quiet.

The razor nicked the top of her head as she shaved away the last bit, but she didn’t flinch as the wound bled. Sheswore her audience would never see tears nor smiles from her ever again. Her chest heaved as she looked herself over in the bathroom mirror, pleased as she flaunted the new look for the hidden cameras. It was perfect.

The silence of her victory was broken as she noticed a pair of tiny, pajama-covered feet in the open doorway beside her, and she turned to see a look of absolute horror on her young son’s face.

“It’s okay, Stevie,” she tried to say, but without her lips or facial muscles the words were lost. She picked him up in her blood-soaked hands and held him close. He couldn’t even scream, petrified as she walked him toward the rocking chair and her unblinking eyeballs looked him over. “Give Mommy a kiss. We’re going to be alright.”

A.J.'s Heart

Hi everyone. Dare I call today's story "New Adult?" No, I don't dare. But the author, June Toliver, did so that is what I shall call it! June is a writer from Indiana who spends her non-writing time as a social studies teacher. She writes both YA and adult, and is sharing a story called A.J's Heart, which takes place in the mid-'90s and focuses on a young woman trying to find her place in the world. Hope you enjoy!

A J's Heart 

By June Toliver 

The hot shower felt so good after working all day long, running around a very crowded and busy diner. I loved the way the hot water hit my skin and how the steam pushed its way into my lungs, especially in the dead of winter. However much I enjoyed the shower I emerged quickly to get started on my crazy hair. Stepping out of the shower onto the cold tile floors, I leaned forward to wipe out a space in the foggy mirror. Wrapping one towel around my hair and the other one around my chest I gave myself a good look over. I was pale and probably could use some Sun, aside from that, I did not have much else to complain about my looks tonight. As I began to work the towel through my hair, I wondered what Chad was up to and where we were going tonight. After blow drying my hair and tying it up in a more messy pony tail than usual I put on some eyeliner, mascara, a little face powder and then some of my favorite red lipstick.

On my way to the bedroom, I heard the door bell ring and knew from the chatter of my family that Chad had arrived. I quickly rushed into the bedroom threw on my clothes, and my boots. Grabbing my jacket off the bed, I hopped on one foot trying to tie my left boot. I then quickly made my way down the hall towards the living room where Chad was obliviously standing waiting impatiently for me to emerge.

Coming into the living room and front foyer area of my parent’s home, I was almost knocked off my feet when I saw Chad standing there in his Sunday’s best. My parents and brother were looking at me and I could see that they were as stunned and speechless as I was. Chad always dressed very casually in what seemed like the same old Flannel shirt, jeans, and construction boots. To see him in a pair of khakis, neat long sleeve polo and loafers made me even more suspicious about what we were really up to tonight and where we were going. Chad never, I mean never dressed up and he had a lot of explaining to do later.

As he met my eyes and the eyes of my family nervously I felt like he could almost read my mind or our minds regarding why in the heck he looked like a yuppie going on a job interview, instead of a guy from a Midwestern Indiana town going to a friend’s house to have a couple of beers or just hang out.After a moment of shock and being thrown off guard, I quickly rescued Chad from the gawking looks of my parents and Cham, who was one moment away from bursting out in laughter over Chad’s appearance. Seeing Cham on the verge of tears caused my protective, somewhat maternal instincts to quickly kick in.

“Hey, Chad you look great…Wow is that a polo you’re wearing?

Before Chad could respond, I sort of winked at my Dad who then began to chime in talking about how handsome Chad looked and how he wished young men took as much care in their appearance as Chad had tonight. He continued by comparing Chad to himself in the 50s when Chad’s makeover would have been considered sharp by the standards of those times. In almost an instant I realized that, though well intended, my Dad was somehow making things worse. As I grabbed my pocket book and keys from the kitchen, I dashed back to the awkward scene in the living room, with Chad getting more nervous by the minute. Saying goodbye to my family, Chad and I escaped quickly out of the front door, before my father could say anything further. At this point, I was beyond embarrassed and humiliated for both Chad’s sake and mine.

