M or F?

  “How long have you known?” my dad asked.

  “From day one,” I told my dad, suddenly wishing that I hadn’t brought up this whole subject. Where is Mom? I wondered. I guessed she was still at work. My dad doesn’t usually just come and start chatting with me, and it was kind of freaking me out. And the subject matter wasn’t helping, either. Even though I always think of my parents as pretty open-minded people, you never really know how someone of their generation is going to react to the whole queer thing.

  “Wow,” Dad said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “It’s just . . . interesting.”

  “What’s so interesting about it?” I demanded, maybe a little sharply. The thing is, I know that being queer isn’t easy for Marcus. Not like it’s some major disadvantage or challenge or whatever—but things are harder for him than for an average guy. And if my dad was going to say one single thing—

  “It’s just . . . interesting that you can never really know what’s going on in someone else’s mind,” my dad said finally, the words spilling out of him slowly. “If someone chooses not to tell you something, how would you ever know it? You’d think you could guess, but . . .” He shook his head.

  Wow. Deep thoughts, by Dad. I knew that there was something to what he was saying, but I just couldn’t wrap my brain around it. After all, I had a date—or whatever it was—in two hours, and I still needed to find an outfit. But my dad was still standing in my doorway, staring off into space, as though mesmerized by the workings of his brain.

  But at least he wasn’t a homophobe. That was a relief. Marcus is so in love with my family, I knew it would just kill him to think that my dad didn’t approve of him.

  I cleared my throat, which sort of snapped Dad out of his reverie. “So, uh—I’d better get ready,” I hedged.

  “Oh, sure.” Dad looked like he wanted to say something else but stopped himself and just nodded, smiling. “Well, I’m sure you’re going to have a great time with Jason.”

  “Jeffrey,” I corrected.

  “Jeffrey,” Dad repeated. “Right, right. Have fun with Jeffrey.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I told him. “Have fun at the potluck.”

  Dad gave me a final smile and loped down the hallway to his bedroom. It was funny to think about it, but I definitely got the impression that Dad was kind of disappointed that Marcus wasn’t interested in being my boyfriend after all. The whole idea made me giggle. I mean, maybe he and Mom had been planning our wedding behind my back. It’s funny how everyone is so eager to couple us up. Because we’re so alike, I guess.

  I yanked an orange miniskirt out of the closet and held it up. Does orange send out “I care enough to volunteer” signals? I wondered. I chucked it in the “maybe” pile and tried to quiet the nerves in my stomach. At least this is a group thing, I told myself as I pulled a pair of red velvet pants from my closet and tossed them in the “no” pile. That should take some of the tension away.

  Besides, we’ll be working the STF booth, I told myself.

  Whatever that is.

  The school carnival was already buzzing when I got there. It was a cool night—the first traces of the waning April chill hung in the air as the sun started to set. The decorations committee had strung white fairy lights between the booths, and the football field lights were on. People were running around adding finishing touches to booths, and someone had fired up the grill—the scent of cooking meat hung in the air, reminding me that I had forgotten to eat dinner. Oh, well, I thought as I looked around for Jeffrey’s booth. Maybe I can take a break from collecting tickets or whatever and run and get myself a burger. A veggie burger.

  “Francesca!”

  Looking over, I saw Marcus’s grandmother, Patricia, standing with a group of old ladies in outrageous hats. Patricia herself was done up like some kind of color-blind bag lady—she had on two feather boas—bright purple and fuchsia twisted together—an orange hat with cherries on the brim, a brilliant green dress, red pumps, and glitter eye shadow. I’d seen her in some pretty wild outfits before—including, once, a purple bustier and leather pants—but this really took the cake.

  “Hey, Patricia,” I said.

  “Hey, girl!” She gave me a huge, brilliant grin. “Look at you! You’re just as pretty as you can be!”

  “Thanks.” I smiled warmly, glad that my outfit had already received a thumbs-up. I’d struggled for an hour and forty minutes, trying on everything in the “maybe” pile—then trying on the “no” pile, just in case I’d missed something. I was about to start on “no way,” when I decided that I had to pick something or I’d be late, so I went with a clingy black V-neck sweater and vintage silver-and-peacock-blue cigarette pants. It was kind of borderline dressy casual, which—given that I had no idea what Marcus had volunteered me to do—seemed the safest bet. And it was kind of low-cut, so I knew that Belina would approve. “Um . . . love your outfit too,” I told Patricia, because I felt I had to say something.

