98. It Takes a Village

We’ve all heard that phrase though it is the shortened version of the original saying; it takes a village to raise a child. There is some question about its exact origin. Some think it is an ancient African proverb shared by African cultures while others believe it comes from the Native Americans; both of which are communal societies invested in the health and well-being of its youth. Regardless of who gets props for the statement, the sad reality is the practice and benefit of Americans being part of a village mentality has in some respects fallen by the wayside.

I was born in the 1950s and raised in a middle-class neighborhood known as Columbus Park. The territory of CP started at Beaver Brook Parkway, a non-babbling brook of mud and stuff. As you may recall, Beaver Brook is the place from where my imaginary swamp monster raised its ugly head and stole my essay for Mr. Power’s class. Knowing the brook as I did, it was very easy for me to imagine such an occurrence happening at that somewhat smelly mud-pit. I used to get the heebie jeebies walking past the brook especially during my high school years when I was out after dark and in the vicinity of the parkway.

As for the CP territory, let me explain it this way. If you began tracking the perimeter of CP by facing Fischer’s market, the place all CP kids headed when they wanted a banana, root beer, or blue raspberry popsicle, then you would do the loop by following the Parkway heading right to May Street then up to Lovell, down to the rotary then up to the Minthrone / Circuit Avenue connection at the end of Englewood; the other half of CP went left from Fischer’s to Friendly’s on Park Avenue where you hooked a hard right, headed up Lovell to the rotary then blah, blah, blah. The two neighborhood playing groups sort of used the rotary as a marker; I mostly stayed on the upper side of the rotary and tried to avoid it at all costs. The only time I willingly ventured to Kamikaze Square was on Monday afternoons for my weekly trip to the bookmobile.

Essentially, Englewood Ave was the ‘main street’ of my parentally approved zone. There were plenty of side roads off Englewood and plenty of kids to hang with. As a rule, Donnie wasn’t one of the kids I hung with. Why? Because he was a boy, an athletic boy who lived by a different set of rules than his younger-by-two-years sister. Donnie’s day revolved around mealtime. He woke at daybreak and bolted his ass out the door after breakfast. His destination, who the hell knew. He returned by lunchtime, bolted out the door and returned by dinner time. I had to incrementally earn bits and pieces of ‘venturing off’ territory. Without question, my bike was my way to freedom.

My street was a very short dead-ender with my family’s handyman-special sitting at the end on the right. In order to get to Hobson you’d take a right off Englewood, i.e., the ‘main drag’ of upper CP. Englewood was the final frontier, the street I needed to earn the right to coast and explore. Before I could do that, I had to earn my way to Englewood. How? By riding the roads off Hobson. While Donnie was claiming wide swaths of CP, I was riding Clive to Minthorn to Lovell or Clive to Minthorn to the tippity-top of Englewood and back again.

The families on those roads were part of my village, and the adult parents kept an eye on the Sneade girl while she was out and about. The spies' names were the Lamberts, the Arsenaults, and for a short while the Fords. Alaina Ford lived in CP for a very short time. One day she wasn’t there, the next she was, and soon after that she was gone. I think her father worked for a museum that had animals he cared for on the weekends at their home. I most vividly remember several large snakes in individual glass aquariums and an armadillo in some sort of glassy-wired cage-thingy. Gosh I’m good with descriptions. Anyway, I was completely unfamiliar with and fascinated by the armadillo. Mr. Ford ‘got that’ and spent much time explaining the animal’s armored body. He made the comparison between it and a knight in shining armor which leads me to think he worked for Higgins Armory Museum.

As a rule, I was never allowed to go into anyone’s home without getting permission from my mother. I broke this rule with Alaina because I was interested in the new arrivals, I wanted to piss my territory around the new girl, and Alaina was different from anyone I knew. She was very well-read, could spew facts about any topic, and she was adventurous. It wasn’t long before my ‘riding’ time away from Hobson Ave meant I was spending oodles of unsanctioned time inside or behind Alaina Ford’s house.

Sidestep: For my eleventh birthday Meme gave me a dainty pearl necklace; just one pearl hanging from a delicate silver chain. It was the first piece of real jewelry I’d been given and there was quite the hoopla from the adults about taking care of it, and not wearing it without permission, and blah, blah, blah. Did I understand those rules? You Betcha. Did I break those rules? You Betcha. Did I lose the necklace in the woods behind Alaina’s house? You Betcha! Did I get screwed to the wall for disobeying? You Betcha!!!!!

