Thanks to all the people who have read and reviewed! Love, BeeBee.

Chapter Two:

"Jessica," the guy said, "I need to talk to you."

Oh, so the guy can speak.

"Talk? Oh, that's funny. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha-freaking-ha. You know, I don't want to talk to somebody whose name I don't know. Most mothers tell their kids not to talk to strangers. You know that don't you? I guess not…because your mother never told you not to be such a creep."

Can you really blame me? I mean, I was more than a little hacked at that stupid jerk.

"Jessica--" he said.

"No, I don't want to hear it. Whoever you are, I don't want to talk to you. Ever. If you called my house so you could harass me, it worked, and you can just hang up and(" and then I gave him some other instructions I learned in detention last year that included where he should get off, where he should go, and what he should do when he got there. I don't think I have to write down exactly what I said, because I think I'll remember it for the rest of my life.

"Jessica, please, I need to tell you something--"

"Oh what?" I said cutting him off. "Your name?"

"Don't start working for Dr. Krantz. He's not like he seems. I know. Don't ask how. Just trust me."

Well, I think I was right about this dude being a psycho. I mean, why should I trust him? He wouldn't even tell me his name.

"Oh, you must think you're pretty freaking funny, huh? Let me tell you something for future reference: I don't take advice from people I don't know. So get off my phone and go collect your one-hundred bucks from whatever friend you've got listening on an extension or whatever, but just leave me alone." Only I didn't say freaking.

Then before he could say another word, I slammed the phone down onto the receiver with such a force that my mom, who was in her bedroom downstairs, came up stairs and went, "Jessica, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mom."

"Okay," she said hesitantly. "Well, if there's anything you need to talk about, I'm here. It's not about that boy is it?"

"No," I said, starting to get pissed, "It doesn't have anything to do with Rob. Rob and I are fine."

"Alright, if you say so," she said, shaking her head, turning to leave.

You might be wondering why I didn't just tell my mom about the psycho whom I had been so nonchalantly conversing with. The thing is, the less Mom knows, the better. You see, mom has always wanted her own normal family. Brady Bunch-normal, I mean. Only, Mom has never exactly gotten what she wanted…instead, she got a schizophrenic son (Douglas), another son who—up until recently—was a social leper (Mike), a psychic daughter (me) and a husband who's pretty much okay with all of that (Dad). Yeah, that's not very normal, according to my mom's Theory of How Life in the Mastriani Household Should Be. Besides, Mom worries about Doug too much, and adding me to that list would not be a good thing. . .

My feather pillow took a few punches (what? I was only letting off a little steam) and then I went to bed.

Only, as I lay there, looking up at the darkness of my room I wondered just how that guy knew who I was, and how he'd gotten my phone number. And most importantly, how he'd known that I was about to start working for the government. I mean, the only person who knew that was Rob…and the guy on the phone didn't sound in the least like Rob.

I got up the next morning and got ready for school, which, since Rob no longer attends Ernie Pyle High, is a total drag. I mean, the only other person who might be worth going there to see (for me, at least) is my best friend…but Ruth lives next-door, which is nice because every morning, I have an automatic ride to the hellhole of a school I attend. I mean, can't I just go for Orchestra and then leave? Of course, I'm not even free of Karen Sue Hankey during that class, either.

Whatever. I just got dressed (reverting to my old ways: jeans and a t-shirt. Great Aunt Rose would have had a fit about how "only cheap girls wear dungarees," but she was on a bus back to Chicago, thank God), realizing for the first time how exhausting taking down a secret militia group can be. Seriously, it's a killer. I went downstairs for breakfast, and my dad goes, "This is this morning's newspaper. I think you might want to take a look at it," and then he handed me the paper.

LOCAL TEENS CHANGE LIVES OF ENTIRE TOWN

Two presumably local anonymous teenagers, a male and a female, helped to take down a secret backwoods militia group called the "True Americans" with the help of a few area locals of the outer city-limits of Podunk. Several people were hurt during last night's fight seen, in which the teens were involved. An unnamed source claims that the two teens posed to join the True Americans and later broke out a fight with them, while several area locals—who have purportedly known about the anti-African-American, anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant group for some time—came to serve as a back-up force for the young couple.

"I had no idea that such a group existed," said one Podunk resident, Mrs. Lippman, "I saw the snake symbol that the group used, but I thought it was a silly gang tag…I'm glad to know that these two young, brave kids had the courage to disband that horrible group."

