The Way Back to Happiness by Elizabeth Bass

Leah working at the school, too, the three would form a regular Kirby cabal at New Sparta High. Did Glen count himself as part of the inner circle . . . or was he just interested in Jackie? She was pretty, and no doubt at domestic loose ends now that her brother was a newlywed.
    She forced a smile. “Alabama and I had better shake a tail feather if we’re going to have any kind of day in Dallas. Thank you again for the loan, Glen. I promise to pay it back.”
    “Forget it,” he said. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”
    Back in the car, her mind raced. So Jackie was trying to get her claws into Glen. And Lon’s new wife was going to take over the choir. Her choir. Bev had already spent a few days this summer picking out songs and special numbers they could do.
    Lon, a hometown boy made good, had only boomeranged back two years earlier to take the job as principal. The New Sparta equivalent of coming home in a blaze of glory. Unfortunately, he’d disliked Bev from the start. He was one of those newfangled principals who’d spent more time studying theory than actually standing in front of a class teaching—all diploma and no chalk dust, some of the teachers grumbled. His concerns were for grading systems and standardized test scores. And winning things. He’d been withering about the choir’s failure to garner any prizes last year, even though several people had told Bev that their showpiece—“Where Did Robinson Crusoe Go With Friday on Saturday Night?”—was one of the cutest things they’d ever heard. Lon had made a joke about Lawrence Welk . . . as if there was anything wrong with a fun, old-fashioned song.
    For that matter, what was wrong with Lawrence Welk? The man was a national treasure.
    “So there really is a Glen,” Alabama said, breaking into her thoughts.
    “Did I ever say there wasn’t?” Bev asked.
    Alabama aimed her gaze out the passenger window, to the last swelling hills before the flat blackland prairie took over the landscape. The car devoured several miles of highway, and then Alabama spoke again. “Was he the guy before Derek?”
    Bev shifted uncomfortably. “This is a personal matter.”
    Alabama let out a snort. “Oh, right. Excuuuuse me.” She opened a Twinkie packet and stuffed one in her mouth.
    “Is that your breakfast? It’s nothing but chemicals.”
    Alabama smacked her lips. “Yummy chemicals!”
    She’s trying to get a rise out of me. Exactly the way Diana used to. But Bev wouldn’t let her. She gritted her teeth through the popping open of a soda can and the slurping that followed. When Alabama broke into a bag of M&M’s, however, Bev could no longer hold her tongue.
    “I made oatmeal this morning.”
    In reply, Alabama crunched down on a piece of candy.
    “You have to eat something nutritious,” Bev said.
    “I am.” Alabama held a green M&M up for inspection. “That’s why I got the ones with peanuts.”
    “They’re candy.”
    “If Glen likes you,” Alabama said, backtracking, “why do you have the thing with Derek?”
    “Why do you think Glen likes me?”
    Alabama shrugged. “I could just tell. He’s a lot nicer than Derek.”
    “You only spoke to him for a minute.”
    “That’s about as much as I’ve ever spoken to Derek,” Alabama said. “Even though he’s been to the house three times.”
    The two had not hit it off. Of course, Derek was naturally a little prickly around strangers, and maybe he wasn’t used to being around teenagers. And Alabama hadn’t done much more than mope while he was around.
    “You have to admit that Derek is better looking.”
    Alabama’s lips scrunched. “He looks like that actor . . .”
    “Tom Selleck,” Bev said. “I always thought so, too.”
    “No . . .” She chewed another M&M, thinking. “That other actor—the sleazebag guy.”
    Sleazebag!
    “What’s his name?” Alabama frowned in concentration. “The guy who makes the action pictures?”
    “Mel Gibson?” Bev guessed.
    “Charles