I remember that day as though it were yesterday, actually, I remember it better than I remember yesterday. Anyway, I did all of the normal things that morning: a little bathroom time, making my bed (we could not leave the house until it was made), having breakfast, doing whatever chores I had, then heading outside for some fun in the sun. I also remember heading back into the house and into my bedroom and into my jewelry box, the one with a ballerina inside who would come to spinning life when the top was opened (still have it), taking my pearl treasure, tucking the smuggled loot inside a ‘going to church’ hanky, and tucking it into the back pocket of my jean shorts.

And. Then. This. Happened.

I lost the hanky and the pearl.

After a lengthy search through the woods behind Alaina’s house, and all along the path I rode to her house, and a stop to ask Mrs. Arsenault if she might have seen a hanky fall from my pocket, which she had not, and the sour stomach admission to my mother and the first ever spanking on my ass from my father, I was given the ultimate punishment; I had to tell Meme I lost her valuable gift. She said something along the lines of, “That’s a tough lesson, one that will stay with you.”

It did and I used that story a year or so ago when Hadley was tempted to smuggle something to an overnight at her father’s house. We all explained that toys and new puppies do not mix well. The point I made was that puppies chew anything in sight so it was better to not risk taking whatever little trinket it was out of the house.

And. Then. This. Happened.

One very recent day, Hadley came home from Broadmeadow Brook summer camp in tears. Why? Because she smuggled something she wasn’t supposed to bring to the forested camp. The missing little toy absolutely did not warrant the amount of tears being shed. After the whole mom/daughter conversation, “You know you weren’t supposed to bring the toy to camp, right?”

“Yes.”

“And because you did and you lost your toy, the camp counselors had to look for something you lost which wasn’t supposed to be at camp.”

“Yes.”

“So now you know why you should follow the rules, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you still crying?”

“Because I’m going to have to tell MammyGrams I didn’t learn her lesson about Alaina.”

The two walked from the car with Hadley’s arms wrapped tightly around her mom’s leg and Hannah patting her little girl’s shoulder and me watching and wondering what the hell happened. Didn’t have long to wait to find out. The front door opened and Hannah suggested, “Hadley go get yourself a snack and a water.” Then asked me, “Who the hell is Alaina?”

My daughter and I marveled that Hadley remembered my pearl story, that she applied the parallels, and she even remembered Alaina’s name. Then we went on to say that we both really like that name.

Hadley learned a lesson the hard way that day.

And when I have teary-eyed concerns about whether or not Hadley will remember me, I make sure I push-in on this story.

And now …

It takes a village to die.

I want all of you to know that you are my village and I absolutely could not be going through this without you. The fact that you are reading my blogs, and enthusiastically waiting for them to be posted, and leaving emojis of support, or occasional comments, you have become my tethered lifeline. I mean that with the utmost sincerity. 

I appreciate …

The Sheila Lavalee Westerlind weekly reminder that she holds me close in her prayers. The Sue Rohr weekly wish that this wasn’t my life and her promise to see me through to the end. The Cheryl Del weekly appreciation that I’m writing the blog and the reminder that she is gaining so much from it. The Karen Gouin weekly reach-out to let me know she ‘got’ the point of the blog in very personal and deep ways.

And …

The weekly heartfelt and insightful responses from Linda Christina. The weekly prayerful reflection on the beach by Patti Magner and Kathy Gaffney and Joyce McTigue and Kathleen O’Neill. The weekly ‘first of the morning’ heart emoji from Kathy Lavalle Budgell who most definitely reads the blog as soon as it’s posted. The weekly writing appraisal of the talented Kevin Mullaney. The weekly emotional sharing by his kid sister, Colleen Mullaney. The weekly reminders from The Warden, The Goddess, and The Guru that I am held deeply in their hearts.

And the plethora of hearts, and likes, and care emojis from family, Marchrie and Denise, and friends, Jennifer and Helena that keep coming and coming. And from all of you who have taken hold of my lifeline — thank you.

And …

For three back again friends from Columbus Park, Paula Hackett O’Connor, Donna Hackett, and Janice Harvey, I’m attaching a fictional/non-fictional short story from my website.

My confession: I’m sorry to say that long periods of time this weekend were claimed by sleep and kept me from pushing all-in on a blog I started late last week. This is the first time I haven’t been able to finish what I started — sort of a deflating feeling.

