The next Youth Action seemed a repeat of the weekend before. As promised, Lucy was again Mrs. Mudd's appointed helper, and they were back at the VFW. This time, Lucy cleaned the mounds of dishes left behind by all those ice sculptors. She soaked, scoured, and scrubbed dishes all day Saturday. On Sunday, she cleaned toilets, and there was no pleasing Mrs. Mudd when it came to toilets. Lucy had to use a toothbrush. At the end of the day, Lucy was so tired, she fell asleep in Mrs. Mudd's car.

  But that Sunday, Lucy came home and found a package on her bed. She crawled up on the bed beside it, put her head on the pillow, and picked at the tape until it opened.

  A yellow walkie-talkie!

  Lucy sat up.

  And this was an X67 with the five-mile radius! Attached was a note: Call me when you get home. Zoë.

  Lucy hopped off the bed and cheered. She walked over to her bedroom window. She could see Zoë's light on. She turned on the walkie-talkie. "Zoë? Are you there, Zoë?"

  Zoë walked into view, waved, and picked up her own yellow walkie-talkie.

  "Hey, you're home," said Zoë. "How was it?"

  "Not too bad," said Lucy. "Nothing exciting, that's for sure. Thanks for the walkie-talkie, though!"

  "No problem," Zoë said. "We need tools of communication! Hey, guess what?"

  "What?"

  "I got my period."

  For a moment, Lucy held the walkie-talkie to her mouth, unable to say anything. Her first impulse was "No!" because now Zoë was light-years ahead of Lucy in terms of adolescent "development." Lucy knew she was comparing herself to Zoë again, but somehow she didn't care.

  She searched her mind for something to say, but what did people say in such circumstances? At a funeral, an "I'm sorry" served just fine. At a wedding, "Congratulations." Lucy doubted she'd ever seen an "On the Day of Your First Menses" card on Tamarack Books' rack of cards "for every occasion .""Yes!" seemed strange, since this wasn't a sports event, and anyway, it wasn't how Lucy felt at all. Lucy's mom would know what to say, but Lucy was trying not to think about her.

  Finally, Lucy thought of something. She pressed the button with her thumb and spoke. "Did it hurt?"

  "No," said Zoë. "It was just embarrassing. It came through my pants. But Edna said that's how it happened to her, too."

  "Edna? Edna was there?" This was Lucy's one thought.

  "She and her mom stopped by the bakery, and good thing they did, too—otherwise I wouldn't have noticed!"

  "Oh," said Lucy.

  Zoë proceeded to tell Lucy all about it.

  Lucy stepped away from her window and slumped on her bed. She half listened to what Zoë said, the other half of her mind listing all the things that had happened to Zoë that hadn't happened to Lucy: height, breasts, bras, and now her period. And Edna had her period, too? Edna, who also liked to make things and shop at The Wild Thrift? Maybe shopping at The Wild Thrift indicated an increase of hormones. If so, Lucy was on empty. The Wild Thrift didn't do anything for her.

  As if on cue, Zoë said: "... So Edna and her mom went to The Wild Thrift to buy me a pair of pants, and they fit perfectly. It was my favorite color of purple, too. You know, grape!"

  "Wow," said Lucy blandly.

  Lucy stretched out on her bed, listening and feeling the injustice of it all. Why didn't all bodies change at the same time? Then everybody would be equal. Also, it wasn't fair that Zoë still had a life, while Lucy was in the middle of her second detention, plus Youth Action. Now Zoë—Lucy's best friend since second grade—was using this opportunity to make a new best friend. Why had Zoë even bothered buying these walkie-talkies?

  Lucy inwardly moaned and let Zoë talk on, while picking up today's unopened letter from her mom. There was quite a stack on the dresser. Lucy flipped the letter over in one hand and picked at the seal with her thumb. Maybe she'd finally get around to reading one of these letters. She was starting to become curious about what her mom was writing, and the truth was, Lucy couldn't control thinking about her mom. No matter how hard she tried to stop, the thoughts stormed in and out of Lucy's mind at will, kicking furniture and slamming doors.

  Finally, Zoë said: "Hey, do you want to come over?"

  No way, thought Lucy. This was about all the period/Edna talk Lucy could take. "Can't," she said, yawning pointedly. "I've got stuff to do, and I'm exhausted. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Over and out."

