Francie looked down at her chest. “Erm, I don’t have the equipment necessary for the job. My Bullet Bra would fall straight off.” But her joke fell flat when the other girls didn’t respond. Francie cleared her throat awkwardly, adding, “You can’t have forgotten the name that Dean started calling me in the sixth grade?”
Betty winced. “Slim? Wasn’t it?”
Francie nodded. “The full quote is, ‘You know, if you stood sideways and stuck out your tongue, you could be a zipper, Slim.’ Listen, I don’t know about becoming va-va-voom or a Pin-up Girl. But if you are asking if I want to be seen in a different light? Sure, doesn’t everybody?”
Ginger wrapped her arm around Francie, but she shrugged it off. She obviously didn’t want their sympathy. Not knowing what do to with the rebuff, or how to comfort Francie, Ginger decided once again to wrap her arms around her ample chest. “I don’t think any of us will forget the cruel nicknames we were called at St. Mary Margaret’s. You would think the wardens would put a crackdown on that jazz, but no, all I ever heard was, ‘boys will be boys.’”
“I hate that phrase,” Betty grumbled. She moved to pace across the carpet. A contemplative look stole across her face.
“What are you thinking about?” Francie sat forward and Ginger followed.
“Nothing, or maybe something,” Betty answered quickly as she spun to face them. “It’s only, out of the entire student body, who is sitting home twiddling their thumbs and painting their nails tonight?”
Ginger frowned. “We are, that’s who.”
“So, we never do anything exciting,” Betty continued. “Would you say that was fair?”
Ginger and Francie nodded.
Betty arched a brow triumphantly. A sneaky smile played about her lips as she added casually, “Well then, what would it hurt to apply at the academy? We can go just for kicks. It doesn’t mean we have to sign up or that we will even get in. We have an opportunity staring us in the face. I know I will regret it if I don’t try, and I think you both will too.”
Ginger sighed. “At least we will have attempted to do something outside of our normal, predictable lives.”
Before Francie could launch a counterattack, the girls heard a car backfire through the opened window. In a flash, they raced to the bench and pushed back the pink curtains. Peering out the window, their eyes automatically went to the driveway next door, belonging to Ginger’s neighbor, Dean Woods.
“He’s prettier than a picture,” Betty whispered as a hushed sigh escaped one of the other girls.
Dean raced down the steps of his home and jumped into the passenger seat of Kenny Johnson’s Pontiac Chieftain.
“Is that George Minks in the back seat?” Ginger pushed her way forward, sending Betty sprawling onto the floor.
Francie laughed at Betty’s indignant expression. “Of course it is. You’ve known the boy since kindergarten.”
Betty, shoving her way back into a place of prime ogling, answered, “So?”
Ginger pursed her lips before replying, “Francie is trying to make a point. She wants us to remember that we have known these boys for a million years and they still don’t give us the time of day.”
“That’s not true!” Betty retorted.
But before she could finish her statement, Francie interjected, “Yes, it is! The last time, Dean Woods bumped into me in chemistry and said, ‘Sorry, err, Slim.’ I swear that he doesn’t even know my name anymore! All he ever does is smirk or say something hateful. He’s just like all of the other boys at St. Mary Margaret’s.”
She paused for a moment, considering what she had just said. Their last year in high school was likely to be the same mashup of prissy popular girls and boys who thought they were god’s gift to mankind. Did she really want to relive that all over again? Screwing up her courage, Francie blurted out, “Maybe we need to shake things up. Nobody in this town takes us seriously—nobody.”
Betty squealed. “Tell me you aren’t pulling my leg! This can be our metamorphosis! We can have the ginchiest makeovers, so they won’t even recognize us. Oh, and code names! I love code names! I want to be Flying Dove!”
Francie’s brows snapped together. “Are you insane? Geeze Louise, Betty, keep your shirt on. What I am saying is that nothing ever changes in this sleepy little town. We are as predictable as The Ed Sullivan Show. Let’s just agree to apply at the academy. We don’t need to go off half-cocked and make fools out of ourselves. Let’s ease into this.”
