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its customary ring of authority.
    â€œIt’s big,” I said. I didn’t know what a chiffonier was either. I’d meant to look it up in the dictionary last night, and I’d forgotten. “We could get a bundle for big stuff like that.”
    â€œRenters”—Rowena got back on course—“are ships that pass in the night. They are transients. Furthermore”—she extracted a piece of bologna from between her teeth and tossed it over her shoulder as if she’d made a wish on it—“they are frequently deadbeats. They don’t pay their bills. They have been known to skip town under cover of darkness, kiddo. Owing back rent. Plus other bills. My mother says renters are very irresponsible people.”
    â€œYou’re a troublemaker,” I told her. “And full of hogwash.” And so’s your mother, I wanted to say and didn’t.
    â€œMy mother says if those people ever came to her on bended knee, she’d turn the other cheek. She is a very forgiving person, my mother.”
    â€œWhy would they come to your mother on bended knee?” I said. The very idea made me laugh.
    â€œAll right for you.” They both got sore. Betty said, “She’s a newcomer, and we’ve been friends for life.”
    â€œSomeday you might be a newcomer,” I said. “I hope people are nicer to you than you are to her.”
    â€œSince when are you known for charity?” Rowena snapped.
    â€œShe’s different. She could teach us things. Besides,” I said, “she’s got IT.”
    â€œShe’s got what?” Rowena asked irritably.
    â€œIT,” I said. “That’s what they called sex appeal in the olden days.”
    â€œHow do you spell it?” Rowena asked.
    â€œI-T,” I told her. “How else? Also known as OOMPH. Spelled just the way it sounds,” I said, in case she wanted to know how to spell that word too. “Isn’t that a neat word? I love it.”
    Rowena and Betty said, “OOMPH,” a couple of times, to get the feel of it. They liked it too.
    â€œI like OOMPH better than IT,” they both decided.
    Whatever it was called, whatever it was, Nell obviously had it. We obviously didn’t. I suspected Rowena was going to have a tough time digging up somebody to stuff notes down the back of her sweater as long as Nell was around. I was glad about that. It didn’t matter to Betty and me because we didn’t expect it. But Rowena had gotten impossible, more so than usual, since the notes started coming. It would do her good to be taken down a peg or two.
    â€œForget about her.” Betty’s eyelids fluttered madly. “We don’t want her in the club anyway. She can join one of the other clubs.”
    Our class is loaded with clubs. There’s the Sci-Fi Club for people who are into science fiction. They run around talking gobbledygook, a strange-sounding language that is their idea of how people from outer space talk. No one but them can understand it.
    Then there’s the Y Club, whose members swim in the Y pool all year round. They go around all winter with icicles hanging from their ears, smelling of chlorine. The Fan Club has the most members, although some dropped out when the postal rates went up. They write fan letters to Farrah Fawcett and Cher—people like that. Sometimes they get form letters back, saying, “Thanks for your nice letter.” One girl wrote a long letter to Joan Crawford, telling her she’d heard about all the mean things Joan’s daughter wrote about her mother and that she didn’t believe a one. She told Joan she admired her and thought she was the world’s greatest actress. She said in her letter, “Please send me an autographed picture of you.” Then for weeks she rushed home from school to see if Joan had written back. Finally someone clued her in to the fact that Joan was dead. And had been for some