Dr. Thompkins, whose son, Nate Thompkins, aged sixteen, was brutally murdered by the group purportedly because he was an African-American, had this to say when confronted with a question concerning the incident, "I am glad to know that the organization responsible for my son's death has been brought to justice…a 'thank you' is not enough for the people who sought to bring the militia group to justice."

Well, it seems as if the group has been brought to justice indeed. James Henderson, the man responsible for the militia's organization, faces charges on kidnapping, two counts of murder, polygamy, and cruel treatment to animals, when he gets out of the hospital, that is.

Whoever these brave souls are, the town of Podunk, Indiana owes you a collective thank-you.

That was the most beautiful newspaper article I've ever read. Except for maybe mine and Rob's imaginary future wedding announcement article. But it hasn't been written yet…I'm working on it, though. I mean, I know that I probably won't get married until I'm finished with college (that is not my decision…my parents put the verbatim on that), but it doesn't hurt to prepare…or daydream about married life with the Hottie of all Hotties, even if I've barely gotten him to kiss me. I mean, I introduced him to my parents, so we're okay to date, despite the whole jailbait factor and the probation thing (and what did he do to get probation for, anyway? I mean, he couldn't have killed somebody, robbed a bank, or whatever else I can think of, because, you don't get probation for killing people or robbing a bank: you get jail), but WHAT DOES IT MATTER???

Anyway…I finished my breakfast, fed Chigger his Puppy Chow, and ran out the door to Ruth's convertible when she honked, still thinking about what my kids with Rob should look like (both with dark hair, one kid—a boy—with grey eyes, and a girl with brown eyes,—like me—and they should be tall,—like Rob—and good fighters,—like me—and they should be smart—like Rob).

I opened the car door and met a frosty glare from Ruth. "What are you so happy about?" she demanded. What is with her? What does she think? That I can't be happy? That I can't smile? That I can't be glad I have a boyfriend? That I shouldn't imagine what my kids with him would look like? I mean, I really want to know, because this "What are you so happy about" remark is totally uncalled for. She should know what I'm happy about. Then again, she's probably not happy with me for that reason.

I didn't answer her, since, like I said, she should already know.

"Never mind. Here, this is from Rosemary," she said, grumpily. You know, I wonder if something is going wrong in her relationship with Scott, and that's why she disapproves the way she does of my (happy) relationship with Rob. I guess I really should let Mr. Goodhart cancel our weekly meetings: I'm beginning to sound just like him.

I opened the package. As always, there was a letter from Rosemary and a picture of a missing kid.

Dear Jess,

I hope this finds you well, as I've heard of some rather disturbing events have happened in your hometown recently.

Thank you for your help with the discovery of missing children. Without your help, many children would be without their parents even longer . . .

This photograph is of Peter Gosnell, who was taken from his daycare center in Southern California last fall. His parents don't know who took him, and the police have only a few suspects, all of whom they cannot locate . . .

Love,

Rosemary

Tucked inside the padded envelope with Rosemary's letter was a photograph of a cute little kid, who must have been around three or four. He was a cute blonde, with twinkly blue eyes and a few still-growing-in teeth visible in his smile.

"Cute kid," Ruth said. I'd been so absorbed in reading the letter and studying the picture, that I'd forgotten she was even in the car.

"Yeah."

"You know, I'm glad you do that for Rosemary, I really am, Jess. I mean, without you, those kids would probably never make it back to their parents. So, what about the Feds? Do they know?"

"Yeah, they know. They asked me to work for them, too," I said.

"So…?"

"So what?"

"Are you going to or not?"

"I don't know. I mean, they only ask for a few hours a week. He has an elderly lady and a boy our age working for it, and they like it. I just…I don't know…Something feels 'off' about it."

"Something's 'off' with you. We just drove by the Pike, and you didn't beg to go get 'doughnuts,'" she said, sarcastically. "I mean, now that you two are legit, you don't want to go gaze at his butt while he's leaning over a car's hood. Something is wrong with you today."

"Nothing's wrong with me--he's not working today."

Something was wrong with me, though. For some reason, I just couldn't tell her about that phone call. I mean, it was probably just a prank. I hope.

