–excerpt from Reputation

1.

Our target selection was a no-brainer. Not only did Benny Dinklebaum take advantage of his role in my play to assault my best friend, he’s the biggest douche at Whitworth Preparatory Academy. Bridge and I had agreed to accept his apology for “accidentally” groping her boob during their initial embrace. 

            “I may not have mountains like you, Paisley,” she said holding her hands out in front of her as if my breasts arrived a full minute ahead of the rest of my body, “but there’s enough there to make his contention feasible.”  It was true. She didn’t inherit my mother’s endowment, but a sufficient protrusion existed. It was “feasible” his hand unintentionally brushed the curve. But no such excuse emerged when a few days later that slimeball shoved his tongue into her mouth during the kissing scene. He left us with no choice.  

            Our methodology was based on two observations. First, Benny is one of only three kids at school who wears loose-fitting jeans, making it easy to pants him. Second, Benny is always the last one out of his class, giving us time to isolate him and avoid collateral damage. These factors allowed us to come up with the appropriate maneuver.

            Recruiting a supporting cast proved to be no problem at all. I barely had 

Benny’s name out of my mouth and a “What do you want me to do?” response followed. Many of the students at Whitworth, who helped with our revenge, already took directions from me as actors in the play I wrote and co-directed for the senior class program. The difference would be our inability to hold a formal rehearsal and Bridge assuming the role of choreographer at the time of implementation, which I had every confidence she’d pull off without a hitch.

            The more difficult task was keeping the herd of students racing to second period from interfering with our execution. Bridge gathered everyone around her outside the classroom door. I put my videographers with their cell phones at strategic angles and pointed out where I wanted watchers to stand. They bunched up near enough to observe the action without cluing in Benny. He didn’t disappoint. 

            He walked out of the door. He appeared to be unaware of his surroundings. But, then he turned back toward the classroom.

            Before Benny was able to say a word Raj stuffed one of his gym socks in his mouth and threw a knit cap over his face, while the biggest bodies blocked the view of any nearby staff.

             As Benny removed the sock from his mouth, Raj pulled his pants down around his ankles. Bridge, who remained calm despite the variation in plan, cued the crowd around her to part. She discharged the Super-Soaker filled with a gigantic gush of gooey gelatinous chocolate pudding into his crotch. The expression on Benny’s face went from a smiling ripe red beefsteak tomato hanging on the vine to a scrunched-up grimacing putrid orange jack-o-lantern rotting on a south Florida porch. Students laughed and scattered to their next class. 

            “What’s the matter Dinklebaum?” said Kalinda Sue Thomas, whose voice sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium, “Got the Hershey squirts?”

            “You mother fuckers!” Benny screamed. “I’m going to get you. You fuckin’ assholes!”

            Raj kept his face hidden from view as he pushed a flailing Benny back through the doorway.

            “I’m going to get all-a-you stupid shitheads.” I heard Benny’s voice catch. He was unable to control his sobs and tears while Raj escaped with his accomplices into the crowd. Laughter echoed through the hallway. 

            “Oh my,” Kalinda said, making another anatomical observation, “his little thingy popped up.” 

            I was never sure whether he intended to move his hand across Bridge’s breast during rehearsal, but at that moment I was sure he never intended to have his penis move in that direction.

            Bridge and I smiled and gave each other a high five. Benny’s tear-stained face, slumped shoulders and lack of support from any other student provided the satisfaction I’d hoped to attain. As planned, Bridge dropped the Super-Soaker in the lost and found box before we made our way to math class.

            The geeks I’d assigned to record the event gave it the proper editing before posting it all over social media. A few minutes into second period, the whole world knew what we’d done. Unfortunately, that meant the Whitworth Academy front office knew it, too.

#

            Bridge sat in the seat nearest the door. I was two rows over in the back. I’m sure I saw him first. Bridge must have been paying attention as our asthmatic instructor wheezed on for the umpteenth time about the important role of calculus in our lives. As Mr. Shruckmeier entered the classroom, a vein on his forehead bulged above his red face. Students nicknamed our headmaster Shrek. I couldn’t help wondering if the green-faced character would turn as red given the same circumstances.

