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the zoo.
    â€œNo.” B.T.B.’s answer is surly and he colors red underneath his own buzzed blond hair. “Jo . . . anna is my friend.”
    The petite girl turns on me next. “You’re even kind of pretty.”
    Before I find the right sarcastic response, the blondeflutters her fingers at B.T.B. “See you around, Barnum.” Then they saunter off, the rest of their group looking and laughing before they drift toward the halls.
    â€œJo . . . anna.” B.T.B. is watching them. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
    â€œWhat?” I’m still staring, anger fuming from my pores.
    â€œI don’t want to be your boyfriend.”
    This gets my attention. “I, uh.” This is so far from where I thought this time spent with B.T.B. was going. “That’s okay, B.T.B. I’m good with being friends only.”
    He lets out a tremendous sigh. “Thank goodness. I told my sister about my new friend and she said that you must like me, to spend so much time with me. And I told her you do. That we both think elephants are awesome. I even told her that you’re one of the smart kids, like her, but she doesn’t always listen to me.”
    â€œSo, do you have a girl you like?” I hand his cards back to him.
    He colors again and whispers, “I do. Her name is Marnie. She works at the grocery store. I think she’s real pretty.”
    I punch his arm but don’t really hit him. “Listen to you, Mr. Stud. Do I ever get to meet this special lady?”
    â€œOnly if you go with me. Or just go to the deli. She works in that department. She finished school last year.”
    â€œWell, if she’s good by you, she’s good by me. Because I do like you.”
    His trademark smile is back. It matches the bananas on the shirt he’s wearing. “I like you, too, Jo . . . anna.”
    I think I can live with that. At least B.T.B. doesn’t keep staring at me like I’ve got a fresh Mohawk stretching skyward and am president of the high school freak show. If Dana were here, she’d tell me to get my ass up and go flirt to mess with the bitch. But Dana’s not here and I’ve promised my dad I’ll be cool, so I simply leave for class, counting down the minutes till another day is scratched through in my year of solitude. I send up a quick internal prayer as I walk through the crowded halls. Dear heavenly Father or Mother—’cause, you know, who knows if you’re really a guy—give me the strength to follow my dad’s wishes and the strength not to kick some dumb country girl’s ass. Sorry. Rear end. Amen. Joanna. For some reason, I’ve always felt the need to author my prayers. Maybe there’s a filing system up there and I don’t want to make it any harder for her or him than it already is.
    Sunday morning, Three is a nervous wreck. “Really, Joanna, you don’t have to do this. Youth group probably isn’t your thing.”
    â€œThree.” She flinches every time I call her that—honestly,I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t fought me on it—and even though she may have my dad’s love-struck, got-himself-a-hot-trophy-wife attention right now, she’s not special. She’s just a number in a sequence.
    I plop my hand on my hip. “Oh, listen to you, so worried about little old me.”
    She sighs. “I’m not worried about you, but our pastor and my mother . . .” She folds and unfolds the kitchen towel about six times in six seconds. “She’s a force.”
    Dad walks into the kitchen, still in his robe. “Joanna is her own brand of force.” He kisses his bride’s cheek, then snugs her close, his chin nuzzling into the hollow of her neck and his hand following the curve of her body like he’s forgotten I’m even here.
    Please don’t let me see morning wood.
    â€œUm, Dad?”
    He pivots toward the coffeepot.