To Bophobean: Sometimes the road is curvy, bumpy, and splintered with detours. In my original plans from years ago, Muffy and Buster were both way worse in the rent-a-date scenario. Buster was the one who demanded payment for his, uh, services, holding Muffy's desperation over her head, and he wore the tee to annoy her even further. In turn, Muffy was ten times as savage as she is in the finished product. But I conceptualized this scene before I had written a word of any of Long Route's sequels. A lot of this series has changed over time, and its characters and their motivations have changed along with it. The Buster I ended up with is vastly different than the Buster I thought I'd get, and of course he'd never torture Muffy outright, not apart from his general teasing. He would, however, dress the way he thinks his girlfriend would prefer, in the funny t-shirts that make her laugh, because that's mostly what he's been thinking of lately, of ways to make Ladonna happy. The fact that he ended up going with Muffy instead is just…whatever to him. Sure, his fashion faux pas is inconsiderate, but it's not spiteful. And Muffy…she ended up very different too, and it has a lot to do with her unplanned friendship with Alan. Still, she has a lot of insecurities, flaws, and hang-ups, and the work she has to do on herself is far from over, something, I think, she's on the verge of realizing. But we shall see…

Chapter 25

It's All You

The clock on her computer screen switched from 2:49 to 2:50. Francine witnessed it, just as she had when it switched from 2:48 to 2:49 and 2:47 to 2:48. She had been there for it all as she sat at her desk in her bedroom Saturday afternoon, at a loss on how to spice up her school musical serial for The Frensky Star. She needed a hook, a story thread to stitch each installment together and keep readers' eyes glued to their screens from one post to the next. What's it all about, Frankie? was the question she had asked herself several times since sitting down to work. She had plenty of information, but no tale to tell. Fern was right—everyone had done a stellar job. The Not Ready for High School Players were a kickass group. All of them, cast and crew, had this on lock. Unless some major, catastrophic eff-up turned the operation sideways and fast, Francine did not see why they would not continue to be kickass through closing night. And it would make for a sleep-inducingly-boring story. No one wanted to read, "We were great. The end." People liked underdog stories, in everything from pro sports to rigged reality TV singing competitions. Francine fought to find the struggle, a reason for readers to give a crap, but the words were not coming.

You're not getting anything accomplished by staring at the clock and getting distracted.

It was now 2:51. Arthur would be meeting Sue Ellen at MCM in nine minutes.

So what? You need to keep working if you ever want to publish this thing. Move on to something else, and maybe it'll come to you.

That was what editing was for, right? Francine decided to work on her interview with Fern. Fern had agreed to finish her interview, but only if Francine emailed her the rest of the questions so she could give written responses. As much as this had offended Francine, she could work with it. When it came down to it, she figured she should be grateful Fern had not refused to continue the interview, to clam up out of spite, something Francine would have at least been tempted to do had the shoe been on the other foot. She would have been up the creek had that happened. Readers might notice the female lead's omitted interview, especially when Francine planned to include at least one quote from everyone involved in the production. Fern's exclusion would have cheapened her serial as a whole. Equally as bad, it might have made Francine look like a petty, vindictive bitch.

Maybe that's fair…

After transcribing the recorded portion of Fern's interview, Francine had been quick to delete it, stopping before her ill-conceived question about Fern's disastrous audition. She had to admit that had been pretty petty of her. Pretty vindictive and pretty bitchy, too. So she was bad at handling her frustrations. What else was new?

So effing much, that's what.

Stuck again with no new words at her disposal, Francine opened the photo folder that housed the pictures she had taken for The Music Man and began browsing for candidates to use in Fern's highlight, which was proving difficult. If only she had taken the time to organize the photos, maybe she would have been able to find some with Fern as the subject.