            “Miss Bridgeman,” Shrek’s voice echoed off the walls, “My office. Now!”

            For years, students filled a waiting list for Mr. Schruckmeier’s English class, The Importance of Veracious Articulation in Influential Speech. Once he became an administrator, he fell victim to the requirement to maintain decorum in our sacred academy. The immense pressure curtailed his ability to string together one single simple coherent sentence. 

            “Miss…”

            In an era when controversy surrounds the correct pronoun to use for non-gender specific individuals, we might agree that an enlightened school administrator would refrain from the use of a term that perpetuates the myth of a chaste maiden. Inside my head I could hear my mom saying, “You’ve been brainwashed by all that PC garbage the media feeds you.”

            I stood before he said my name.

             “Rogers.”

            The skin above the vein appeared to thin out further as I walked past Shrek. I picked up my pace to catch up with Bridge. 

            When we entered his office, I knew something was different from our last visit, but I couldn’t tell what. His three trophies still sat on top of the book shelf behind his desk. They were meant to intimidate, but only impacted those who failed to do their research. My cousin, who played tight end for Whitworth’s pathetic team a decade ago, told me the largest one came from Shrek’s high school, where he was a fourth string linebacker who never played a down for the league champions. The other two came from Brown, the weakest link in the athletic doormat Ivy League.

            The framed diplomas on the wall were slightly more impressive. No matter what I thought about their athletic prowess, Brown bore impeccable credentials as an institution of higher learning. Only by digging deeper was I able to uncover that Shrek was a fourth generation Shruckmeier legacy. Family donations totaled enough to have a wing of the chancellor’s hall named for them. It came as no surprise when Bridge discovered Shrek married the football team tutor.

            We both stood next to the straight-backed chairs until he sat down in his leather swivel-rocker and signaled us to sit. My eyes caught the change as he reached for the glass of water on his desk. Instead of his brass bowl, there was a crystal bowl holding his precious peppermints. For a man steeped in masculine affectation this was tantamount to admitting a preference for a romantic comedy over an action adventure, or a salad over a burger. Considering the situation, I knew I’d have to wait until the right moment to comment upon such a monumental reformation. 

            “I know you were the catalyst behind this, Paisley,” Shrek said, wagging his finger at me. 

            Catalyst. A three-syllable word. First, the bowls. Now, an enhanced vocabulary. What was next—a kinder, gentler headmaster? Maybe, a return to his erudite days of peddling precocious pedagogy to privileged pupils. After almost four years of dealing with this hideous man there appeared to be a revolution occurring in Shrek’s life.

            “So, I want to hear from you, Bridget. And don’t go playing that governor’s daughter crap with me.”

            That’s right. Bridget Bridgeman, my best friend, is the sole offspring of the most powerful man in the state. As her name makes abundantly clear, the man doesn’t have an original thought in his head. Unlike her father, Bridge does think for herself. The Super-Soaker was her idea. Shrek can thank me for not letting her go through with her plan last year. After he caught us streaming scenes of his drunken toast and pawing of the bride at his brother’s wedding, he punished us with two weeks detention. Her vengeful state of mind made her want to remove tires from his new Beemer and stuff it with shredded paper from the dumpster outside his office. I convinced her, since there was no place close enough to his designated spot to hide and watch, we should do something else to his pride and joy. We lifted his fob from the sport coat, which was always draped across the back of his rocker, unlocked the vehicle, returned the fob, skipped out of class with a bathroom pass, took the car out of gear and rolled it down the hill. We didn’t even have to hide. We found ourselves walking home at our usual time after rehearsal when he went looking for his missing car.

            As she rattled our well-rehearsed explanation of why we couldn’t have soaked Benny, I attempted to figure out which of the usual suspects ratted us out this time. I had reserved a spot for one blabbermouth to watch at a perfect angle to the doorway. I had made another loose-lipped student the prop manager. Another notorious stool pigeon had entered calculus class ahead of me. There was only one other suspect whose whereabouts were left unaccounted for during those fifteen minutes. I was certain Shrek rewarded him with a get-out-of-gym-class-free-card, but I was determined to find a way to make him regret his decision.

            “I’m not buying it,” Shrek said. “You’d think you girls could come up with a better story than you don’t own a squirt gun.”