  Patricia let out this huge belly laugh. “Oh, now, go on!” she said, giving her outfit a twirl, so that I got the full effect. I hadn’t noticed the big yellow bow in the back. “The Wailing Grannies and I are here to do a little a cappella. Gonna rock this place! Right girls?” she called.

  The Wailing Grannies let out a cheer, and one of them said something that sounded like “Bust out the beats!”

  “I didn’t know you were in a singing group.”

  “Well, it’s sort of a combination singing group and drinking club,” Patricia confided. “Once we do our thing, it’s Miller time!”

  The Wailing Grannies let out another cheer.

  “Bust out the beers!” one of them said.

  “Which brings me to my question,” Patricia went on. “Have you seen Marcus? He’s our ride home tonight.”

  “Uh, no,” I said, relieved that this was actually the truth. I wasn’t sure that Marcus would be thrilled to find out he was the Wailing Grannies’ designated driver. “But if I see him, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.” More like warn him, I added mentally.

  “Thanks, darlin’!” Patricia chirped. “And let him know that I’m going to dedicate our first song to him.”

  “I sure will.”

  With a quick wave, I left the Wailing Grannies behind and started to prowl the booths. Most of them were pretty typical—dunking booth, bottle toss, balloon pop, blahbie, blahbie, blah. . . . Where was the Heifer International/Save the Ferrets booth?

  Suddenly, a guy dressed as a pirate jumped out in front of me and shouted, “GAR!”

  I let out a shriek.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Jeffrey flipped up his eye patch and smiled at me, his warm blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to clear the adrenaline that was now pumping through my body. “No, no—I’m sorry,” I said, feeling totally girly and lame. “It’s just . . . I always scream during a pirate attack.”

  Jeffrey tipped his tricornered hat back on his head and planted his fists at the sides of the wide belt he wore over a long, raggedy pirate coat. “I’m not a pirate,” he said, grinning. “I’m a Central High Buccaneer.”

  “Oh.” I nodded like it made sense that he was dressed as our rival school’s mascot. Play along, I told myself. Clearly this has something to do with STF. . . .

  “Come on over,” Jeffrey said, waving me toward a nearby booth. Astrid was already there, looking glamorous in a green off-the-shoulder sweater worn over slim black pants.

  She smiled when she saw me. “Hello, Francesca.”

  “Hi, Astrid.” Grr. How long has she been here? I wondered. That was so like Astrid, to show up at the booth early just to sneak in some extra time with Jeffrey.

  “I think I stuck your costume under here,” Jeffrey said, reaching under the table.

  Costume? That was when I looked up and saw the banner. “Shoot the freak?” I said out loud. Please tell me
that those words don’t mean what I think they mean. . . .

  “Yeah—didn’t Astrid do a great job with the sign?” Jeffrey asked as he held out something to me that looked like a plastic suit of armor and a black bodysuit. “I decided that you should get to be the St. Thomas Fighting Knight. I’ve got on padding, but some of those paintballs can wing you pretty hard.” He smiled and patted his chest. “The armor should protect you pretty well, though.”

  “What’s Astrid going to be?” I asked, thinking, Please, Lord, let her be the Springfield Fighting Duck. . . .

  “I’m the ticket taker,” Astrid said brightly.

  Great, I thought. That’s the kind of job you get when you actually do the volunteering for yourself. Frannie, I thought, that could have been you.

  “Anyway,” Jeffrey went on, “the idea is that you and I will just run around in here—through the bales of hay—while people shoot at us. Anyone who hits us gets a Heifer International T-shirt . . . but we’ve only got about thirty of them—so we really have to try hard not to get hit.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I told him, smiling through gritted teeth. Marcus Beauregard, you are a dead man, I thought.

  “You can go get changed in the girls’ locker room,” Jeffrey said. “Astrid and I still have a little more hay to set up.”