We pulled up at school, and right away, something was, well, unusual. First of all, there were the reporters and news vans. Then there was the fact that they were hurling questions at the students who tried to cram their way through the door.

The reporters shouted things like, "Do you know who foiled the True Americans?" and "Were any of you involved in the altercation Saturday night?" and my favorite, "Was Lightning Girl there?" at me and Ruth, as they did everybody else who walked by. Good old Feeney hadn't told them to get off school property…no, he was standing there, blatantly trying to find a way to draw attention to the school, taking advantage of the fact that our town was, once again, the center of a major news story, and that reporters, knowing it had to do with teenagers, came to the local high school.

We finally got into the building, and despite the fact that school is the only place that stays the same—it's always been hell for me, at least—our school day was every bit as unusual as the reporters on the school's front lawn. Everybody was talking about how "some girl and her boyfriend defeated the KKK." And some of the stories were even less accurate than that. At least the "some girl and her boy friend" part was right. I tried a few times to correct them, but Ruth pointed out that if I wanted to maintain my anonymity and keep letting people think that I had nothing to do with the whole thing, I had better shut up and let them say whatever they wanted to.

So the stories and whispers kept on and on. In my US Government class, we held a discussion of the KKK and what a horrible organization people believe it to be, and how people tend to dislike what is different from them, and stuff, instead of the three branches of the US government, and what they do for us; and in my trig class, the teacher made up an extra-credit word problem using the weekend's events ("…and so if there were five times as many True Americans as there were Grits and two times as many True Americans got injured as opposed to the Grits, and only seven Grits got hurt, how many True Americans were there in the first place?" Who cares?), and at lunch, some people in front of Ruth and me in line were talking about it, only I didn't hear what they said because my boyfriend—Rob—came waltzing into the caf, looking hot, as usual.

Several members of the female species got quiet. Fast. It was the lowest level of noise I've ever heard in the caf during lunch break. Tisha Murray and Heather Montrose must have never seen so hot a guy, judging by the way they were staring at him, and Karen Sue Hankey stood there, looking at him with her trademark sneer, apparently trying to figure out what to say to me after he left, or whatever.

Imagine their surprise when he leaned down (why can't I be taller?) and kissed me. On the lips. In front of everyone there. I was so glad I hadn't eaten yet.

"You were supposed to call me," I said, with a smile, only pretending to be annoyed.

"Yeah, whatever. Just thought I'd come say hi," he said.

Okay, so how is he going to say "bye"? Just wondering, in case I needed to break out the peppermints. . .

And so, he stayed with me during lunch, and left shortly afterward (he said it would be greatly unappreciated by my parents if I ditched class because of him. I said that there was no reason they needed to know, but then he pointed at Karen Sue Hankey. And that was that: I couldn't skip class with her hanging around. But he told me to call him sometime, that has to count for something, meaning that he at least still wants to go on a date).

And guess what? He and I are actually going to go on a real date on Friday! He won't tell me what we're going to do or where we're going, but why does it matter? WE'RE GOING ON A DATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was so happy. As a matter of fact, I didn't even punch Karen Sue when she said, "So what do your parents think about the Grit?"

All I did was say, "They know, and my dad's been really cool about it and all." And I said it all chipper, like maybe I was a cheerleader (perish the thought!) and the school had allowed a thousand more dollars for the cheerleading fund this year, or something.

And Claire Lippman, who'd came in to get a salad (since it has many important vitamins to keep an actress healthy), said, "That's your boyfriend? I though Mike said he was a Grit."

"Well, it depends on your definition of 'Grit'," I said. "I mean, if your definition of a Grit is somebody who gets drunk while watching a NASCAR race and then looks at a black person and yells, 'Nigger!' and then gets into a fight, then no, he would not be considered a Grit. But if you think a Grit is simply somebody who lives outside of the town limits, but still in this county, then the answer is yes, he is a Grit."

"Then he's not a Grit," Claire said, "But he's definitely a hottie, I mean, it's true. He's hot."

Ruth, who'd been silent during the whole ordeal, rolled her eyes and said, "I will admit, he's not bad-looking, nor does he fit the stereotypical guidelines for being a Grit. But I still think you could do better, but I see there's no getting that through to you, Jess."

Then, after school, Ruth, Claire, and I went to the Thirty-One Flavors to discuss the Undo-ables, the Do-ables and the Hotties of our school.

A true girls' day out. I think so, anyway.