            “It’s the truth,” I said.

             “You’ll have your turn, Paisley,” Shrek said. He took another gulp from his glass of water. “All right, Bridget, explain to me again why your fingerprints are all over the chocolate-stained plastic gun we found in the lost and found box?”

            Fingerprints? I laughed. Shrek sneered at me. Bridge would never fall for such a ridiculous assertion. The school doesn’t have our fingerprints on record. We’re minors.

            She froze. Interrogation was never her strong suit. She’d rather confess and do her punishment. Sometimes, I think she liked when her dad or my mom sent one of their lackeys to bail us out. “I believe I’ve earned a degree of entitlement,” she told me at her father’s inauguration. “Giving up a portion of your childhood, so your father can fulfill one of his dreams should include some privileges.”

            Bridge took a couple of cleansing breaths before responding. “I might have played with it when I was at Paisley’s house.” 

            “My sisters have several,” I said before Shrek could cut me off. 

            “And I imagine you want me to believe they are the ones who squirted Benny?”

            We nodded.

            “All right, I’ve had enough,” he said pulling his pad of blue detention slips out of his desk drawer and scribbling his instructions on two of them. “Here.” He set them on the far edge of his desk where we could grab them. “Take these to Mr. Farmer.”

            “But we have rehearsal after school,” I said.

            “Not today you don’t.” He stood. “I’ll talk to Miss Bird.”

            Greta Bird was my favorite teacher at Whitworth. Not only did she direct all of our school plays, but she taught a class that covered drama from Shakespeare to modern experimental theater. Her five foot-eight-inch frame floated across the stage on cheap canvas sneakers. She used the pencil tucked behind the thick gray and silver curls above her ear to scratch notes into her actors’ scripts. Unlike my mother, she never dreamed of coloring her hair, unless it was for one of her roles at the local community theater. Her sneakers and vintage Laura Ashley dresses turned into four-inch heels and Vera Wang gowns on performance nights. Whether up on heels or flat footed, Miss Bird was the only teacher who could stand toe-to-toe with my mother. They had been college roommates. 

            We were almost out of Shrek’s office when he had to throw in the admonishment I hated most. “I just don’t understand why you can’t be more like your sisters. It would be…” I pushed Bridge in the shoulder and our feet doubled their speed as we tripped out of his office.

             “…a disaster.” Bridge said laughing down the hallway. She considered my sisters even bigger dorks than I did.

            “I thought you two might have something to do with the old splotch in the crotch,” Mr. Farmer said, as we entered his detention room. “Weren’t you worried he might pee himself?” 

            “We sure were,” Bridge said.

            “Yo, girl,” I said, grabbing her by the arm. “Can’t give it up to da’ man that easy, and expect to earn Mr. F’s respect.” I thought talking a little street might make an impression. “Figured a thin yellow stream merging with a thick river of brown weren’t no problem.” The double negative was thrown in for emphasis.  

            “Ah-huh. I imagine you used your great chemistry skills to come up with that theory.” Old McDonald was the kind of disciplinarian I could relate to. He made students toe the line, but had some fun with them, too. He went to the same public school as my mom and she said he had a permanent seat in the detention room. Research led to my discovery of how many times she found herself in that room.

             “I worked hard to earn that A,” I said.

            “I doubt it,” he said. “You’ve never worked hard at any course in this school. It all comes too easy. One of these days, probably while you’re in college, some course is going to reach up and bite you on your backside.”

            “That’s why we have you. Bridge and I counted on you finding us a school where that’ll never happen,” I said, referring to Old McDonald’s role as our guidance counselor. The assumption was we would go to the U. The U or University was the pride and joy of our state and the pet project of its current governor—aka Bridge’s father.

            We knew eventually we’d have to disclose our intentions to our parents. Our plan was to wait until our enrollment in the school of our choice was assured. It would remain our secret until after we turned eighteen. 

            For the longest time I’ve wanted to share my other secret with Bridge. The one I’ve held onto since the day we met. The one that also involved her father. The one I haven’t shared with anyone—not Bridge, not Bird or Old McDonald, not Mom, not even my two little sisters.