Or at least in the foreground…

She had taken hundreds of photos for the musical, and in the scant few that included her, Fern was cut off by the frame or too far in the background to be clearly visible. Francine clicked the "Next" arrow. No dice. It was a picture of George and Mr. Lundgren hauling segments of the Wells Fargo Wagon through the backstage exit door. She clicked the arrow again and again, over and over, only to be disappointed every time. Binky performed a run-through with a handful of boys during the "Shipoopi" choreography in one. Arthur sat at the piano in another, talking with Maria. Buster waved to the other salesmen as he exited the train during "Rock Island". Arthur listened intently to Coach Sorrell as she held her arms wide, apparently giving him some sort of cue. Jenna and Alex sat with their legs dangling over the edge of the stage as they drank water, looking exhausted from dancing. Buster and Ladonna both made unnecessary bunny ears with their fingers over each other's heads. Arthur sat in a house seat, squinting from the unexpected flash of Francine's camera. Arthur shoved an entire chocolate chip cookie into his mouth, unaware he was being photographed. Arthur considered the red paint swatches Sue Ellen held out in front of him, arms crossed.

I sure as hell can't use any of those last ones, not for anything, or Muffy will never let me hear the end of it.

Muffy often gave her crap for frequently using Arthur as a subject in her blog photos. Francine always defended herself by saying that it was because Arthur was usually around when she snapped pictures, and he usually did not put up much of a fuss when she asked. It was either that or be the subject herself and get called a freaking narcissist. Disgusted, Francine closed the folder window, wondering if Fern would take pity on her and help her stage some photos. She would ask her on Monday.

You could ask her at the dance, if you were going.

"But I'm not."

The clock read 3:17. She was at home while her friends were at the Autumn Ball, which had been going on for seventeen minutes. Arthur was there. That was not all. He was there with someone else.

And that's fine. It's fine. It's what you wanted. Now, stop thinking about Arthur, the ball, and that dumb dress.

She was not thinking about the dumb dress. She had not thought about the dumb dress all day. Francine thought she had successfully expunged the garment from her thoughts weeks ago, when she banished it to the far end of her closet. Out of sight, out of mind. That had worked for a while until fairly recently, when it began invading her thoughts with a vengeance.

But you're thinking about it now. Way to freaking go, dumbass.

She had even dreamed about wearing it, transported back to the day at the mall with Muffy, when she had stepped out of the fitting room, unable to resist the feel of the fabric, admiring the way its skirt fell just below her knees and knowing in that instant that it was a pretty dress, realizing for the first time in her life that she looked good, and she liked it. She always woke up from those dreams with a start.

It had been such a shock that she stayed in denial for some time. She was Francine Frensky. She did not have thoughts like that. She could not be bothered with thoughts like that. She was going to kick ass at basketball, earn a scholarship, get a journalism degree, and kick ass at breaking news. Still, she kind of, sort of wanted to see herself in it again, just to be sure she had not looked as good as she had initially thought. That's all she needed, to get one more good look, see how dopey she actually looked in it and ease her mind before it drove her crazy. Maybe then she could actually forget all this ball-related nonsense and get some work done. Francine stared at her monitor, her lips pressed firmly together as she made one more attempt at resistance. It was a stupid idea… Then she gave in.

"All right…" she grumbled under her breath as she rose from her computer chair, whipping her sweatshirt up over her head in a swift and fluid motion and tossing it onto her bed. She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her legs, all the way to the floor where she stepped out of them and headed to her closet.

"Let's get this over with."

She slid the door over on the side of the closet she used less often and took out the garment bag. Much like that day in the fitting room, she was sweating already. Her armpits were incredibly hot. She hung the bag from the hook on her bedroom door, over her bathrobe, and studied it for a moment or two before taking hold of the zipper. Another long moment passed before she took a deep breath and yanked the zipper down. The plastic parted, and she glimpsed the familiar fabric of the shimmery blue dress through the gap.

"You think I'm scared of you?" Francine said to it in a low voice.