  Lucy turned the walkie-talkie off and curled into her bed.

  Go away, she thought. And Lucy realized then that it wasn't just Zoë with her wonder-body and her new friend who bothered her. Lucy realized she wanted everyone to go away: the ever-ignoring Sam Shipman (who obviously hated her), her mom (whose letters kept reminding Lucy that she did exist), her dad (he kept asking if she was okay, gazing at her with those sad eyes), and herself.

  Yes, Lucy couldn't even stand her own self. How had she ever thought that she was gifted and talented at "stirring the populace"? Well, if the postcard campaign had been a test, then Lucy had failed it, totally bombed.Things had gotten so bad that she'd had to call in her dad to help her! At this point, Lucy should practice her typing, because it looked like the best she could hope for in life was a career in word processing.

  "Go away, all of you," she whispered.

  Lucy felt a muscle squeeze tight under her rib cage, and she tried to breathe deeply to get it to release, but it sat there, hard as a pebble.

  So Lucy lay back on her bed, closed her eyes, and imagined sledding down Wiggins Hill. She pushed off from the top, to the right of that huge maple, lying on her belly. The hillside rushed by, and the cold air pushed against her face, making her cheeks smart and her eyes water. She tried steering using the metal handles, and when that didn't work, Lucy let her feet drag like rudders to avoid snake-grass, divots, and was that a root? She slid down, down, down. And with her eyes closed, Lucy found she could keep the sensation going on and on. She reached the end of Wiggins Hill, crossed Twelfth Street, Eleventh Street, Tenth Street, the street numbers counting down until she hit Main Street, which she crossed, too. Then she jumped a little dip behind Main Street and glided into the public park, passing the amphitheater on her right, and finally, after a bumpy moment on the rocks, she slid out, out, out onto a frozen Turtle Rock Lake. The sled sped on, in no danger of stopping. Somewhere around Turtle Rock Island, in the middle of the lake, Lucy fell asleep.

  It was around this time that Lucy began to develop a genuine affection, a crush, on two activities: sleeping and academics. Lucy loved the smell of clean sheets, a freshly made bed, and that moment when a person peels back the sheets; slips between them; and, head on pillow, sinks into oblivious sleep. (Lucy did not have trouble making her bed or doing laundry during this period.) Academics were the bridge from school to bed, and Lucy welcomed pages and pages of books. The letters marched like ants across the pages, guiding Lucy to the end of one more day, one fewer day in this never-ending punishment. Very quickly, everything between sleep and studying grew dim and hazy. People skirted the perimeters of Lucy's existence.

  Lucy noticed some things. In classes, Lucy noticed that Ms. Kortum seemed especially nice to her. At home, she noticed that her dad repeatedly asked her when she wanted to redeem the mukluks gift certificate, and that he bought her creams and ointments for her arms. (They were red and sore.) As for the Rossignol Bakery, well, Lucy wasn't going there as much as before. It suddenly seemed too far a walk.

  One day, around the middle of February, all the junior-high students heard this at the end of Principal Adams's morning announcements:

  "... And finally, students, I'd like to remind you that hats are not to be worn during school hours. Please leave your hats in your lockers. Thank you for your attention."

  That day, in almost every class period, the teacher asked Lucy Moon to remove her green-and-yellow hat. Lucy stood up and defended the hat again and again. It was exhausting, and she didn't understand why today the hat had become an issue, when she'd been wearing it since the beginning of school. At the end of the day, when her math teacher, Mr. Odegard, asked Lucy to remove her hat, she almost expected it.

  Still, she couldn't help but feel disappointed in Mr. Odegard. Lucy was one of the best math students in her year (especially now that she did so much homework) .

  Lucy stood up, sighing. "Sorry, Mr. Odegard, but this hat represents the oppression of the Mexican worker, and the United States businesses that hire sweatshop labor, where women do piecework for pennies. Also, this hat is made of hemp, which should be legal."

  Lucy sat down. She put her head on her desk and closed her eyes.

  "Lucy," said Mr. Odegard. "Did you hear what I asked you to do?"

  Lucy pulled her head off the desk and gazed at him. "Yeah," she said.

  "Take off your hat?"

  "Sorry," she said. She shook her head and said, "No."