            Bridge had told me that her father insisted no child of his was ever going to play “victim.” Knowing she adhered to this directive contributed to my reluctance to share the only secret I’d ever kept from her.

            “I know how to study. I just don’t need to when it comes to school work.” I thought a bit more about what he had just said before adding, “At least, not yet.”

            “She figured out who squealed on us,” Bridge said. 

            “Oh yeah, who?” he asked.

            Bridge surveyed the room to see if the suspect might be among the dozen other students scattered within earshot. Then, she bent over and whispered in his ear.

            “KGB rolled over on you?”  Mr. F. spoke in a half-whisper.

            “That’s what Paisley thinks,” Bridge said.

            “Solid deductive reasoning,” I said.

            “Doesn’t his father work for your dad?” he asked Bridge.

            “I wouldn’t say he works for him,” she said. “It’s more of a reciprocal relationship.”

            “Reciprocal?” He gave a slow nod. “I see. Well, have some seats ladies. You know the routine. Get out your books and get to work.”

            In eighteen minutes, I completed the six problems for calculus, an essay for English composition and the three short answers for world geography. Then I set to work on the real problem. My objective was to move beyond retaliation to a definitive warning with KGB. Our response would not be reciprocity, but a clear signal to cease and desist from any interference in our future operations or face total annihilation. Although I didn’t have any horses’ heads to put in his bed, the signal I would send KGB would accomplish its goal.

            Farmer was right. It all came too easy.

2.

            “Melanie?” Governor Bridgeman shouted from the other room. “Is that you?”

            “No, Dad,” Bridge said, “It’s me.” 

            I stepped aside, as she reached behind us to close the heavy oak door to the mansion.  It was evident the new guard at the gate hadn’t followed protocol and failed to phone ahead to let the governor know we’d arrived. 

            The governor entered the room wearing an open collar silk sport shirt. He was followed by a man with a glistening bald head in a well-tailored Armani suit and sporting a smile with just the right portion of teeth showing. The governor gave his daughter a hug and kiss on the cheek. He smiled at me, which made my skin crawl. I inched away from the two of them. Even at a distance, his cologne made me gag.

            “Glad your home, Bridge,” he said. “Nice to see you, too, Paisley.” He turned to the man behind him. “You both know Anatoly, right?” A few years ago, when Bridge’s dad was campaigning, he introduced the man with impeccable attire and piercing eyes as Mr. Avenshenko or Yevteshenko or Venteleshenko—never the same name twice, until he finally gave up and called him Anatoly. He still managed to screw up the pronunciation, so it sounded more like the girl’s name, Natalie. Since the governor took office, I’d seen the mysterious man, several times a year at the mansion, statehouse or at school functions, where he was known as Nikolai or KGB’s father.

            We nodded. He gave us a slight bow, before turning and giving Bridge’s dad a firm handshake. With his free hand he grabbed the governor’s elbow and jerked his forearm up and down. Then, he let go and left through the door we had entered.

            “I really expected your mother to be here by now,” the governor said as soon as Anatoly left. “Why Dinklebaum?” His voice reverberated off the walls. “Couldn’t you find someone else to pick on? Do you have any idea how much that kid’s father has contributed to my campaign?”

            “No, Dad,” Bridge said, “but he…”

            “He what? I thought he was the lead in that play you’re doing.” He turned to me. “Aren’t you the director? Why don’t you fire his ass if he’s messing up?”

            “It’s not that he’s messing up. He’s” 

            Bridge tugged at my hand and sneered. She’d made me promise we’d handle Benny and not involve our parents.

            “…a really skilled actor,” I continued. “Miss Bird thought he was perfect for the part.”

            “Bird, huh?” he said with his head shaking back and forth. “Figures. Greta Bird. Now there’s a fine one for you. It’s hard to believe she went to school with your mother. She could have been anything she wanted, but instead she becomes a school teacher.” He looked at the two of us and raised his shoulders. “Who does that?”

            Certainly not Ronald J. Bridgeman. His lack of understanding came as no surprise. The idea that someone might choose a profession based on a desire for artistic expression or helping others learn rather than monetary gain contradicted his belief that free enterprise was the motivational force behind all worthwhile achievements.  

