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friends? Anyone who might know something about her, or push her a little?”
    â€œWell,” I say. “There was this one guy back in junior high. His name’s Dale Thornton. He was kind of a friend and kind of an enemy. He dropped out after eighth grade, though. Think he could help?”
    â€œDepends on how much a friend and how much an enemy he was.”
    â€œMore friend than enemy,” I say. “At least at the end.”
    Â 
    Old Dale was not having his best day. Though few of us would dare taunt him alone, there was safety in numbers and he’d already heard his name far more times than he would have expected. “Hey, Dale, I see you made the front page,” greeted him as he stepped onto school property that morning, followed by severalvariations even before the first period bell rang. At first, Dale just smiled and waved in the direction of the voice. By the third time he heard it, however, he had seen Crispy Pork Rinds, and though he didn’t read all that well, understood clearly his role as the target of Sarah Byrnes’s and my incisive journalistic focus.
    In the hallway at the end of third period Dale caught up with Norm Nickerson, a blond, blue-eyed, bookwormish kid who spent our elementary years as the kid most likely to be beat up by someone from a lower grade. Dale clamped Norm’s cheek hard between his thumb and forefinger. “Norman, my boy,” he said with a sneer. “Let’s you and me go to the can for a smoke—maybe have a little talk.”
    Norman mounted a weak protest, but Dale squeezed so hard Norm’s lip began to numb.
    I was hiding out in a stall with my paranoia, my feet pulled up onto the toilet seat, waiting for the fourth period bell, in the event Dale figured me for senior editor of our underground gazette and came for his pound of flesh. I peeked out the crack in the door, breathing soft as a man passing a township of killer bees in the night.
    Dale offered Norman the pack.
    â€œNo thanks,” Norman said, “I just had one.” Infact, Norman Nickerson had never even puffed a cigarette, but at eighty-three pounds and well under five feet, he wasn’t about to chance angering the man to whom most of us paid three-quarters of our weekly allowance—for protection from Dale Thornton.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Dale said, “I only got one left anyway.” Norman reached into his pocket, but Dale raised a hand. “Got a deal for you,” he said, and Norm was all ears. “I’ll let you go today.”
    Norm waited.
    Dale glared.
    Still Norm waited.
    Still Dale glared.
    â€œThat’s not a deal,” Norman offered finally. “What do you get?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Dale said, waving his cigarette in the air. “I almost forgot.” He handed Norm a crumpled copy of Crispy Pork Rinds. “Read this.”
    Norm took the paper reluctantly. He glanced nervously at Dale, then down to the paper. He had thought it was pretty funny earlier in the morning. It was less funny now with Dale Thornton looming over him. Norman shot Dale another uneasy glance, and began to read silently.
    Dale slapped the side of his head so hard Normanmust have thought the phone rang. “Out loud, you dip!” he yelled. “Read it out loud!” and Norman realized Dale couldn’t read well enough to get through the article. Holding his hot, reddened ear tenderly with his left hand, he opened his mouth to read.
    â€œI’d read it myself,” Dale said, “but a man of my statue hires his gruntwork done. Read.”
    I think Norman started to tell Dale that’s stature, but thought better and adjusted his glasses. He began with the headline.
    â€œI read that part,” Dale warned. “Just gimme the small print.” Norm skipped to the text, reading in his high shaky voice.
    â€œA man described by authorities as one evolutionary step above a banana slug has recently