But, there’s always Plan B.

For those who have not yet read this piece, I hope you enjoy it. For those who have read it, maybe another read is in order. And for all of you, I bet you will gain a clear understanding of why Columbus Park was a hell of a place to grow up.

Seriously? Maude?

Mind’s made up.

Call me Ishmael if you’d like, but do not call me by my given name, Maude. I hate my name and, to be perfectly honest, I am not very fond of the people who chose it for me, Francis and Grace Forbes. Of all the lovely, lyrical names in this world, my parents chose Maude for their baby girl, a precious newborn who, I assume, did nothing during the birthing process to warrant such a moniker. 

You will see, in very short order, that I did not suffer my name in silence. I groused about it every single day. A typical back and forth went something like this, “Seriously? Maude? That’s the name you chose?”

“Seriously, Maude? You’re still complaining?”

Others in our household offered unsolicited opinions on the name gnashing. My Nana, Gertrude Publicover, née Donovan, said on numerous occasions that she didn’t know what the name hubbub was about. “For God’s sake, it’s only a name,” said the woman who burdened the weight of Gertrude by making everyone call her Trudie. Nana didn’t fool me; she knew well what the name hubbub was about. Every time my Papa called her “Gertrude” I recognized the involuntary tremor that shimmied up her spine. Still, that didn’t stop Nana from adding her two cents, “Maude is a perfectly fine name,” she said in her lovely, lyrical brogue. “In Ireland it means strong battle maiden.”

Not helping, Gertie.

On my sixteenth birthday, during a family vacation to Papa Publicover’s birthplace on Prince Edward Island, I changed tactics. I opened a conversation, at least I tried to. “Mom, Dad,” I said calmly and without any tone, “why did you name me Maude? Was it a preemptive punishment for things I’d do to piss you off? Did you suspect I’d be squat of frame with tree stump legs? Did you lose a bet with the Devil?” All perfectly fine questions, I thought. They thought otherwise.

“Not this again,” Francis groaned.

“For God’s sake, Maude, must you ruin our vacation?” Grace chimed in.

“Ruin your vacation? You ruined my life,” I said before sprinting from Satan’s servants.

Most often, Papa Publicover tended my emotional sores. He understood my feelings and secretly called me, Em. I liked the pet name and I loved the man. As I knew he would, Papa came looking for me after the most recent row. He found me at the edge of a red sandstone cliff overlooking the stunningly blue waters of Summerside Harbour. At the moment of discovery, I was overlooking nothing. My face was pressed tightly to the top of my bent knees, lifted only to wipe my runny nose on the cuff of Grace’s favorite sweater. Had I looked around, I would have been rewarded with the unique beauty of the island. I would have marveled at the red and white crystal sand beaches curving along the water’s edge, would have watched tall blades of thick grass swish and whip loudly at windswept dunes, and been fancied by rolling fields covered with Queen Anne’s Lace. 

“Thinking of jumping?” Papa asked as he approached through hip-high grass.

“Are Francis and Grace close enough to see my final act?”

“No. They’re at the house with your siblings.”

I snorted. “You mean, Michael and Megan?”

Papa chuckled, “They have such nice names, don’t they?”

I tilted my head, pushed my hair aside and branded him, “Traitor.”

Papa chuckled and patted the top of my head. “Em, your hair is the deep red of the cliffs now.” He paused for effect, “You know, your hair might make it difficult for us to find you after your plunge.”

“I’ll tie it in a white ribbon,” I moaned.

“Good idea. Come to think, I haven’t heard much from you about your hair these days. Do you like the color any better?”

“Like it fine. Make sure everyone knows it was the name and not the hair that sent me over the cliff.”

Papa nudged me, then sat still for a few, “I don’t like your name, either,” he confessed.

I pushed to a sitting position, “You never told me that before.”

He looked over the edge of the cliff, “Figure I’d better say it now.”

I took a look around for evildoers and eavesdroppers before I spoke, “I’ll forgo the plunge for a bit if you tell me more about your aversion to the M-word.”

Papa Publicover removed his Irishman’s cap, though he is of the Swiss German Publicover lineage, and ran his hand through his thinning gray hair, “I took my fair share of ribbing over my name when I was young.”

“Your name is Paul,” I sneered. “There is no legitimate ribbing when your name is Paul,” I said dismissively.