            I wondered if he felt threatened by Greta Bird. As I noted before, he has never had an original idea. His level of creativity extended to adding the letter “t” to the end of the first syllable in his surname to form the name of his only child. I, along with a few of our friends, was kind enough to remove the final “t”, because we felt the single syllable nom de plume suited the governor’s daughter better than a name she shared with some long forgotten French film actress.

            The governor had been born into a life of privilege and wealth. Granddaddy Bridgeman engineered one of the first excavators. Over time his earth-moving equipment became the hallmark of the industry. The name Bridgeman became synonymous with quality construction. Contractors wanted to license the name Bridgeman for their structures. By the time Ronald took over, the company had licensed the name Bridgeman for streets, highways, shopping malls, amusement parks, fashion and food. The name gained such marketability it expanded into other states and even spread to several international locations.

            The phone in the governor’s pocket sounded. He pulled it out and looked at it. “Your mother is at the gate.”  I stared at the device in his hand and wondered how many tweets he’d sent that day. The governor was so fond of sending messages out on the app that some in the press had taken to calling him the Tweetle-Dee. He threatened to sue anyone who called him Tweetle-Dum.

            “You might not want to be here when she walks in,” he said with a gaze in my direction. “You can use the side exit.” As he walked away, he barely turned his head enough for me to hear him say, “It was nice to see you, Paisley.”

            His odor had become nauseating, but I heeded his advice. A quick one-arm hug and I left Bridge to fend for herself. I shuffled out the familiar escape route, having used it on other occasions to avoid confronting my own mother, not Bridge’s. 

            My thoughts turned to Tweetle-Dee while traversing the familiar two-block walk home. My friends, Bridge included, preferred the other name the press used for the governor, Ronnie No-No. Before a reporter could complete a question, the governor often responded with, “No, no.” His strategy was to deny everything. Later, after meeting with Mom, they’d find a way to spin the topic to make it look like he knew exactly how to best handle whatever the problem was.

            I’m sure some constituents considered dubbing him Ronald McDonald, except for fear of a copyright infringement lawsuit. Students at Whitworth already called Mr. Farmer, “Old McDonald,” so the governor assuming the name of a registered trademark would not have impacted our school anyway. 

            Ronnie No-No had no previous experience in government when he decided our state needed to run more like a business. He claimed the state lost its competitive edge when it allowed companies based in other states and countries to sell their products or move their operations here. According to him, they took jobs from the people of our state. 

            I remembered my mother laughing as she sat in front of the television watching him announce his candidacy. She thought the slogans he had his followers shouting: “Keep Them Out,” and “Proud to be Home Grown,” were hilarious. Four years later, she was ready to leave her chief of staff office to assume her position as chair of his re-election campaign, which would feature those same slogans.

            Mom was campaign manager for the presumptive favorite four years ago when Ronnie No-No entered the governor’s race. She was more concerned about the other candidates, a congressman, a state senator, the secretary of state and the mayor of the largest city. “All of them are more qualified than some rich guy, who’s only achievement is inheriting his father’s business.”

            Tom Krauss hired Mom straight out of law school during his first year as district attorney. He promoted her several times until she became lead attorney on all of his high-profile cases. She handled the public opinion polls when he decided to run for attorney general, which led to him bringing her along to the state capitol.

            She agreed to the move, contingent on Tom finding her a home on the water she could afford on an assistant attorney general’s salary. I stared out at that water before entering our house through the backdoor. 

            I walked into an empty house. It meant I didn’t have a former prosecutor nail my ass to the wall the minute I came home. Sometimes, I thought she believed everything I did was meant to distract her from her important duties of running the state. We used to share everything. Since she became a part of the governor’s inner circle, we confide in each other less. A house free of other living souls gave me a chance to relax. I’ve always done my best thinking when I’m alone.

            A blue-tailed warbler with an orange streak down its back ducked its head into the bird bath in the backyard. I put my face up to the window to get a better look and it flew away. That’s how the feathered species solved their problems. Fly away. Wished it were that easy for this homo sapien. 

            Instead of flying, I walked upstairs to my room, set my backpack under my desk and flopped onto my bed. The photograph of my mother standing behind Ronnie No-No with all the members of his cabinet caught my eye. I hated the photo. Mom insisted I display it. “A reminder of what is possible with a little hard work.” At least she looked good in it.