Betty, completely missing the point, interjected enthusiastically, “I really love that show.”
Ginger groaned. “Cut the gas, Betty. Think for a minute. Do you really want to put yourself out there—in front of everyone?”
Betty grinned and nodded. “Yes! I have been waiting my whole life to be someone amazing. Girls, this is my chance. Tell me you aren’t just razzing my berries. We are really going to make our mark on the world?”
Francie glanced at Ginger before nodding.
Betty launched herself at Francie in what she could only assume was supposed to be a celebratory hug. It was more like an avalanche.
“You are the best friends that a girl could ever ask for! I just know that something amazing is going to happen. I can feel it,” Betty gushed as she hugged Francie within an inch of her life.
“You are killing me.” Francie’s muffled tone was resigned. They were doing this. She only hoped that it wasn’t the biggest mistake of her life.
“Betty, let up, she’s turning blue,” Ginger said with a laugh. “I just hope this academy is everything we want it to be.”
The car backfired just outside the window, bringing Ginger’s gaze out the window once again. She watched as Kenny backed his Chieftain down the drive and then pulled forward to cruise down Maple Street. Just as the taillights began to disappear, Ginger could have sworn that she saw movement in the back seat.
Her stomach fluttered with the thought that perhaps George had spotted her. Perhaps he was looking back at her very window to see her standing there. Her cheeks heated at the possibility. Feeling foolish at her thoughts, Ginger turned to face her friends. Thankfully, they hadn’t been watching her odd behavior.
They may have known these boys since kindergarten, but Ginger felt that something had changed. There was something rather unsettling about George Minks. Ginger wasn’t sure what it was, but she was itching to find out.
Maybe Betty was right. Would this be the summer that changed everything for the three friends? Ginger certainly hoped so.
Chapter Two
“Belinda Mae?” Mrs. Collins, the band teacher, called out for the second time, exasperation in her voice.
“I think Mrs. Collins is looking for you, Betty.”
Betty picked up her head and turned to where her teacher was at the piano rifling through papers. “Yes, Mrs. Collins.”
“Belinda Mae, it says here that you live with your uncle, is that correct?”
Betty nodded, a hint of pink creeping into her cheeks. She had asked her teacher a dozen times to call her Betty, but Mrs. Collins was old school and couldn’t possibly be so kind as to call Betty by her nickname. “Yes, Mrs. Collins.”
“Belinda Mae, it clearly states on the forms that your parent and/or legal guardian has to sign the permission slip in order for you to attend band camp. Now, I appreciate that your uncle has taken the initiative to sign this form, but he is not registered as your legal guardian.”
Betty’s cheeks flushed even hotter. “My uncle is the only adult I have, Mrs. Collins.”
“Where are your parents?” she questioned, pulling down her black-rimmed cat-eye glasses to peer down at Betty.
How did one explain to their teacher that they weren’t living in the set of Father Knows Best? Her Uncle Buck was what one might call a beach bum, but he did own a surf shop down by the pier, and he had been more than kind to take Betty and her sister Rachel in when Mama decided to run off with her boss.
The girls had never known their natural
father and Uncle Buck never pretended that he was a good parent. But he did try—they weren’t starving, for goodness sake.
The bell rang, shaking Betty from her thoughts, and students started gathering up their things to head to the next class. There was the familiar tapping of slingback pumps on the tile floors and the squeaking of Converse. Betty looked down at her own black and white saddle shoes. They were scuffed, the white more of a milky mud color, and sadly, the least fashionable shoe in the room. Sure, younger kids could still get away with saddle shoes, but high school girls—no.
“Belinda Mae, I don’t mean to cause you any alarm. But without a parent’s signature, I can’t have you at band camp this year. And besides that, the fee of seventeen dollars still would need to be paid.”
