Ten by Lauren Myracle Page A

because how could anyone make a rule about who was friends with who? As for “the whole issue of boys,” well, what did that even mean? Frankly, being afraid of “the whole issue of boys” seemed as random as being afraid of the Bathroom Lady. Who was to say that either even existed?
    But Amanda heard me out about my fears. She giggled, yes, but she didn’t say, “Oh, you’re so stupid. The Bathroom Lady—what a stupid thing to be scared of!”
    I was determined to be just as supportive. “Okay, but how does your mom know all that stuff?” I asked. “Maybe that happened when she was ten, but that was her childhood. Not ours.”
    Amanda pulled her eyebrows together, maybe because I’d said the word childhood . “Childhood” wasn’t a term kids generally used.
    â€œI mean, are you afraid of boys? Because I’m not.” I flashed briefly on that day in Wilderness Survival Day Camp, when I went to introduce myself to that cute boy named Mars Bar and turned into a frozen corn dog instead. But that was a one-time occurrence. I banned it from my mind.
    â€œAnd Amanda, no one can make rules about who we can be friends with,” I said. “Anyway, aren’t we pretty much friends with everybody?”
    â€œI guess,” Amanda said.
    â€œYou and Chantelle and I are best friends, but we’re nice to everyone.”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œAs for gossip?” I did a nose-snortle to express my thoughts on that. I did it again, because it was fun. “Gossip is dumb.”
    She nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
    I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe there wasn’t anything else to say. Maybe the best strategy was to do something instead.
    â€œDismount time!” I exclaimed. “I’m going to do the razzle-dazzle-fluff-’n’-puff. Ready?”
    â€œOn three,” she said. “One, two—”
    By the time I heard the three, I was already in the air, spazzing out and flailing my limbs before collapsing on the grass. Flushed, I scooched on my bottom toward the vines of honeysuckle at the edge of the yard. Stuck into the ground was a bee-yoo-tee-ful stepping-stone that Amanda made from a kit, with pretty stones embedded around her handprint. I plonked my booty on that bee-yoo-tee-ful thing and said, “What’s my score?”
    â€œTen out of ten,” Amanda said. “A razzly-dazzly delight.”
    â€œWhy, thank you. And now, your turn.”
    Amanda pretended to consider her options, but we both knew she’d choose statue, because she always chose statue. She would sail from the swing and land solidly on her feet, which she called sticking it . She’d lift her arms triumphantly, and I’d award her an eleven out often.
    â€œI’m waiting,” I prompted in a singsong voice. A pesky wasp said bzzzzz into my ear, and I shook my head. Luckily, I’d put my hair up in doggy ears, and doggy ears were like cow tails: excellent at pesky-buzzing-insect shooing.
    â€œStatue,” she announced.
    â€œAre you sure ?” I said. “Are you positive ? Why not try a triple flip this time? Or, I know! You could land in a handstand and then do a backbend to get to your feet.”
    â€œStatue,” she said.
    I smiled to myself, chalking that up as one more thing that would never change.
    â€œAre you going to count, or not?”
    â€œRight,” I said. “One . . . two . . . three!”
    Amanda soared through the summer air, her watermelon shirt a blur. Her blond hair streamed behind her, set off by the red of her red bow. She landed, stuck her chest out, and flung her hands high and wide.
    â€œWh-hoo!” I cheered. “Yes, ladies and germs, you saw it here first! The amazing Amanda Wilson performing her amazing—”
    Amanda yelped. Her eyes bugged out, and she jumped around in a frenzy. “Help!” she cried. “Winnie! Help! ”
    I leaped up.