Strap by strap, she slid the dress off its hanger and withdrew it from the bag. Upon unzipping the bodice, she lowered it, stepped inside and pulled it up, but she only managed to zip it halfway, just like the afternoon in the boutique, but she figured it was on well enough to get a decent look. Francine side-stepped her way over to her mirror, but instead of looking at her reflection, she stared down at her bare feet. The skirt of the dress was just out of focus but making its presence known, as if to say "I'm right here and you have to look. You can't ignore me forever, Frankie". She took another deep breath then stared squarely at the mirror.

"Dammit…"

It was a nice-ass dress. Beautiful. The bodice and skirt met just at the curve of her waist, accentuating her form. The shade complimented her skin tone. It was hard to believe it, but she still considered herself attractive in it. Perhaps even harder to believe, it made her feel good. Unable to resist, she ran her hands down the bodice, then gathered the skirt, lifted it up and let it fall, just as she had while out shopping with Muffy. She swayed, twisting her hips from one side to the other, only to jump when there was a knock at her door, followed by a muffled voice.

"Frankaleh, you in there?" Bubby was out in the hallway. Besides Francine, she was the only family member at home, and she had been working away in the kitchen since noon. "Come here. Bubby needs your help for a second."

"Uh, yeah," Francine said, her voice sounding strained and surprised. "I'm here!"

"Oh, are you having alone time?" Bubby said. "Sorry! I'll leave you to it."

"No! No. I'll be right there."

She could not go out like this; her grandmother would likely bombard her with questions.

Better be quick…

Francine took the garment bag and tossed it onto her bed. She grabbed her bathrobe and put it on over the dress, tying the belt securely. This would not help her grandmother's assumptions, probably, but neither would taking too long to emerge from her room.

"I'm here, Bubby," she called, walking down the hallway. "What can I help you with?"

"Over here," Bubby called from the kitchen, pointing toward a platter sitting on the counter. "Here—have a taste. It's been a while since I made toffee matzo, and I need to know if it's edible."

Sure that it was, Francine humored her anyway and took a piece, coated not just with caramel, but with chocolate and toasted walnuts. She gave it a sniff, then popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes. It was just as delicious as ever.

"It's not just edible, Bubby. It's Jewish crack," Francine said dreamily. "You should make this for Thanksgiving."

"Jewish crack, huh?" Bubby laughed. "I guess it is, isn't it? But you better not let your father catch you calling it that. He might have a coronary."

"He's not strict like that all the time. I guess he thought I was disrespecting you that day when I swore in front of you. Mitzvah this, mitzvah that…you know how it is. But I just couldn't help myself."

"Hell, none of us can if we're pushed enough," she said with a wink. "Let me guess, you haven't been able to stop swearing since."

"It's been a real f—reaking challenge…"

"Do me a favor and don't let it bother you too much. Sometimes you just gotta swear. So how come you're in your bathrobe in the middle of a Saturday afternoon? You sick or something? Should I make you some soup? I've been dying for a reason."

"I'm fine. I was just about to take a shower."

"Oh, yeah? In your fancy evening attire? Must be trying to impress the shower."

Francine's mouth fell open. "How did you know?"

Bubby smiled. "A word of advice everyone should listen to," she said, lowering her voice as if they were not the only two people in the apartment. "Make sure you close your bathrobe all the way, dear, or you'll flash everybody and their mother."

Francine looked down. A sizable gap in the closure of her robe ran up the middle, starting at the bottom hem and stopping at crotch level. The shimmering fabric shone as if bathed in the glow of a spotlight.

"What's with the cocktail dress? A bit early for prom."

Lie your ass off.

"Uh, it's, ah, uh, my costume for the school musical. I was trying it on before my shower and didn't want to risk getting it dirty while tasting the food."

"Oh, that's right. The Music Man. Your Zaidy took me to see that once. Crown City in seventy-eight. It's one of my favorites. Who are you playing?"

"Um, Mrs. Shinn."