“Paul Publicover. PP. Pee Pee Publicover,” the septuagenarian cringed.

“Ah,” I nodded my understanding. “Still, in the scheme of things, not so bad, Papa,” I declared.

“True. You know, I grew up with a girl who had it far worse than Pee Pee Publicover or Maude Forbes. Her name was Agatha Crump.”

An involuntary tremor shimmied up my spine, did a U-turn and headed back down, “Oh, that’s God awful.”

“Those were Agatha’s final words before jumping off Big Red,” Papa pointed to a sandstone cliff with death-drop wall.

Pee Pee and I were deep in the weeds and deep in laughter when Grace came looking for the birthday girl.

“It’s time for cake and presents, Mmmaaw…” the woman stopped short of saying my full name, “I think you’ll like your gifts this year,” she said as she headed back to the house.

I turned doubtful eyes to Papa, “She thinks I’ll like my gifts? Hasn’t happened yet.”

Papa nudged me as we walked to his childhood home. “This year I think your mother did right by you in the gift department, Em.”

“Yeah?” my step picked up. “What did she get me?”

“A new name,” the old man called out then damn near doubled over in laughter.

I sprinted ahead of my most favorite human being and called back over my shoulder, “Come on Pee Pee. We’ll do cake and presents then I’ll race you back to Big Red for a dive.”

Baby dolls and cans of crap.

Papa wasn’t wrong. I received two interesting and one standard issue gifts for my Sweet Sixteen. The first gift – the best gift – was the singing of the birthday song sans my first name, “….… Happy Birthday, dear Mmmaaw, Happy Birthday to you.” That enjoyable ditty was followed by the opening of a party bag stuffed full of colorful tissue paper, the first such presentation I’d ever received. Beneath the party fluff was a pair of pink and white polka dot baby doll pajamas with a new fashion feature called spaghetti straps that I’d mentioned months ago to Grace. I squealed with delight and smiled wide at the worrying woman sporting a thin line of sweat on her brow and upper lip. The standard issue gift was a writing journal identical to ones I’ve received for every birthday and Christmas since I turned eight. “Thank you,” I said with sincerity.

As Grace cleared away cake plates and gift wrappings, she discreetly handed me a pink bra, a really pretty, almost sexy, pink bra. “You need to wear this with the pajamas because of your ….…” she waved her finger back and forth through the air between my breasts.

I smiled at her unease, “Because of my boobs?”

“Brrrrreasts, Mmmaaw...” she stumbled and mumbled.

Apparently, Papa was right. I got a new name for my sixteenth birthday, and it’s Mmmaaw. 

“Are you listening to me, Mmmaaw? Boobs is such a crass term.”

“Yeah, but these are so much more than breasts,” I said with a shimmy.

“Fine,” Grace snapped, “you call them boobs, I’ll call you Maude.”

“Breasts it is,” I happily conceded.

My brother, Mike, stepped around the corner as soon as Grace left, “Megan and I are going for a bike ride, want to come?” he asked, eyes glued to the floor, face all crimson.

“Heard the boob conversation?” I teased.

“Forget I asked about the bike ride,” he said on his way out.

Mike was the greatest brother in the world, no hyperbole. Francis knew this and made frequent backhanded apologies for his lot in life, “Sorry about the short straw over there, Mike, but the other sister makes up for her.” It didn’t take the brains God gave turnips to decode Francis’ words – I was the short straw.

Getting back to the bike riding question posed by my brother, I appreciated that he asked me to join in. He’d been doing that his entire life, and heard me say, “sure” only once. The thing is, I didn’t want to join in. I wanted to stay in the shadows, far from the clarion calls of, “Maude the Flawed,” or “Maude the Claud,” or “Hey, Maude, hi, Maude, I thought you died, Maude.” Any wonder I much preferred hanging close to home or sheltering in place in my Teen Beat poster-covered bedroom?

There was one thing that got me out of the house with regularity though — the Monday, four p.m. neighborhood visit by the Bookmobile. If anyone cared to know where I was on Monday afternoons, they’d find me at the library on wheels. Hours before its scheduled arrival, I would venture down Newton Avenue, walk the length of Highland Street, bob and weave through a death-zone rotary I referred to as Kamikaze Square, and sit on the curb at the bottom of Jamison Avenue. I was always the first and sometimes the only one waiting at the curb, having made the harrowing trek for one reason only, a Nancy Drew mystery. Reading a “Nancy” my lingo, and writing in my journals made me happy. Happy enough to not join in.