  "You'll have to see Principal Adams, then." Mr. Odegard sighed.

  "Why? You never cared before," said Lucy.

  In response, Mr. Odegard pointed at the door.

  "Now?"

  "Now."

  When Lucy got to the principal's office, she found the secretary waiting for her. The secretary pointed to the principal's door, and when Lucy entered, Principal Adams swung around in his chair and put his hand out.

  "The hat," he said.

  "How did you know it was about the hat?"

  Principal Adams didn't answer. Instead he smiled that principal smile of his and said: "I'm waiting." His hand remained outstretched.

  "No," said Lucy. She put a hand on her hat. "This hat represents the oppression of Mexican workers. . . ."

  "I've heard about it, Lucy," he said. "Now give it to me."

  "What are you going to do if I don't? Give me more detention? I mean, you've done everything to me and I haven't done anything."

  "How about suspension?" said Principal Adams. "This isn't an idle threat, Lucy."

  "For a hat? I'm going to get suspended for a hat?"

  "By the time I count to three, I want that hat in my hand." He paused, raised his eyebrows, and continued, "One . . ."

  "Do you want my boots too? What about my socks? It's a piece of clothing—a simple, lousy piece of clothing. I'm keeping it!"

  "Two . . ."

  "Maybe I walk funny or I'm too short? Or what about the fact I don't wear a bra?You should suspend me for that. I certainly don't fit in here."

  "Thr—"

  "Okay!" said Lucy, throwing the hat Frisbee style. "It's yours now!" she yelled. "Are you happy?" (Lucy was embarrassed about yelling in the end—mostly because Principal Adams knew he had gotten to her—but there was nothing she could do about it.)

  Principal Adams caught the hat out of the air. Then he walked to his closet, the one where he kept confiscated items, opened it, and tossed the hat inside. Lucy felt sick.

  "And now I want you to go home," Principal Adams said. "You're not suspended, but you are this close to it." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. "I tried to warn you that this was not elementary school."

  Principal Adams got up from his desk and held his office door open for her.

  Lucy grabbed her backpack and decided to walk directly down to the Rossignol Bakery. She was tired of all the peace and quiet at her house, and at the Rossignol Bakery at least she'd be around people. On the walk down, the image of her hat spinning into the dark mouth of the confiscation closet played over and over in her mind. Principal Adams had no right to do that, thought Lucy. He shouldn't have done that!

  But as Lucy walked down the hill into town, other thoughts crept in. Oh, who cares? Let it go. Why fight it anymore? And she found herself agreeing. Yeah, wasn't this enough? At least hatless, there was no reason for Lucy to attract more attention. She didn't know how much attention she could take.

  "Where's your hat? And why aren't you in detention?" Zoë demanded when she arrived at the bakery and saw Lucy doing homework hatless.

  "Principal Adams took the hat and he sent me home, so I came here," said Lucy.

  Zoë gasped. "He took your hat?"

  Lucy looked up at her and felt irritated by Zoë's outraged expression.

  "Don't worry about it," said Lucy. "It's just a hat. Maybe it was time to stop wearing it anyway, you know?"

  "It matters," Zoë said. She stopped in front of Lucy, her right foot tapping. "And I know it matters to you, too. I know it does. I just don't know what's gotten into you. It's like you're drugged."

  "Look, whatever," said Lucy, tossing her pencil down on the coffee table and stretching out on the red couch. "Do you think your mom would mind if I slept here for a bit?"

  "You are not going to sleep!" said Zoë. "How can you be going to sleep at a time like this?"

  But Lucy pretended not to hear her and kept her eyes shut.

  "Anyway, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go to The Wild Thrift with Edna and me."

  Lucy shut her eyes firmly and let her breathing go slower and deeper. Edna and Zoë, Zoë and Edna, Edna and Zoë—la, la, la, la, la.

  "Fine," said Zoë. "Be that way. And for the record, I know you're not asleep."

  Lucy drifted off a few minutes later.

  * * *

  Lucy woke with someone shaking her, someone who smelled like cinnamon, coffee, chocolate, and . . . Lucy opened her eyes . . . someone whose aproned bosom was in her face. Mrs. Rossignol.

  "Lucy . . . Lucy . . . wake up, dear."

