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Louisiana.
    “Good news,” said Beverly. “Got yourself some bunny barrettes, huh?”
    “These are my good-luck bunnies. I forgot to wear them yesterday, and look what happened. I’m never going to remove them from my head again. What’s on your face?”
    “Nothing’s on my face,” said Beverly.
    At this point, Ida Nee came marching toward them, her white boots glowing and her baton flashing. She had on a spangled top that sparkled like fish scales. Her hair was very yellow. She looked like a mermaid in a bad mood.
    “Here we go,” said Beverly.
    “Stand at attention!” shouted Ida Nee. “Stand up straight! That is the first rule of baton twirling, to stand as if you value yourself and your place in the world.”
    Raymie tried to stand up straight.
    “Shoulders back, chin up, batons out in front of you!” said Ida Nee. “And we will begin.” She raised her baton. And then she lowered it. She looked at Beverly. “Tapinski,” she said, “are you chewing gum?”
    “No.”
    Ida Nee lunged toward Beverly. Her baton flashed brilliantly, violently, in the afternoon sun.
    And then, unbelievably, the baton landed on Beverly’s head.
    Where it kind of bounced, because of the rubber tip.
    Louisiana gasped.
    “Don’t lie to me,” said Ida Nee. “Never lie to me. Spit it out.”
    “No,” said Beverly.
    “What?” said Ida Nee.
    “No,” said Beverly again.
    “Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. She put her hand on Raymie’s arm. “Here I am wearing my lucky bunny barrettes, but I am still thinking that I might faint.”
    Raymie thought that she might faint, too, even though she had never fainted before and had no idea what almost fainting felt like. Louisiana held on to her arm and Raymie held on to . . . what? She didn’t know. She held on to the fact that Louisiana was holding on to her, she supposed.
    Ida Nee raised the baton to hit Beverly again.
    Louisiana took her hand off of Raymie’s arm and let out a strange noise — something between a scream and a squeak — and then she lunged forward and grabbed hold of Ida Nee’s spangled midsection.
    “Stop it!” shouted Louisiana. “You stop it!”
    “What in the world?” said Ida Nee. “Unhand me.” She tried to peel Louisiana off of her, but Louisiana held tight.
    “Don’t hit her again,” said Louisiana. “Please don’t.”
    Lake Clara glittered. The pine trees swayed. The world sighed and creaked, and Louisiana clung to Ida Nee as if she would never, ever let her go. “Don’t hit her, don’t hit her,” Louisiana chanted.
    “Don’t be stupid,” said Beverly.
    This seemed like good advice, but Raymie wasn’t sure exactly whom it was intended for.
    “Please don’t hurt her,” said Louisiana. She was crying now.
    “Get off me,” said Ida Nee, pushing at Louisiana.
    “Look,” said Beverly. “I’m spitting out the gum.”
    She spit out the gum.
    “See?” she said. “No one’s going to hurt me. It’s impossible to hurt me.” She put down her baton and held up her hands. “Come here,” she said. “It’s fine.” She pulled Louisiana off of Ida Nee. She patted Louisiana on the back. “See?” said Beverly again. “It’s all fine. I’m fine.”
    Ida Nee blinked. She looked confused. “This is nonsense,” she said. “And you know how I feel about nonsense.” She took a deep breath and marched away, back toward the house.
    And that was the end of the second baton-twirling lesson.

The three of them were down at the dock.
    “So let me get this straight,” said Beverly. “You want me to go into some old lady’s room and take a book about Florence Nightingale out from under her bed.”
    “Yes,” said Raymie.
    “Because you’re afraid to do it.”
    “She screams,” said Raymie. “And it’s a library book. I have to get it back.”
    “I want to come, too,” said Louisiana.
    “No,” said Beverly and Raymie together.
    “But why not?” said Louisiana. “We’re the Three Rancheros! We’re bound to each