Seventeen dollars? Betty wanted to throw up. You could catch a movie for fifty cents, or a burger, fries, and a coke for little more than a dollar. How on God’s green earth was she supposed to come up with seventeen dollars?
“Mrs. Collins,” Betty said in a low voice, “I meant to tell you, but I can’t be going to band camp anyhow. My uncle needs me at the shop.”
The teacher pulled her glasses off, pursing her lips. “Are you certain about that?”
Betty swallowed the lump of disappointment in her throat and nodded.
With a sigh, Mrs. Collins put her glasses back on. “Very well, but if you miss the band camp, you will be assigned the instrument that nobody wants to play. It’s only fair that the children who are attending camp get to pick their instruments first and start practicing.”
Betty hung her head. “Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
“Run along, child.” Mrs. Collins shooed Betty to the door. “You don’t want to be late for your next class.”
While it was true that Betty had no desire to be late for French class, she wasn’t feeling as excited as she usually did.
French class was usually a magical time when Betty was able to sit directly behind the one and only, five-foot-eleven piece of man meat, Kenny Johnson. The boy liked cars and he liked them fast. His hair was always styled perfectly into a duck butt with plenty of hair grease to secure it in place. He wore a black leather jacket, white tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and 501 jeans. Betty figured that there had to be a deity, because it was divine just looking at the back end of Kenny Johnson’s 501’s.
But even that couldn’t bring her spirits up, not today. Sure, the girls had promised they would go to the audition for the new school. But what was the likelihood that they would even get in?
Betty stumbled along the hallway to her locker, and it took her three times to get the thing opened. A warning bell went off, indicating she had one more minute until class began. There was nothing for it—Betty was going to need to run to make it on time. Shoving her locker closed, French book in hand, she darted down the hallway.
Unbeknownst to her, in the doorway of French class, Posy Pumpernickel, St. Mary Margaret’s reigning Hot Mama and twice grand prize winner of the beauty pageant at the county fair, had accidentally spilled some water. Betty’s worn saddle shoes were without traction and no match for the dynamic duo of water and gravity. Once those shoes laid on that patch of water, it was over almost as fast as it began. Betty’s second-hand poodle skirt went flying over her head as she skidded into the classroom, right as the second bell sounded.
There was silence at first as Betty shoved her skirts down. But it was too late. She knew by the horrified look on Francie’s face that they had seen it all. Not that there was that much to see, besides her saggy drawers.
Uncle Buck didn’t take well with fancy britches and Betty only owned big, white, serviceable underwear. There was a choke of laughter that sounded suspiciously like Madame Lefleur. The class erupted in laughter and Betty wished, not for the first time, that the floor would open up and suck her right inside, never to be seen again.
Betty grappled to her feet and ignored Posy Pumpernickel’s knowing smirk. She ignored Francie’s big blue eyes that were filled with concern. And she ignored Madame Lefleur’s choked laughter, asking if she was quite all right.
No, Betty was not all right. If this had been the first time something like this had happened, Betty might have been able to brush it off. But it seemed that no matter what Betty did, she was always made the fool. Why did she have to be on the outside looking in?
Was it any wonder why she never made the scene? She was a nobody, a Mickey Mouse, goody two shoes. Her body was too thin, her clothes too square, and her hair was a rat’s nest that hung dull and limp on her shoulders. Nah, Betty was a nerd, no doubt about it.
With tears, she managed to sink into the chair behind Kenny Johnson. She noticed that he hadn’t met her gaze when she walked by, and Betty could only be thankful for tender mercies that he wasn’t mocking her too.
She laid her head down, pinching the inside of her arm to stop the tears from flowing. Rachel, her sister, always said that if you cried you were allowing the other party to have power over you. Betty didn’t know much about power, but she knew what it was like not to have any.
What did Rachel know anyway?