"Who's designing your costumes at that school? Looks a bit flashy. Oh, well… Come on, let's see it." Bubby gestured frantically for Francine to take off her robe and show her the dress. "C'mon, c'mon!"

Francine sighed and took off the robe, her head hanging low.

"Frankaleh," Bubby said in a chiding manner, "I think you're fibbing about it being a costume."

She could not keep up the lie. "Muffy bought this dress for me," she said defensively. "I didn't want it, and I didn't ask for it!"

Bubby looked taken aback by her sudden outburst.

"It's all right. I'm just having some fun. You're not on trial here."

"Yes, I am," she said, trying to hold back tears. It felt as if something inside her were breaking. Why was this so upsetting? "That's what it feels like, anyway."

She buried her face in her hands. Willing herself not to cry, she barely managed to hold it all in. The next thing she knew, Bubby's hand was on her head, stroking her hair.

"Who?" Bubby asked. "Who's trying you?"

"I don't know… Me?"

"Explain."

Francine removed her hands, but it was hard to look directly at her grandmother as everything came rushing out.

"I feel… It's hard… I feel like I don't know what I want anymore. I feel like I don't even know who I am. I used to be so sure of what I liked, what I didn't like, who I wanted to be. This dress and caring about what my hair looks like and…just a whole bunch of other stuff—that was never me. I still don't think it is, but… I kind of like the way this thing looks on me, and at the same time, I hate that I like it because…because…I don't know why. And there's this really dumb dance happening at school right now, and I didn't think I wanted to go…but I kind of do, and I hate that I do because I shouldn't give a rat's ass about it…and I'm kind of scared of it all. The dress and the feelings, you know? Or maybe you don't… And the fact that it scares me makes me feel silly and I just hate myself even more, all over again. That makes me sound psycho, doesn't it? Why can't I just go back to being the way I was? I feel like I'm stuck in the middle of who I used to be and becoming something else I never wanted to be. I don't know if these feelings are even real, so how can I trust them?"

"You done?" said Bubby.

"Yeah. I think so."

"That's not psycho, Francine. That's part of growing up. People change. Sometimes they change a lot, and it can be frustrating and confusing. About that stuff that's causing you so much confusion—anyone holding a gun to your head and telling you to like it?"

"No."

"Do you still like all the other stuff you used to like?"

"Yeah."

"Then it's all you. There's no one way to be. As long as what you want is what you want and you're true to it, you're normal. You're going to be fine."

"But how can I know that? I always said this kind of stuff would never be for me. I swore it never would be."

"Frankaleh, if I had a nickel for every time I did something I swore I'd never do, I could buy a filet mignon dinner. Trust me, the older you get, the more you surprise yourself. There's no shame in it. By the way, you're a vision in that dress."

"You have to say stuff like that. You're my Bubby."

"I'm seventy years old, bubbala. I don't have to hand out compliments I don't mean. Now, you want to go to the dance or not? I can drive you. You want I should clean up this mess and grab my keys?"

Francine could not believe she was actually considering it. Could she at least try to get in? MCM was a slut for fundraising, so chances were good someone would be selling tickets to stragglers at the door, and she did have just enough saved up.

"Mom said not to pester you and wear you out," she countered in spite of herself.

"Eh, treating me like an invalid is pestering me, as far as I'm concerned."

"But won't I look like an A-hole for showing up after making fun of everyone else for going?"

"Do you want to worry about what everyone will think, or do you want to try to have fun?"

Francine knew Bubby was right, but it had been a long, long time since she was her age. Her grandmother's tough talk was all fine and good, but learning to accept her faults and move on without a care was likely a skill she had honed over time. Francine, on the other hand, was not prepared to eat this much crow this quickly and look as if she were cool with it. She wanted to attend the Autumn Ball. She could accept that now, at least, in her mind, she could, but she would need a damn good reason for being there. She needed an excuse at the ready. She needed…

A story… I'm an effing genius.

"Give me just a few more minutes, and I'll be ready," Francine said with a smile.

To be continued…