As Fern chatted with her cyber-friend Greta, Francine and Beat were doing the same thing they had done every day, after school, for the past two weeks-- practicing soccer.

Francine kicked up the ball again and again with her right foot, then her left foot, as Beat stood anxiously in front of the net, serving as goalie. Then, without warning, Francine gave a mighty kick, putting a spin on the ball so that it arched to the left. Beat leaped to catch it, but it evaded her and rammed the net with tremendous force.

Francine smiled joyfully, proud of what she had done. Beat pulled herself to her feet, also smiling. "That was excellent! I didn't see that one coming at all."

"I'm getting better," said Francine. "I'll be ready for the World Cup soon."

"The Women's World Cup, anyway," said Beat as she bent over to pick up the soccer ball.

As the girls walked away from the field, Francine made an observation on the state of women's athletics. "I don't see why the women can't play on the same team with the men. It's not like you have to be big and brawny in order to win at soccer."

"The world is full of injustice," Beat remarked. "What can you do?"

The sky began to grow dark as they strolled down the sidewalk, Beat occasionally tossing up the ball and bouncing it off her aardvark nose. Then she threw it up in an arc, so that it came down toward Francine's face. Francine looked up and the ball hit her in the nose, knocking her flat on her back.

"Oh, my goodness!" Beat exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

The slightly dazed Francine sat up and rubbed her nose. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Beat extended a hand to help Francine to her feet, then went to retrieve the ball from the yard it had rolled into. She rejoined Francine and they continued their walk down the street toward their apartments, which were three buildings away from each other.

"You know what I'd like to do some day?" said Francine. "I'd like to go to a World Cup game."

"Men's or women's?" Beat asked.

"Either one."

"My parents and I have tickets to the Manchester vs. Wolverhampton game," said Beat. "It's during Thanksgiving weekend."

"Is it in England?" Francine inquired.

"Yes. Manchester is David Beckham's team."

Francine grinned with astonishment and delight. "Really? I'd give anything to see David Beckham play."

"Anything?" said Beat, suddenly serious.

"Yeah, anything." Then Francine noticed Beat's earnest expression. "What?"

Beat lowered her face meekly. "Well, I wouldn't want to drag you away from your Thanksgiving holiday..."

"What do you mean?" Francine asked, intrigued.

Beat still didn't look up at Francine. "My...parents say I can take one of my friends to England, but I know you have family commitments..."

Francine nearly fell backwards with joy.

"You're...you're inviting me? Beat, I'd love to go!"

Beat's ears perked up. She smiled bashfully at Francine. "You would?"

"You bet I would!" said the ecstatic Francine. "I've never been out of the country before. Please, can I go with you? Please?"

"Why, of course!" To Francine's surprise, Beat grabbed her in a strong bear hug. She looked up and down the street to make sure nobody was watching.

Beat released her, still beside herself with unbelief. "It's all right with your mum and dad, innit? I mean, isn't it?"

"I'll ask them," said the grateful-looking Francine, "but I can't see any reason why they shouldn't let me go."

----

"Absolutely not."

"But, Dad!" cried Francine.

"If it weren't Thanksgiving, I might agree to it," said Mr. Frensky, sitting on the couch next to his suddenly deflated daughter. "But we're not going to spend the entire holiday worrying about you getting lost in some strange city."

"I won't get lost," Francine insisted. "I'll be with the Simons. They know the place."

"You know what an important time of year Thanksgiving is to our family," Mr. Frensky continued. "Besides, great-grandfather Frensky is getting older, and we don't know how much longer he'll be with us."

"Don't worry, Dad," said Francine sarcastically. "I've heard his Warsaw Ghetto stories so many times, I've got them memorized."

"Francine Alice!" said Mrs. Frensky disapprovingly. "That's rude." She went back to mixing dough for a batch of cinnamon rolls.

"Well, it's true. Every time he visits, it's the same old stories of misery and deprivation."

"You're too young to appreciate it," said Mrs. Frensky, shaking her head. "He lived through all that. If he hadn't, you wouldn't be here. That's what we have to be thankful for."

"Yeah, Mom, I know," said Francine with veiled anger. "But I want to go to England with Beat really, really badly. Isn't there some way to..."

"No," said Mrs. Frensky firmly. "If you want to go with her, you'll have to postpone it."

Francine rose from the couch. It was clear that she was struggling not to cry.

"Fine," she grumbled. "I'll postpone it. To Hanukkah!" Clenching her fists, she marched furiously to her bedroom.

"What's wrong, Frankie?" came Catherine's voice from the room.

"Shut up!" was Francine's reply.

----

At the same time, Fern was enjoying a poem that her online friend Greta was sending her line by line:

BUT THE OLD MAN WOULD NOT SO, BUT SLEW HIS SON, AND HALF THE SEED OF EUROPE, ONE BY ONE. WILFRED OWEN, THE PARABLE OF THE OLD MAN AND THE YOUNG

Smiling dreamily, Fern began to type a response:

SUCH A LOVELY POEM. SO PROFOUND AND TRAGIC.

THANK YOU, came Greta's response.

Fern looked up at the clock. Nearly half an hour had passed since her mother had left on her shopping trip.

I NEED TO GO SOON, she typed. I THINK WE SHOULD TRY TO MEET THIS WEEKEND.

I WOULD LIKE TO MEET YOU VERY MUCH, Greta typed back. WHEN AND WHERE?

I'LL HAVE TO SLIP OUT SO MY PARENTS DON'T SEE ME, Fern typed. IF THEY KNOW I'M MEETING YOU, I'LL BE IN BIG TROUBLE.

About half a minute passed before Greta's response appeared. I THINK WE SHOULD MEET IN A PUBLIC PLACE.

SOMEONE MIGHT SEE ME AND TELL MY PARENTS, Fern responded. I'LL BE GROUNDED FOR ANOTHER TWO WEEKS, OR POSSIBLY THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I'D RATHER MEET IN A PUBLIC PLACE, Greta typed. IT'S SAFER THAT WAY.

WHY? Fern asked.

From the corner of her eye, she saw through the window what appeared to be her mother pulling into the driveway. She had no time left.

Then Greta's answer appeared. I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE. YOU COULD BE A KIDNAPPER.

Fern gasped. How could Greta suppose such a thing about her?

Anger filled her heart as she quickly closed the chat room window. She returned to the couch, picked up the remote, and switched on the TV. On the screen, the brown rabbit man was still driving along the lonely desert highway, and there were more bugs splattered on the windshield than before.

Moments later, Mrs. Walters came through the front door, carrying two large sacks of groceries. Fern jumped to her feet. "Let me help you with those, Mom."

"That's a good girl," said Fern's mother. Fern grabbed one of the grocery bags from under her arm. As she started to tote it toward the kitchen, she glanced over at the computer screen...and a bolt of fear raced through her mind.

She had forgotten to restart the screen saver...

Thinking quickly, she pretended to trip over a nearby table leg. She fell on her face, dropping the bag and scattering food items over the floor.

"Oh, no!" she groaned. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"It's okay," said Mrs. Walters. "I'll take care of it."

She rested the other grocery bag on the table, bent over, and started to collect the fallen goods. Fern tiptoed to the computer, manipulated the mouse quietly, and activated the screen saver program. She had never been so relieved to see wave after wave of flying accordions being shot down by a digitized man with a rifle.

"I don't think I'll be needing it again for a while," Fern said bitterly to herself. "That stupid Greta."

(To be continued...)