"Are you gonna stay in Choristers? Second week, and I still can’t sing for crap, but it’s still a pretty cool way to hang out with the guys. All those killer eyes no wonder I can’t sing straight." Tanya hopped onto a low brick curb bordering the sidewalk to pose for an imagined audience. She arched her back to model the remarkable endowments of breasts and thighs, blonde hair swinging free. "I’m in Choristers, and I…still…can’t sing." She warbled a few tuneless notes.

She smiled down on Derra, a thin long-legged, boyish girl with black hair falling to her waist. "Are you going to be a Chorister? Last day to drop."

"I don’t know… I never cared for the Sound of Music; a bunch of little rich kids singing happy tunes. Maybe, I’ll take the flute. I really like Pierre Rompal."

"Who’s that? No…don’t tell me. He’s probably dead, anyway. I thought it might be the guy you were…never mind…you know the one I saw you talking to across the aisle? He’s hot."

A trace of coloring appeared on her face. "I wasn’t talking about him. I don’t even know his name. I asked him what he thought of Rogers and Hammerstein, and he said he hadn’t heard of him. ‘He’s the composer guy,’ I told him, ‘Mr. Leonard just wrote it on the board.’ He goes, ‘Yeah, who told you? I’m blind… that means I can’t see. I don’t even see you. Get it? You’re unreal.’ I don’t know why he said that."

"Don’t worry about it. He probably can’t read." She jumped down from the curb blonde hair bouncing.

A September wind spun the leaves down Maple Street. Tanya crushed one skipping past under her tennis shoe. "There, you stupid leaf; that’ll teach you to play on the sidewalk." She lifted her foot and the leaf quivered in the dying wind.

She scooped the leaf in her hand holding it to her face. "I’m sorry, did I kill you dead? Tanya’s a bad girl?" She kissed it and released it to the rising wind; it sailed away. "Go home to mama," she called after it, "before you get yourself in trouble and can’t be fixed."

"Did you ever think of the sound of words?" Derra half-turned to adjust the straps that kept slipping off her shoulders. "They sort of say what they mean, like kill. Like, a long time ago, probably some caveman in a fit of rage or fear screamed: ‘Kill!’ It just came from nowhere, but it said what he felt."

"You’re weird. Where did you ever get that idea?"

"Just came to me one day while I was reading."

"Never heard of it, and who cares anyway. Just messes up your head. Makes me dizzy like you—Dizzy Derra…Dizzy Derra, that’s why I’m going to call you Dizzy Derra. No, that’s not quite right. I’m going to call you, Dizzy ‘D’. See, it just came from nowhere, but it fits."

Her laughter bubbled over as she tugged at the drooping tail of Derra’s oversized T-shirt, pulling it taut so the swelling buds of breasts showed under her elastic bra. "You should wear something smaller. Fit you a lot better."

"I tried wearing a smaller size, and that spider boy in English called me road-splatter. Said he could count my ribs and see what I had for breakfast. Of course, everyone laughed. Nasty, little humanoid."

"Yeah, I know the one. The other day he told me I had a spider on my T-shirt and yelled, ‘Let me get it off!’ Before I could do anything the worm had his hands all over me. Slapped him so hard almost bounced him off the wall. I just might kill him today. Drop my history book on him. Squash! He’s history."

They passed under a pine tree, its needles whistling in the wind. "Hey! You’re right on key." Derra lifted her face to the tossing branches. She clasped one of the fronds shaped much like a hand: "Hello, old tree. Did you know you’re singing high C?…You’re so pretty; do you ever worry about anything like if other trees don’t talk to you?"

"You’re a nut bag! Dizzy ‘D’…talking to a tree. Trees don’t think, or have boyfriends, and don’t even think about sex. All they do is suck." She gave a high kick, white leotards flashing all the way up, her laughter rippling as a wild birdsong.

They crossed the street at Ninth and Maple, three blocks to Jefferson Junior High walkers drifted by, together or alone, with bicycles zipping past.

"Erica’s got a baby." Tanya dropped the news as if she read it from the lunch menu, a substitute for lasagna. "I know when she got it, too…at the backyard beach party in June."

"Where was that? I never heard of it."

"Up at the Seraanges’. I guess no one ever got around to telling you. Maybe you were at the concert in the park. It was a humongous party. There were supposed to be like twenty, but by midnight, you couldn’t find a place to spread a blanket. You won’t believe this, but I saw four bodies hooking up on a picnic table." She threw back her head in wild glee.

"Who was there? I mean weren’t Mr. and Mrs. Seraange at home? What if something happened?"

"Duuuuh! A lot happened, but nothing like somebody got killed. Ma and Pa were there for like, I don’t know, at least for awhile. Ma left first, I don’t know where, and I heard Pa hanging out with some chicks in the hot tub. I don’t know what they were doing; it was dark out there."

"She’s only fourteen. I can’t even think of her having a baby. What’s she gonna to do about school, and her mom’s a single mom…major trouble."

"Don’t ask me. I told her to get rid of it after it got birthed. It’s no big deal. Lots of people want a baby, but her mom’s all over her. Says she’s done something bad, and now she’s gotta pay for it. Erica’s not half so messed up as her mom. Anyway, she’s not going back to school till after the baby. They won’t let her. She’s gonna have some sort of home school thing. Hey," Tanya got confidential, "if you’re gonna hook up, you better get on the pill."

"Yeah right! Guys won’t even talk to me. The other day in the cafeteria, I picked up the tray for the crippled girl. Couple of boys yelled at me: ‘Oh, look at Miss GTS the Volunteer.’ I still don’t know what I did wrong. What’s GTS mean?"