  I definitely did not like how easily “Astrid and I” tripped off his tongue. I mean, I knew that Jeffrey and I had been hanging out lately . . . but I still didn’t feel like he realized that he was The One. So don’t blow it, I told myself. Act cheerful. Act like you got yourself into this. “Okay!” I chirped, like getting shot at with paintballs was a dream come true. I gripped the plastic armor and headed for the locker room.

  Just as I was about to push my way through the door, I spotted Marcus walking past the cotton candy booth. He took one look at me and scurried in the other direction.

  “Come back here!” I shouted, darting after him. I finally caught him by the collar and he stopped in his tracks.

  “Let go, let go!” he begged. “You know I hate it when my clothes get stretched out.”

  “Oh, boo hoo, Marcus,” I snarled. “Do you know what STF is?”

  “I just found out,” he admitted, “and I am so, so, sorry. . . .” He tried to look like he meant it, but I could tell that a little smile was peeking out at the corner of his mouth.

  “This is so not funny. I have to wear a plastic suit of armor!”

  “Well,” Marcus said, stifling a giggle, “at least you have a date. And metallics are really in this year.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Five words, Marcus: payback is a bitch.”

  “Um, I think payback is one word,” he said. He was really grinning now.

  “Go ahead, dig your own grave,” I snapped. Then I turned and stalked off as Marcus cracked up. “And by the way—Patricia and the Wailing Grannies are looking for you.”

  The smile dropped off Marcus’s face. Ha, I thought. You deserve that, Marcus Beauregard. That and a whole lot more.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Jeffrey shouted as he jumped from a bale of hay. Pete Keynes took aim, but the paintball whizzed past Jeffrey’s tricorn and splattered yellow against the back-board. “Gar, gar, gar!” he said in his pirate voice. “You’ll never catch Buccaneer Bob, you scurvy scum!”

  Pete loaded another ball into the gun and let fly, but Jeffrey ducked away just in time.

  “Next,” Astrid shouted as Pete put down the gun and Melanie Johnson stepped forward.

  “Fran,” Jeffrey whispered to me, “you’ve got to run around a little more.”

  I looked up at him. I was crouched behind a tall bale of hay, and I hadn’t moved for the past ten minutes. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to get hit,” I said.

  “Well, yeah,” Jeffrey admitted. “But you know, you have to give them a chance.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “Just try it. It’s really fun.” Just then, Melanie shot him in the arm. “Ow! Crap!”

  “A winner!” Astrid shouted. Only her accent made it sound like “veener.” A cheer went up.

  Why couldn’t I have gotten her job? I wondered miserably. She got to sit there looking gorgeous, while I was stuck wearing someone’s old Halloween costume and eau de sweat. Seriously—the girl was starting to work my nerves.

  I stood up as Jeffrey smiled at me. “Well—that’s why you run around, right?” he said cheerfully, rubbing the spot on his arm where he was splattered with blue paint.

  Lurching awkwardly in the armor, I started to lunge around between the bales of hay as Stuart Jenks loaded up the gun. That was bad news—I knew that Stuart and his dad went hunting a lot. He’s the only kid in school who actually drives a pickup with a gun rack on the back. . . .

  I lurched harder.

  Oh my God, I thought as I stared at the crowd lined up at our booth. There had to be fifty people waiting for a turn to shoot at us and another thirty or so just standing around watching. Marcus was in the line—about ten people back—and he grinned, giving me a little wave. Narrowing my eyes at him, I dropped my visor.

  “Prepare to meet your holy grail!” Stuart shouted as he aimed at me.

  “Crap!” I dove behind a bale of hay as Stuart missed.

  “That’s great, Fran!” Jeffrey shouted. “Isn’t this fun?” He turned toward Stuart. “What’s the matter, matey? No match for a buccaneer?”

  I GI-Joed toward another hay bale as Stuart unleashed a paintball at Jeffrey, barely missing his tricorn. Stuart tried another shot at my feet, but he didn’t get anywhere close. He had to hand over the gun to Mr. Carter, the phys-ed instructor and soccer coach.

  “You ruined our undefeated season!” he shouted, shooting at my shin.