Getting back to the time I said, “sure” to Mike: it was the summer of my thirteenth year, the milestone age when I could stay outside until the street lights came on. On my first night of neighborhood fun, I was introduced to my older brother, the shifty one. As we made our way down Newton, Mike kicked a square panel at the base of a tall unlighted streetlamp.

“It keeps it from coming on,” he informed with a laugh.

I nudged my brother, “Well, I’m having fun, so far.”

The virgin episode of Kick the Light preceded a rowdy game of Kick the Can at David Stern’s house. Teens from all over The Hill, a neighborhood that runs from Ames Pond to Broken Brook Parkway, gathered at the biggest yard with the most hiding places. On any given night that summer there was upwards of twenty teenagers playing. I know this tidbit because I was IT every single night. When I first showed up with Mike, David pulled me aside.

“If you’re the seeker, no one will call your name,” he whispered and winked.

David’s plan worked like a charm. Each night David kicked the can, I went to retrieve the can and ran it back to home base while would-be-hiders went would-be-hiding. From that point on, I was left alone – to hunt neighborhood kids without having to play with neighborhood kids. It was ingenious! When I found a hider, I called out his or her name, sent them to sit on David’s steps where they needed to stay until I found every other hider (never happened) or a hidden one snuck out and kicked the can which started the game over again (always happened). On the last night of summer vacation, I asked David if I could be a hider.

“Sure, and you can kick the can, too,” he said with a big smile.

“I bet I’m the last one found,” I nudged happily.

“I accept the challenge. I’m gonna be the seeker tonight.”

As the runners gathered round, and I waited to kick the can, I pondered where to hide. I’d spent every lazy, hazy, crazy day that summer searching inside barns, under porches, behind bushes and in Mr. Stern’s car for hiders. Halfway through the summer I stopped looking in Mr. Stern’s car because hiders there tended to be without certain articles of clothing.

“No hiding in the car for me,” I whispered.

“Good to know,” David nudged. “Go ahead and kick.”

The IT girl – a reference I fully sanctioned – kicked the can and watched it sail and bounce away. I took off toward the best hiding place on The Hill, a three-foot wide section of grass between Old Lady Fitch’s box hedge and her house. I was flying high over the squat bush toward the perfect landing strip. Perfect until I smelled IT. Squished between the ground and my chest was a pile of crap left by the Old Lady’s mutt, Stanley. I could have stood up, let me correct that, I should have stood up, but I stayed in that spot and waited for David to sniff me out.

As I cleaned up after the last Kick the Can game of my thirteenth summer, I was anointed a new name by the menacing ones, Kick the Crap Forbes. David tried to convince me it was no big deal and Mike did his best to spray crap off my shirt with a hose, but from where I stood it smelled like a very big deal. On the way home, my kindhearted brother let me kick the crap out of the streetlight panel before going inside to my crappy parents.

A change of heart.

A few days after the Prince Edward Island trip, Mike started his senior year, and I started my sophomore year at ASS High. Yes, ASS High. In 1961, the city of Amesley, a largely residential area in Essex County, Massachusetts, built two new high schools, one for residents in the north part of town and a one for residents in the south part of town. The decision for twin schools was made in a referendum vote after residents expressed their preference for smaller schools, less bussing, and nearby emergency centers – should cataclysmic events befall their rural community.

In spectacular fashion, members of the Amesley Educational Board screwed up. They omitted High from the two new schools’ official names. It was during the dedication ceremonies that the mistake was realized, and though promises were made that the mistake would be rectified, the die was cast. Amesley South School would forever be known at ASS High. Our archrivals from Amesley North took ASS High one step further and started referring to our school as The Hole. I’m sure my particular sensitivity to the branding of names intensified my umbrage to The Hole. I hated the reference, leaving no option but to embrace being an ASS.

My best friend on The Hill was Isabella Conway. Issy didn’t attend ASS High. The oldest girl in a very Catholic family would never be allowed such indignities. So, each morning, Isabella would don her blue, gold, and white skirt and blouse uniform, tie her hair back in a blue, gold, and white hair bow, shove her feet into a pair of spit-polished penny loafers, hop a bus and get her ass as far away from ASS High as possible. 