  Lucy scrambled to sit up.

  "Sorry, Mrs. Rossignol," she said.

  Lucy noticed that the storefront portion of the bakery was dark, except for the fluorescent lights in the back, and that all the chairs sat on top of the tables with their legs in the air. "What time is it?"

  "It's closing time," said Mrs. Rossignol, pushing Lucy's hair out of her eyes, "and I expect your father is waiting for you. You can call him as soon as I let you know about one little thing." Mrs. Rossignol sat back.

  "Okay," said Lucy. She wasn't sure what this meant.

  "Now, I wouldn't be telling you this if I didn't love you, correct?"

  The words "love" and "wouldn't be telling you" in the same sentence? Not good. "Okay," said Lucy in a small voice.

  "Zoë spent all of her savings on those yellow walkie-talkies so that she could talk to you, and from what I can tell, you've only used them once or twice. Is this true?"

  "I don't know," said Lucy. She didn't know. It hadn't been a lot, but . . .

  "Now, I don't care about walkie-talkies," continued Mrs. Rossignol. "What I care about is friendship. My Zoë misses you, Lucy, and you've been treating her . . ." Here, Mrs. Rossignol sighed and picked at a spot on her apron. "... Well, you've been treating her not so good. She has gone out of her way for you again and again. And I don't know what's gotten into you, Lucy."

  Lucy started to protest, but Mrs. Rossignol put out her hand and stopped her.

  "Oh, yes, I know things have been tough for you," said Mrs. Rossignol. "But you're feeling sorry for yourself— poor, poor Lucy—and I won't have it." Mrs. Rossignol's voice became soft: "I'd be lying if I didn't say we've all been worried about you. Because we all are, believe me." Then she leaned back. "But I want to see some fight in you, Lucy. Where's the Lucy that stuffed the deer hunting boxed lunches with those indecent flyers? Where's the Lucy that got my Zoë to swim out to Turtle Rock Island? Do you remember that? I thought the two of you were going to die! Where's the Lucy that sneaks out of her house at all hours to go sledding, and takes my Zoë with her? Make some effort." Mrs. Rossignol poked Lucy in the side. "Or is all the yeast gone out of you?"

  Lucy started to get up. She wanted to get out of there. She didn't want to be poked and prodded by Mrs. Rossignol.

  "No, you sit down," said Mrs. Rossignol.

  Lucy sat down.

  "When my husband died, I thought I'd died, too. I sat for days, only wanting to sleep, just like you, Lucy. . . ."

  Why was Mrs. Rossignol telling her this? This didn't have anything to do with Lucy's situation. She wasn't married. She didn't have a husband. Lucy desperately wanted to get away.

  "... And Zoë went through a bad time, and thank God I realized it. Thank the Good Lord that He woke me up and told me I had a daughter, because I almost forgot. And right now, your mama is gone to who-knows-where, and that principal up at the junior high has decided to make you the scapegoat for the trouble on Wiggins Hill, but you have to fight! Do you hear me? Fight! And I want you to make some effort toward Zoë. At a time like this, you don't want to lose your friends." Mrs. Rossignol leaned back and straightened her apron. She sighed. "Also, I want this to be the last time you sleep on my couch. You stay home and in bed if you're too sleepy to sit up. This is a bakery, not a hotel."

  Lucy's face turned red; tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Mrs. Rossignol had never spoken to her like this before. Why was she doing it now? And what business was it of hers? No one asked her to care. Leave me alone, she thought as she grabbed her coat and books. Leave me alone.

  "Thanks for the encouragement," said Lucy. "I'm going now." She headed toward the front door.

  "Lucy?" said Mrs. Rossignol. But Lucy wasn't going to turn around. "Lucy!" Who cares, thought Lucy as she pushed open the door and felt the blast of cold, winter air. I don't.

  That night, Lucy put her yellow walkie-talkie in the Rossignol mailbox. She didn't leave a note. And before she went to bed, Lucy did one more thing—she drew the shade on her bedroom window because it faced the wall of the Rossignol house and Zoë's bedroom window.

  So that was how, near the end of February, Lucy began avoiding the Rossignols. She walked to school an hour early. She skipped lunch. And she didn't go to the bakery. Lucy decided she didn't need anyone—a good bed and lots of homework served her just fine.