#

            “He was ruthless,” Mom said. “He wasn’t going to let a little thing like the truth stand in his way. His most effective tool was declaring himself the only one who wasn’t a ‘pawn of the press.’” In the four debates before the primary, he leveled accusations against each of his opponents. The most egregious was calling Tom a liberal and soft on crime. His tweets referred to a case where a man on trial for rape committed another rape. The tweet inferred Tom was weak because he hadn’t locked up the man, even though at the time he had only been charged and was not convicted.

            “It worked,” Mom said, the night we gathered at Tom’s headquarters for the primary results. Rather than sounding incredulous, her tone almost sounded as if she were in awe. Ronnie No-No’s only remaining opponent was the mayor of the largest city, a woman who had dated my father before he met my mother. In some ways, it came as no surprise when my mother agreed to be Ronnie No-No’s campaign manager for the last leg of the race.

            The rustle of bodies ushering themselves through the door downstairs caused me to sit up. Two pair of feet clumped up the same stairs I had climbed only a few minutes earlier. Their owners rushed to my door elbowing each other to get through it first.

            “Mom’s going to kill you!” Petunia said with a huge grin.

            “Stop being so dramatic,” Poppy said, stepping between Petunia and me and turning to face her twin. “Your use of hyperbole is pathetic.” She turned around and looked me in the eye. “But it is true.”

            I nodded my head.

            “Why’d you do it?” Poppy asked.

            “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

            “Putting the groceries away,” Petunia said.

            It made perfect sense. Mom always liked to do some mindless task to calm herself before confronting any of a myriad of stressful endeavors she faced each and every day.

            At that moment, I couldn’t help but think my life would be easier if my sisters had never been born. I was jealous of Bridge being an only child. Don’t get me wrong, I have always loved my baby sisters. Portia and Penelope were born three years to the day after me. That’s right, my gift for my third birthday was twin sisters. Nobody calls them by their given names. Before Dad left for Hollywood to pursue his dream of being a movie star, he turned my little sisters into flowers. If Mom is oblivious, Dad is clueless. It doesn’t matter. My siblings will forever be known as Petunia and Poppy. To level the playing field at Whitworth, I spread the rumor that one smells like some bad weed and the other is responsible for the opioid epidemic. It’s bad enough they invaded my territory during my senior year, but then to have a jerk like Shrek think these two should be my role models.

            They were a lot easier to love when they were babies and let me feed and take care of them. Teaching them how to brush their hair, dress their dolls and even throw a baseball were experiences I enjoyed. We shared a strong sibling bond right up until puberty. But, since becoming adolescents, they show all of Mom’s confidence without any of her edge. Complete conformists, they have never drawn a single crayon mark outside the lines in their coloring books. I’m convinced one day they will become exactly whatever Mom wants them to be.

            “Girls,” Mom said, “Your room.” Unlike the two she addressed, she appeared at my door without a sound. How she was able to glide over those stairs in four-inch heels amazed me. From the tone of her voice it was evident her instructions not to speak to me were ignored. My two nemeses bolted through the door without hesitation.

            “Mind if I close this,” Mom asked as if there was a choice. She swung the door shut without waiting for my nod. 

            Friends, enemies and the press have called Lesliemae Louise Rogers “the most powerful woman in the state.” While anyone who paid attention to what happened in our state knew Bridge’s mom was the first lady, they recognized who ran the government. Not only did Mom spearhead the campaign of Ronald J. Bridgeman, but as his Chief of Staff she took over the reins of the statehouse.

            I popped up from my bed to avoid being spoken down to as much as to show my mother respect.

            “That’s all right, Junie” she signaled me with her index finger, “you can sit.” She never called me Paisley. When the twins and I were little my parents thought it would be cute to continue the months begun in my mother’s name, even though the last three letters of her name are m-a-e and not m-a-y. I became Paisley June and the twins were Portia July and Penelope August. I don’t actually remember hearing these names, only the explanation, because as soon as my father changed the twins’ names to flowers they dropped the months, except for me. Now, both of them call me June. I’m only Paisley when they introduce me to somebody new, or if I’ve done something to upset them.