Issy and I met on our first day of kindergarten when the pretty girl with long chestnut braids, peaches and cream skin, and sparking blue eyes turned up her nose at the sound of my name. In an instant, we became bosom-less buddies. The grade school team of Conway and Forbes shared similar views on many things. We both thought Miss Noonan was the prettiest teacher at Ames Elementary, that “Loudspeaker Larry,” the man who made school announcements, was scary, and that Richie McGinty had the cutest rubbers in school. For those of you who didn’t grow up in the sixties, a point of reference — rubbers are shoe-shaped things that boys put over their shoes to keep them dry. Most rubbers from back in the day were black and bulky, Richie’s rubbers were green and sleek. I tell you this because I saw Richie McGinty with Patty Fletcher the night before I left for Prince Edward Island, and I just had to tell Issy. Though chances were slim I’d be able to talk to her, I called the Conway home. It took me twelve tries before the busy signal gave way to a ringing phone, and several promises to Mrs. Conway that I’d keep my call brief, before finally getting Issy on the line. And when I did, I let it rip. “I saw Richie McGinty and Patty Fletcher earlier.”

“Put Out Patty?” Issy laughed.

“I thought her name was, The Thrill on the Hill, doesn’t matter, have you seen Richie, lately? I asked my friend through a bit of heavy panting though I hadn’t done anything to warrant breathlessness.

“Yesssss,” Isabella hissed.

“He’s eighteen now, right?”

“Almost nineteen. He repeated second grade when his family moved to Amesley, remember?”

“Right. Do you remember Richie’s rubbers?”

“Yesssss,” Isabella did the hissing thing again.

“Richie’s old enough to wear the other kind of rubbers, now,” I said before Isabella and I heard the click of the second phone located somewhere in the sweeping Victorian that houses eight Conway progenies conceived without use of rubbers. I heard the yell of Mrs. Conway even though she was no longer on the jackline.

“Hang up, Isabella!”

I quickly finished, “I wonder if his new rubbers are green and sleek.” 

“Have fun on the island, Suzie,” my wonderful friend said on a laugh.

Since our first day of kindergarten, Isabella Conway has thrown out names for me to try on for size. I quickly tried Suzie. It didn’t fit, “Nope, too syrupy,” I said.

“That’s what you said the last time I suggested it,” Isabella laughed on a final click of the phone.

As it turned out, I did have fun on the Island, even postponed a swan dive off Big Red. I came to regret that decision when I was beset with a raging case of sea sickness on our return trip from island to mainland. After securing our station wagon inside the cavernous hull of the Bluenose ferry, the Publicovers and Forbes made their way upward toward open-air seating. It was during the promenading across the deck that Nana Gertie learned a rude lesson about standing aft to someone suffering the ills of sea sickness. I would have joined Mike in fits of laughter as my spew found Old Gertie square in the chest, but I was too busy tossing my innards from Yarmouth to Bar Harbor.

We arrived back from our trip the day before the start of school. I caught up with Issy by phone, learned that Put Out Patty had a new name, Preggers Patty, chose my first day of school outfit, and made amends with my stomach by sticking to a diet of liquids. As things would have it, the ocean-induced intestinal assault and the sipping of broth and tea magically stripped away the last five pudge pounds from my very changed sixteen-year-old body. When I dressed for school — I felt the changes — and they were all curvy ones. I shimmied into a pair of button-front Levi jeans, pulled on a white gauzy peasant shirt, slid into a pair of two-inch clogs, finger-combed my waist-length, cliff-red hair and sashayed my ass to ASS High.

Halfway there, Mike pulled next to me in his ’64 whatever-it-was he drove, “Get in,” he snapped. “Did you have to wear that to school?”

I looked at my favorite outfit and perplexed, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, but…”

I tilted my head and raised an inquisitive brow.

“You look too…”

Again. Tilted. Raised.

“Guys are starting to notice you,” he snapped.

I smiled wide and clapped my hands.

Mike groaned, “I guess there’s no way I’m gonna enjoy senior year with you looking like that.”

My first day back was the best day ever! Bobby Flynn, ASS High’s sophomore heartthrob looked my way when I entered homeroom, and he did not look away. As I passed close by I heard him whisper, “Maude the Bod.”

I took my seat behind Bobby, breathed in his ‘clean as a whistle’ scent, and checked the wall clock. “Seven-twenty-seven a.m. I’m going to record that time in my journal right above the words:

The exact moment I decided I love my name!”