Once outside, Chad slowly walked in front of me, his loafers making loud crunching sounds in the snow. He was not wearing a coat so I knew he had to be freezing. As we approached Chad’s pickup truck, the engine purred quietly as the exhaust pipes let out a familiar grey mass into the cold night air. The truck felt so warm once I got inside. Watching Chad walk around the front of the truck with the bright headlights hitting his neatly pressed khakis, made my heart melt for my friend and at that moment I decided not to drill him about where we were going and what we were doing. He obviously was on a mission and I was not about to be my usual pessimistic self. At this point, I felt an internal need to just encourage him and give him some additional confidence boosting as he would need some when other people who knew us saw him in these clothes. I was not sure who we would be partying with tonight however, my family’s reaction would be nothing compared to the guys that Chad normally hung out with. These local guys would be expecting to see the John Deere Hat, Flannels and old blue jeans as much as my family and I had.and they would probably give him a really hard time.

As Chad sat in the driver’s seat, putting his truck in reverse he looked over at me with a smirk on his face …

“Hey Janie, I did not mean to almost give your dad a heart attack or to make Cham almost have a hernia in his attempt to keep from laughing…. I actually have a very good reason for my "debonair" appearance this evening…"

Pausing for a moment and winking at me as he spoke, I was completely stunned by his choice of words and the way he was talking.

“…her name is Julie and we are attending her party tonight,”

As I sat quietly, A feeling of relief began to flow over me, I was so grateful that I wasn’t going to have to come up with more compliments regarding polos and how the color of his shirt brought out his eyes. “Soooo cute”…I thought with a chuckle …new lady, new look , new words…this was really too much.

“ Well, Julie huh? …that’s a nice name, I suppose I will be meeting her soon.” I responded after a moment of silence.

“Yep that’s the plan" Chad said with a little pride in his voice….

Juicy Fruit and Boo

Welcome to 2013, everyone! Let's start the year off with an excerpt of a YA short story because why not?

Juicy Fruit and Boo is a short story by Kathleen S. Allen, who also has a Jane Eyre mash-up called THORNFIELD MANOR: Jane Eyre and Vampires on FanFiction.net. You can find out more about her latest projects, where to buy her books, and Like her Facebook page via her website. She is also on Twitter at @kathleea. Enjoy!

Juicy Fruit and Boo

By Kathleen S. Allen

Liza stood on the edge of the curb and stared at the green light. Should she go or wait for the light to turn red?The walk sign flashed but she hesitated until a car honked. She stepped off the curb into oncoming traffic.

Someone grabbed her from behind. A girl with braids that stuck out like Pippi Longstocking’s.

“You da new kid on da block?” she asked. Liza nodded staring down the street at the line of cars trying to turn left.

“You got gum?” the Pippi girl asked. Liza nodded again rummaging in her pocket for a fresh piece. She held it out to the girl.

“What yo name girl?”

“Liza. What’s yours?”

“Joseyfine. Supposed to be Josephine but mama couldn't spell it right. Still can’t.” Only it came out ‘kaint’. Joseyfine popped the gum in mouth and chewed noisily. “You dint tell me it was Juicy Fruit. Its my fave.”

“Mine too,” Liza said even though it wasn't. She preferred bubble gum. Juicy Fruit had been her mom’s gum. The light turned and Joseyfine grabbed Liza’s hand to pull her across.

“Come on, we gotta run or get kilt.” Once they were on the other side Joseyfine let go of Liza’s hand. “Kin you blow bubbles?”

“No.”

“I kin. Watch.” And much to Liza’s amazement, a huge yellow bubble came out of Joseyfine’s mouth. She popped it with her tongue and grinned at Liza. “See? Easy.” She eyed Liza’s too-big dress with disdain  “That all you got to wear, girl? It too big.”

“It was my mother’s.”

“She pass?”

“I don’t think so. Took off when I was little. It’s just me and my dad now.”

“He beat you?”

Liza was appalled at the question. “No. He just drinks a lot.”

“Alkie?”

Liza shrugged. “I guess.”

“Thing is, my ma is too. Once I pour her licker down the talet. She like tore my hide off. I don’t do that no more.” She smiled at Liza. “You wanna come play at my place? I gots jacks or we kin jump rope. We kin do double dutch.” Liza had no idea was ‘double-dutch’ was but she nodded.

* * *

Joseyfine was the double-dutch champion of the fourth grade. She had won blue ribbons and had competed nationally. Liza-the clumsy-wasn't very good at jump rope. She was more of an inside girl. A read-a-book-a-week girl. Joseyfine didn't read. She thought it was funny that Liza used Juicy Fruit gum as a bookmark. She’d snatch the gum from Liza’s book and pop it in her mouth before Liza could say anything.