            She grabbed the swivel chair from my desk and turned it toward me. Her hips lowered onto the cushion as her back pushed against the leather upholstery and her legs crossed exposing only her knee and a perfectly-toned calf.

            I sat back down but clenched the edge of my mattress with my fingers curled tight on either side of me.

            “I’ve talked with Norm and Pete,” she said, referring to the headmaster and guidance counselor, “but haven’t reached Greta, yet.” 

            I tried to keep a straight face but hearing the name of my favorite teacher made me smile. Even if she was the one who forced me to give the male lead to Doofus Dinklebaum, I knew if we explained our motivation for our actions she’d have been all right with it. Mom, however—Lesliemae, Judge-Jury-Jailer—was a different story. Her eyes stared straight into my soul as her breath rose into her nostrils and out her lips without any perceptible movement. After nearly a minute of torturous silence, she relented with a simple, “Well?”

            “I’m sorry,” I said, “but he had it coming.”

            “I’m sure he did,” she said. Allowing the opposition to make its points was the hallmark of a Lesliemae prosecution. Once her opponents laid bare the core of their argument, she’d swoop in to crush them. “Go on…”

            “It’s just pudding. It comes off with a little soap and water.” My hands let go of the mattress and rose above my head. “I really don’t see what the big deal is.” I found myself standing with my hands reaching up as if they were praying for rain.

            “I’m sure you don’t.” Mom held out the palm of her hand in the direction of my bed and I sat back down. “But the Dinklebaums don’t see it the same way you do.”

            “You’ve talked to them.”

            “He’s threatening to pull funding if his little Benny doesn’t get an apology in front of the entire school.”

            “You can’t be serious.”

            “Oh, I’m serious, young lady.”

            Young lady. More intimidation tactics. What was I thinking? I knew I’d never get away with it. Was I truly self-destructive? And I dragged my best friend down with me.

            “But, he kissed her.”

            “Of course, he did. It’s in the play you wrote.”

            “He used his tongue.”

            “Why didn’t she bite it.”

            “Because she doesn’t think as fast as you or me.”

            Her eyes widened. Her legs uncrossed and crossed again, this time with the left one on top. An almost imperceptible nod and then, “I’ll give you that one. Still, it didn’t warrant your involvement. Bridget is capable of defending herself.”

            “He groped her.”

            “He what? In front of Greta?”

            “Not exactly.”

            “What do you mean, ‘Not exactly?’”

            “He used his upstage hand, so she couldn’t see it from her seat in the auditorium.”

            “Why, that little bastard.” Mom stood and turned toward the door. “He’s just like the…” 

            “Does that mean I don’t have to apologize?” I stood as she opened the door.

            “Oh, no,” she turned back to face me, “You still have to apologize. We’ll just work with Greta to make sure you get it right.” She turned away and continued to talk as she stepped into the hall. “Meanwhile, I’m going to make sure Benny’s father—that arrogant son-of-a-bitch—pays double.” She stopped at the top of the stairs. “And, Junie,” without looking, she knew I was standing in my doorway, “you’re grounded. No Bridget. No extended rehearsals. And no car. U-F-N.”

            Until further notice. It was Lesliemae’s signature acronym. 

3.

            When Khalid “Raj” Rajmani arrived at Whitworth Preparatory Academy on the first day of our junior year, he became the immediate target of Leon Wilson. For the previous two years, Leon carried the distinct status of being the only student who stood out at school assemblies in a vast sea of pink and gray. By the end of his first week, we discovered the new arrival, whose mahogany pigmentation was two shades darker than the caramel skin of his self-appointed rival, had ancestors who owned slaves in Egypt during biblical times, while our lighter skinned friend’s great-grandfather had been held in bondage.

            A week later the two of them walked shoulder to shoulder down the hall. Numerous stories circulated about how the transformation took place. The one I found most believable was Raj convinced Leon he respected his choice to assume the role of victim for what happened to his ancestors a hundred and fifty years ago, but he chose not to accept that designation because some weak-minded people assumed he and his family were terrorists.

            The reason I chose this explanation is I like the idea of the heir to a family empire overcoming the manipulation of the son of my mother’s communication director. Leon’s father was Tom Krauss’s one-man-public-relations-force before following Lesliemae into the statehouse.

