A Teeny Bit of Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page B

it.” She licked the ring, leaving a slick trail over the blue stone. “He talks about you a lot.”
    I’d been crushing on him since that long-ago Easter egg hunt at First Baptist. Every Sunday I’d made a point to sit behind him in church. And yes, I’d invited him to go fishing in the creek that bordered my family’s peach farm. But I’d had no idea that he’d discussed me with Barb. A thrill shot through me, and I almost dropped my onion book.
    “You’re blushing,” Barb said.
    “No, I’ve got a fever.”
    “I hope you’re well by Saturday night,” she said. “I’m having a pajama party. Since you’re so crazy about onions, why don’t you bring a Vidalia dip?”
    Sure, with a little rat poison. Why was she inviting me? I wouldn’t fit in with her ritzy-fitzy friends. I politely declined. I thought I was in the clear until that evening, when the phone rang. It was Barb’s mom. She sweet-talked Aunt Bluette into letting me attend the party.
    Late Saturday afternoon, my aunt dropped me off at the Brownings’ house. To my surprise, I was the only guest. Barb sat at the kitchen table and painted her nails, talking about her deep love for Coop. I was relieved when Mrs. Browning gave me a tour of her walk-in pantry. The shelves were loaded with gadgets and gourmet spices. She was a professor of home economics, and she knew how to make vinegar from scratch and how to take plain old canola oil and infuse it with garlic, lemon, or hot peppers.
    Barb scowled at her mother. “Quit hijacking my guest,” she said. “We’ve got better things to do than listen to food talk.”
    After Barb’s nails dried, she dragged me into the dining room, where her father was bent over a jigsaw puzzle of the Pacific Ocean. They spent the whole evening discussing which blue piece went where. They were competitive, with strong egos, and their discussion quickly turned into a raging argument, which they seemed to enjoy.
    Mr. Browning got up to answer the phone, and Barb snatched a handful of pieces and took them to her room. She hurried back before her father returned. This seemed like undaughterly behavior, but I didn’t have a daddy, so what did I know?
    Later that night, she dragged me to her frilly purple-and-pink bedroom. She stretched out on one of the twin beds and showed me a coded love letter she was writing to Coop.
    “Looks like gibberish,” I said.
    “No, silly. They’re anagrams. That’s where you take a word and scramble it.”
    Just like an egg , I thought.
    Mrs. Browning poked her head in the room. “Your father is in tears. He’s missing critical pieces to his puzzle.”
    “Maybe you cooked them.” Barb smiled. After Mrs. Browning left, Barb slid off her bed and peeled back the rug. A dust mote swirled up, drifting over six blue puzzle pieces.
    “You lied to your mama,” I whispered.
    “Yes, but it’s so much fun.” She reached deeper under the rug and pulled out her diary. She licked the tip of a pencil and started writing. A few minutes later, she pushed the book into my hands.
    My friend Teeny could be majorly cute if she didn’t cut her own hair, eat too much candy, and shop at the Salvation Army. Her ugly brown eyes can be changed with blue contact lenses. A dentist can fix her gappy teeth, and a full-service salon can pluck her brows, straighten her grody hair, and add highlights.
    I’m not sure what to do about Teeny’s knees. They are yucky, way too far down on her legs, just this side of a deformity. She should throw away her cheap minidresses and buy jeans and long skirts. A hat will cover her fivehead—that’s an abnormally high forehead. I can’t do anything about her dwarfism, nobody can, but I can teach her to walk in stiletto heels. It’s an art form, one that every girl, short or tall, must master.
    I should have been offended, but I was more surprised that she hadn’t written in code. I asked her about it, and she rolled her eyes.
    “The point of a diary is to capture my