"Goody Two Shoes. They’re assholes. What you need to do is go to a backyard party where it’s dark, and like, pretend you’re drunk. Someone’s bound to stumble over you, and you won’t have to talk."

"No thanks; with my luck even the blind guys would miss me." A soft self-conscious laugh, "Besides, I’ve never been invited."

"That’s totally serious: To have a boyfriend, you have to like totally hook up; but you can’t like, hookup without a boyfriend. I don’t know how to tell you to get started. You should write to Anne Landers. Have you ever thought of doing pen pals? There’s just gotta be a way to break-in. I don’t know, maybe you’ll have to wait until you’re about thirty."

"Thanks. Let’s not talk about it." Derra hitched up her straps. "I guess there’s some things you just can’t help. What can I do but wait?… Hey! Did I tell you about Ingat, my guide dog puppy. He’s a black Lab, and a big-footed troublemaker; digs up my mama’s flowers, and I’m totally going crazy trying to put them back. I have to train him for sixteen months like housebreaking, leash discipline like that. Then, he goes back to the guide school for guidance training. I tell him, ‘Someday, you’re gonna to be a guide dog, and be very important to someone, and they’ll love you very much.’ He cocks his head and listens. You know, I think he totally believes me. He gets this cool look in his eyes, and talks right back. It’s like he’s saying: ‘I know it’s going to happen’."

"That’s nice you got a puppy. They can be a lot of fun. Of course, I still got Uno, my jumping bean with a bark. Well, he only visits now."

"Yeah, what happened to him? It’s really quiet at your house."

"Oh, my uncle takes care of him; I’ve got so many other things going, but I see him regular…and then there’s all that dog crap, and he dug up my mother’s roses."

They passed a house with a high porch crossing its front. Francesca D’Malaga stepped from the doorway. She had transferred to their school from Rome the previous year to take seventh grade by storm. She had matured with dark hair falling languorous over dusky bare shoulders, her ample breasts bundled into a halter. She called out, her voice alluring in its broken accents: "Hey! You sexy Tanya girl, shame on you sneak past while I’m a not look. You come a here, you bad girl or I tell a you mama. I’m a no go to school today; too much how you say, prepare for my party tonight. You come over here right this a minute, or you no gonna be invite."

"Derra, I’ll be back in a minute. I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I better find out."

Tanya climbed the stairs, and Francesca drew her close to whisper. "I’m a swearing to God," Francesca broke the silence, "I’m a tell you true: he come here tonight. You must a lock you panties." The two clasped hands reeling back in laughter.

"I’ll call you later." Tanya skipped down the stairs shaking her head. "It was nothing." Turning back, Tanya waved and Francesca fluttered a hand to cry out to Derra: "Hey! Baby girl…what’s a you name, I know you. You go to sing for my place in a Choristers, for today okay? I’m a much busy." Her musical laughter haunted the wind after them.

"Look at this!" Derra stopped at a bush with crimson fire in its blossoms. "It’s called the passion flower because it’s like the crown of thorns Jesus wore; and the blossoms…the drops of blood."

"Gross! Who would want something like that in their front yard? What a name for it… Like a dumb thing turning on."

"It doesn’t mean that! It means something else, like suffering," Derra tried to explain. She plucked a blossom to twist it in her hair.

"That’s totally more like it, but you should really write on your T-shirt: ‘I’m wearing a passion flower.’ You still might have to point for most of them to get the connection." She made a cryptic gesture and smiled knowingly.

"I don’t care what they think. I simply think it looks nice with black hair, that’s all. I did write a love poem about it once, it goes:

"You wrote that? Don’t say it to any of the guys—unless you want to make them laugh. Who did you write it for?"

"No one; I just kinda like what it says. It has a lovely sound. Maybe…I don’t know…someone, someday will like it."

"I don’t know what it says. What’s it got to do with love or sex? Keep it in your diary."

"Yes, that’s where it is."

"You don’t have to strain your brain to find out what’s real. I can just hear you say to some guy the first time you hook up… ‘Wow! Boys are really different’." She kicked her leg up in delight and the wind swirled her skirt up to the waistband of her tights.

Derra concentrated on the crossing guard directing with his sign as they crossed to the entrance of the school. Four or five boys jostled together, pushing a messenger toward the girls. He stalked forward, bony legs jutting out of his shorts. Brushing his shoulder against Tanya, he gave her a hot glance.

"Hey, roadside bombshell! Want to blow me up?"

Derra hesitated, as Tanya stepped past him, her eyes steady on the walkway.

"Not you, training bra," the boy shrilled in Derra’s face.

Tanya turned to Derra. "Why don’t you go back and give him your verse? I don’t think he even looked at your flower." Derra swallowed hard, the crimson starting in her face as bright as the scarlet blossom in her hair.

They knelt at their lockers as Tanya flung in her lunch. Derra held a book of poetry, its pages fanning in the wind. The title seemed to scorch her hands: Love Verses of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She flung it into her locker and slammed the door shut, her eyes beginning to flood.

"That’s no way to treat a famous poet, you know". Derra quickly spun around to see a thin-faced boy with thick glasses staring down at her. He squatted holding out a wilted red blossom. "You dropped this, I think."

"Thanks." Wiping away a tear, Derra stood up too quickly, blood rushing from her head, and she felt faint. A trace of crimson appeared on her face as her knees gave out.

The boy stood up and steadied her. "I’m Ronnie, are you okay?"