  “Ow!” The paintball drove into my plastic shin guard, which stung against my leg. “Jeez!”

  “Another veener!” Astrid shouted. The crowd went wild.

  “Frannie!” I heard Jenn call from somewhere in the crowd. I scanned the line. She, Belina, and Keith had joined Marcus in the line. Belina waved madly as Marcus whispered something in Jenn’s ear. She giggled.

  “Perfect outfit!” Jenn shouted to me. “Metallics are really in this year.”

  “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t wear a skirt?” Belina yelled.

  I waved at them, flashing a huge, fake smile. “Kill you all later!” I hollered.

  “Keep moving!” Jeffrey called to me. “Keep moving!” He darted up onto a bale of hay, then leaped off it, crowing madly.

  I decided to follow his lead and run around like a maniac. It was hard to move in the armor, but that actually turned out to be something of an advantage, as it forced me to run in a weird, lurching, zigzaggy way. This is great practice in case I ever find myself trapped inside a video game, I told myself. And think of all of the calories you’re burning.

  Just keep lurching.

  “Gar, gar!” Jeffrey said, slapping me on the back. “You did great!”

  After three hours, it was finally over. I shoved back my visor with a paint-smeared silver glove. My hair was stuck to my scalp, and I don’t even want to think about what I smelled like. I’d been hit eleven times, and I knew I was going to be sore and bruised up the next day. But the way Jeffrey was looking at me right then . . . Well, suddenly, the pain and sweat and stink seemed very far away. “Yeah?” I said breathlessly.

  Jeffrey nodded, then looked away. “Uh—how much money did we earn, Astrid?”

  “Five hundred thirty-five dollars,” Astrid said, tucking her pale blond hair behind her ear. She crossed one slim black-clad leg over the other, dangling an elfishly pointy green suede mule from her toes. God, I hate your stupid European shoes, I thought. Go to an outlet mall! Shop normal!

  “Five hundred thirty-five dollars?” Jeffrey crowed, as though she had just said “a hundred million.” It didn’t seem like that much to me. Note to self, I thought: If I ever have to get shot at again, demand more money.

  “Hey, Jeffo!” Glenn called as he strutted over to our booth. ?
??How’d you make out?”

  “Five thirty-five,” Jeffrey called.

  “Wow!” Glenn looked really surprised. “That’s more than twice as much as anybody else.”

  “For real?” I asked.

  “Thanks to you, Lady Lancelot,” Glenn said, sitting on our booth’s table.

  “Well—what can I say?” I replied. “A lot of people want to shoot at me, I guess.”

  Glenn laughed. “I know that must have been really fun,” he said sarcastically. “Not every girl would agree to run around like an insane chicken while people shot at her. But it was really sweet of you to do it. . . .” He glanced at Jeffrey.

  “Oh yeah,” Jeffrey agreed. “Very sweet. Really, really sweet.”

  Astrid glared at me, and suddenly I felt a whole lot better. “Well, it was a lot of fun,” I lied. “Besides, it’s for a good cause.”

  “See? That’s the spirit!” Glenn said. “I’m sure that Jeffrey can’t wait to find some way to thank you.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  I felt my neck grow warm. I could think of about a million ways that would work just fine. . . .

  Jeffrey nodded. “Absolutely. In fact . . .” He reached for the box under the table. “You did such a good job not getting shot that we have a few T-shirts left over. Do you want one?”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. I blushed a little, accepting the shirt. Actually, it wasn’t bad. It said HEIFER INTERNATIONAL in small letters on the front left, and had a picture of a cow on the back. It was about forty zillion sizes too big for me. “I can wear it to sleep in.”

  “Then you can think about Jeffrey in bed,” Glenn said.

  Jeffrey looked like he was about to die, and I blushed a little more. Not so much because of Glenn’s comment, but because I felt kind of like a fraud. I mean, the truth was, I’d had a horrible time wearing the hot, stinky armor and getting shot at. And I hadn’t even volunteered on purpose. In fact—I hadn’t volunteered at all. That was Marcus, in the role of Frannie.

  On the plus side, though, Jeffrey seemed to like me better than ever. I thought. So I must be doing this girlfriend thing right. . . .