“Yo mama teach you ta read?” Joseyfine asked leafing through the book.

“When I was three.”

“When she go?”

“The end of first grade. I came home from school and she was standing on the porch with a suitcase. She cried and told me to be careful. Then she left.”

“She don’t call?”

“No. My dad said she’s traveling all over Europe. One day I’ll just turn around and she’ll be there.”

“Yeah? You believe that shit?”

“No. Not really.”

* * *

Their fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Richard Richards---“Call me Dick Richards,” he laughed on their first day---wouldn't allow gum in his classroom.

At first the girls would only chew it at lunch then spit it out before class started. Then, it was only at recess. Then, whenever Mr. Richards had his head turned. Liza would look over at Joseyfine---she sat two rows across and one seat up---and nod. The two of them would pop a piece in their mouth and chew furiously for several minutes until he turned around. If there was time the gum would go back in the wrapper---the foil piece so it wouldn't stick---or swallowed quickly.

One of the Jennifers in class---there were four of them that year---hated her. Liza had just rolled a piece of JF up and stuck it in her desk. The desk was the kind that lifted up so you could put your books inside. Liza’s had gum in hers. Jennifer’s hand went up high in the air.

“Yes, Jennifer?”

“Mr. Richards, Liza has gum in her desk. She chews it when you are writing on the board.” Liza glared at the back of Jennifer’s head.

“Liza? Is that true?”

Liza nodded. Joseyfine looked panicked. Her eyes wild with terror.

“Stay after the bell rings.”

She got after school detention. A note to her dad. She had to clean all the desks with a toothbrush.

Joseyfine stayed away from Liza after that. She still chewed with abandon but Mr. Richards ignored her. He kept an eagle eye on Liza instead.

At recess Joseyfine played with the Jennifers now. They glared at Liza whenever she walked by them. They popped enormous bubbles and giggled when gum got all over their mouths.

Liza was determined to get all “A’s” this year and ended up on the honor roll. At the end-of-the-year assembly, Liza got an award for her academic achievement. Joseyfine and the Jennifers giggled and blew yellowish bubbles at her when she accepted her award from the principal.

* * *

Last recess of the year Liza stood near the fence watching some kids toss a ball around.

“Yo,” said a voice. “You got gum?”

Liza shook her head. “Sorry. I stopped chewing it. It was making my jaw hurt. I never liked the taste anyway.”

Joseyfine looked at her with her head tipped sideways. “That yer mama’s dress?” She pointed to Liza’s dress.

“It’s mine. I picked it out.”

“Better ‘n yer mama’s. Her dresses be weird ugly shit.”

Liza felt tears sting her eyes. “My mother had good taste.” Had. Not has.

“Why she leave you then? Seems like she had better fish ter fry.”

“She loved me,” Liza said.

“Yeah? Funny way to show by takin’ off, ain't it?”Funny way.

* * *

Liza looked for Joseyfine on the first day of middle school when they had to register for classes but didn't see her.

A snatch of a song drifted to Liza’s ears. “Me and You and a dog named Boo.” Liza’s dad used to sing that to her mom---named Barbara but called Boo--- as a joke. It was a song from the sixties when he and Boo grew up. Now some girl was singing it softly under her breath.

“How do you know that song?” she asked the girl.

The girl shrugged. “My dad plays old albums constantly.” The girl looked at Liza. “Do you know where Room 222 is?”

“No, but I think there’s a map on the back of our schedule. Survival Skills?”

“Yeah. We get to learn how to cook and crap like that. Not that I need it.”

“You can cook?”

“Sure, my parents own a restaurant downtown. Been cookin’ as long as I remember. You cook?”

Liza shook her head. “No. I was always afraid I’d burn myself.”

“I’m Sarah.”

“Liza.”

“Got any gum, Liza?”

Liza’s eyes widened. “Gum?”

“Sure, I like Juicy Fruit the best, don’t you?”

“Sorry. No gum.”

“I’ll bring us some tomorrow.”

“Get going girls, the late bell is about to ring. Be careful on the stairs.”

Liza turned her head to stare at the teacher who spoke to them. For an instant she looked like Boo. Or rather like the Boo Liza remembered before she left.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” Sarah said as she sprinted up the stairs two at a time. Liza followed her.