Rachel was beautiful, with an hourglass figure that the boys went wild over. She had gorgeous blond hair and not the dishwater blond that Betty was blessed with. She was taller, smarter, curvier, and well-liked. Honestly, Betty sometimes questioned that they were even related.
There was a sound of someone moving and then a tap on her shoulder.
Betty hadn’t ever been a religious person, but the moment somebody else touched her shoulder she started praying, please don’t let that be Kenny, please.
She picked her head up and met two smoky gray eyes under thick black brows. Kenny had a five o’clock shadow at nine in the morning. Some said he was held back a year, some said it was five, but all Betty knew was that Kenny looked like a man compared to the usual guys walking around St. Mary Margaret’s.
“What?” Betty croaked.
He eyed her red-rimmed one’s with trepidation. “Madame Lefleur wanted to know if you did the homework last night. She called your name a bunch of times.”
Homework. Blast, that was what she should have been doing last night instead of gossiping with the girls about stupid pin-up models.
“We are waiting.” Madam’s voice rang out in a rather smug singsong kind of way that immediately put Betty’s back up. Betty hated the way that Madam Lefleur used a French accent even when she was speaking English.
Everybody knew that Madame Lefleur was really Miss Langston from upstate New York, not Paris.
“No, Madame.” Betty’s voice was on the verge of tears.
Kenny spoke up. “We did it together, Madame Lefleur, I know she got it done. Should I put her name on mine?”
Betty nearly fell out of her chair. She could hardly believe that Kenny Johnson had just come to her rescue. She blinked, and then pinched herself—twice.
“Ouch!” she muttered when her arm began to sting. Clearly, she was not dreaming. This was real. Glancing to her side, she saw Posy Pumpernickel’s eyes flaring with rage. It was followed by an audible gasp from about half the class.
Betty hardly knew what to think. But Madame Lefleur was already moving on with the class.
“Thanks,” Betty whispered.
Kenny never turned around to acknowledge what he had done. But it didn’t matter. Because to Betty Mae Baker, he had swept in on his white horse and rescued her. And so, is it any wonder that this was the very moment when Betty fell deeply and hopelessly in love with Kenny Johnson?
Chapter Three
CHAPTER 3-
Later that day in Chemistry.
“Okay, so I am going to need everyone to find a partner,” Mr. Greggory, St. Mary Margaret’s chemistry teacher, announced at the beginning of class.
Posy raised her hand, “But Mr. Greggory, we are already in partners.”
Mr. Greggory sighed, pushing up the sleeves of his warn sports jacket with the patches on the elbows.
> “Yes, Miss Pumpernickel, you are indeed correct.”
Posy batted her eyelashes at the older man and preened.
Francie rolled her eyes. Honestly, wasn’t there anyone of the male gender who Posy didn’t flirt with?
“But you see,” Mr. Greggory continued, “I would like to switch things up for the rest of the year. Things have gotten stagnant and we need new blood—or shall we say chemistry—in our partnerships.”
As some of the real brown nosers giggled at the lame joke, Francie listened on in horror at Mr. Greggory’s edict. The only reason she was passing chemistry was that her partner just happened to be Ginger June Peabody—the smartest girl in school, and her best friend. It wasn’t like she could partner up with Betty; she hadn’t taken chemistry that semester.
Francie literally didn’t have another friend to pair up with. It was like gym class all over again when all the other girls would get picked for the teams and Francie was left standing by herself. Ginger wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone new.
Who wouldn’t want ‘the brain’ to do all the homework and wiz through the labs? Ginger actually enjoyed science. Francie had no idea how. She only knew that she wanted Ginger to stay right where she was at—by her side.
“All right students, you have five minutes. Gather your things and mingle.”
Ginger gave Francie a commiserating look. “Sorry, Fran. I will still help you, outside of class.”
It wasn’t that Francie wasn’t smart, because she was. It was only that sometimes the letters and numbers would play tricks on her. They didn’t stay still. She had managed to muddle through this far. She supposed she could make it to the end of the year with a new partner.
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