            Raj not only won over the who’s-more-oppressed challenge, but he gained the respect of anyone he encountered. His soft voice, pleasant features—eyes that twinkled like obsidian in the sun, deep symmetrical dimples and gleaming white teeth—and an infectious sense of confidence made him easy on the eyes and ears. There was no sign of arrogance or false modesty. He didn’t try to hide his ability to do whatever he wanted to because of his family’s abundant wealth, but he never brought it up or attempted to flaunt it.

            Grandfather Rajmani for whom Raj was named came to the land where “the streets are paved with gold” a few years after the great war. Determined to make a living in his adopted home, he learned English by listening to passengers on the ship across the ocean. He set up his date stand on the streets of the largest city and soon discovered the demand for imported foods. When he opened his first Raje high-end grocery, there was such a rage over exotic nuts, olives and dried fruit, he had to expand his network of suppliers. Within five years he opened a dozen stores and two wholesale supply warehouses in four states.

            Grandma Rajmani loved grinding garbanzos and eggplant into dishes from the old country—hummus, falafel and baba ghanoush. Customers loved dipping or wrapping pita around these dishes and snacking while they shopped. Somewhere between the opening of their twentieth and twenty-fifth store, they opened their first Hum-Fal-Baba. Although it started as a basic Mediterranean restaurant, skewers bulging with various cuts of meat coupled with savory salads, sauces and desserts transformed it into an upscale venue.

            Since their son Manny took over, the business has doubled. More than two hundred stores spread across North and South America, Europe and parts of the Middle East. Four years ago, Raj’s father, who also bears Khalid Rajmani as his given name, opened the first Raje in our state. The store went up despite Ronnie No-No’s warnings of trouble when outside forces are allowed to come into the state. It was the same year he was elected governor. 

            Two years ago, to calm the hysteria stirred up by the governor and to allow Rajmani Enterprises to continue its unfettered growth, Manny decided to move his headquarters to our state capital. His family soon followed. Mom advised the governor to welcome them, but neither the headquarters nor the family received any fanfare.

            Community response was immediate. People stopped boycotting the stores. Business grew. A second store opened last year and two more are scheduled to open later this year.

            When it came to anything happening on Greta Bird’s stage, Raj was her go-to guy.

            “You’ve got this,” she said. 

            “Got it, Ms. Bird,” Raj said. “Spot. Apology. Fade to Black.”

            Raj was an amazing visual artist. He created the set design for all three acts of the play. After painting the backdrops, Ms. Bird approached him about helping her with lighting design. Where most of the students who worked with her on lighting were pleased if they could get the key light at the right angle to present a recognizable image on stage, Raj became adept at using both fill and back lights to create depth and feeling. His ability to create different levels of shadow dramatically shifted the mood of the scene.

            There would be no need to set a mood for our presentation. The entire school knew that before the presentation by a former alumnus who recently returned from a NASA mission, Bridge and I were to apologize to Benny.

            Like most assemblies there was the clatter of feet and the hum of voices as students took their seats. As the last student took her seat, Shrek appeared through the curtains and stood at the center of the stage. The boom mic dropped and he said, “Before we begin our program today, a few of our students are going to demonstrate how we expect Whitworth students to learn from their mistakes.”

            While Shrek came off stage in our direction, Benny followed him to center stage. We smiled at our headmaster and walked side by side in front of the curtain to our appointed destination. The lights dimmed as we reached center stage and Raj hit us with the spot. In unison Bridge and I said, “We are truly sorry for the embarrassment we caused you, Benny. Our behavior was totally inappropriate.”

            I stepped forward and hugged Benny. He smiled. I stepped back and Bridge stepped forward. She hugged Benny. Raj turned out the light. Bridge moved her hand to Benny’s crotch. “If you ever touch me that way again,” she whispered, “pudding-covered-balls will be the least of your worries.” I was so proud of her, I decided right then I would share the one secret I’d been keeping from her. 

            She stepped back and since Benny had frozen in place, I turned him by his shoulders and pushed him to get him to go.

            We all exited stage right.

            Ms. Bird was waiting. 

            “You get it?” she asked.

            Benny nodded.