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and there she is, standing, waiting. Roberta’s mother can be very patient.
    Whenever I threaten to leave Roberta’s crowd on account of her friends’ immaturity, Roberta gets all huffy. “All right for you,” she says. “After all we’ve been through.”
    â€œWhat?” I say. “Name one thing!”
    â€œPlenty of things.”
    â€œOh, all right.” I always give in. I guess I like Roberta in spite of everything.
    â€œLet’s not go to Roberta’s,” Patsy said. “I’m not in the mood for juvenile high jinks.”
    â€œWe can say we have to go out to dinner with Daddy and The Tooth,” I said. “Remember? He wants us to go out with them Saturday night so we can get to know her better. So it wouldn’t be a lie.”
    â€œForget it,” Patsy said. “So we go to Roberta’s, but I swear on a stack of Bibles, it’s the last time. Next time Roberta has a strip-poker bash, I’ll probably have a date, anyway.”
    â€œWho with?”
    â€œWho do you think, turkey?”
    â€œDaddy won’t let you go out on a date with a boy,” I said. “You’re only twelve. He might let you go, I guess, if I offered to chaperone.”
    That shut her up.
    Roberta called. “Bring refreshments,” she said. “My mother’s all bent out of shape because she had to chair the library meeting last night and that upset her schedule. Annabelle’s bringing her sinful chocolate delight—Milky Ways, chocolate chips, and Hershey Bars all melted together.” Over the phone I could hear Roberta smacking her lips.
    â€œMaybe we can’t come,” I said. “Daddy wants us to go out to dinner with him and The Tooth.”
    â€œWhoa, heavy duty,” Roberta said. “Is it black-tie?”
    She gets that stuff from her mother, who always asks “Is it black-tie?” even when someone invites her to a cookout.
    In the end Patsy and I went to Roberta’s. It seemed the lesser of two evils. To give you an idea of Roberta’s crowd, they drink tomato juice with a dash of Tabasco and call it a “Virgin Mary.” (I scarcely think the Virgin Mary would’ve drunk tomato juice, even if they had tomato juice back then, which I doubt.)
    Patsy and I made our world-famous yogurt dip to bring to Roberta’s. It’s cut-up radishes and cucumbers and anything else you have handy added to plain yogurt with a splash of salsa, medium hot. Everybody hates it except us. It makes your mouth tingle.
    Roberta came to the door wearing a jumpsuit covered with gigantic red flowers. She is a large, stout girl with a booming voice who should never be caught dead wearing a jumpsuit, with or without red flowers. This is only my private opinion.
    â€œI just got the skinny on the invaders,” Roberta said, dragging us inside. Roberta always drags her guests inside as if she’s afraid they might escape.
    â€œWord got out about this party.” Roberta’s eyes darted from me to Patsy and back to me. “Zero hour is eight P.M. That’s when the enemy plans to attack. Even as we speak, the troops are gathering.”
    The last time Roberta threw a strip-poker party, some guys we knew tried to crash. So Roberta got out her father’s bullhorn, a souvenir of his unsuccessful bid to be elected town supervisor, and turned on the enormous outdoor spotlight designed to scare off would-be burglars, and trumpeted, “STOP RIGHT THERE! FREEZE!”
    At the same time a bunch of us set off some rockets left over from the Fourth of July and watched those bozos run like thieves.
    It was fun.
    â€œWhere’s your aunt?” I said. I could hear the TV blaring from behind closed doors.
    â€œShe’s zoned out watching a game show and drinking her hot toddy,” Roberta said. “We’re all set.”
    We traipsed down to Roberta’s rec room. They were all there: Maura,