"And I was like, duh," D.W. babbled. "And Arthur was like, duh. And we were both like, duh. And then my mom came in, and she was like, duh."

"Oh, D.W.," Nadine gushed. "You sound so mature when you talk like that."

The two girls were standing in front of the entrance to Mrs. Frensky's first-grade classroom, waiting for Arthur to arrive. He finally did, but his face showed unmistakable signs of inner turmoil.

"Here comes Mr. President now," D.W. joked. "What took you so long? I thought you'd been assassinated or something."

"Pretty close," Arthur moaned.

D.W. and Nadine asked the boy repeatedly what was troubling him, but he remained taciturn. They soon made it to the Read house, where Nadine would stay until her mother completed her shift at the jewelry store. Arthur looked glumly at the FOR SALE sign sticking up out of the yard, and imagined a similar sign hanging around his neck.

He wondered if the position of student body president was worth fighting for. He had entered the race on a whim, and had committed himself to victory out of spite toward Mickie and her "girlie man" posters. Yet now his family's future, and the only life he had ever known, were at stake. He had been foolish to think he could defeat someone as rich and clever as Mickie Chanel. Would she make such a bad president?

His mother found him sitting at his desk, gazing sadly at his homework. "Is something wrong?" she inquired.

Arthur only made an unhappy rumbling sound with his throat.

"You can tell me," said Mrs. Read, gently fondling the boy's shoulder.

"Mom," Arthur spoke up, "what would a catering contract with the Chanels be worth to us?"

His mother's eyes lit up. Her lips curled. For a moment Arthur expected her to say something along the lines of, "Ka-ching, ka-ching."

"A big difference, huh?"

"I'll say," said Mrs. Read. "We'd be able to keep the house, put Grandpa Dave in a retirement home..."

"What would you give up for it?"

Arthur's question took her by surprise. "What do you mean, what would I give up?"

Her son took a breath. "Suppose the Chanels walked in here and said, 'We'll hire your dad, but first you have to do us a favor.' Would you do it?"

"Hmm," Mrs. Read pondered. "What kind of favor are you talking about? You don't think they'd ask me to do something dishonest or illegal, do you?"

"No," said Arthur, "but they might ask you to give up something important to you, like one of your dreams."

"My dreams are not for sale," his mother said firmly. "Neither are yours."

She patted him on the head and left the room, humming a tune. Arthur could find no help in her advice, but to get more, he would have to admit the truth about his dilemma. Yet how could he look his family and friends in the eye, if they knew he had sold out?

An hour later his campaign manager, Beat Simon, showed up on the doorstep, wearing a smile as long as the Great Wall of China.

"You won the debate, but the election isn't over yet," she advised him. "Mickie Chanel is not to be misunderestimated. I've been talking with the students, and your idea of organizing the students into posses to discourage bullies struck a chord with them. I suggest you emphasize this issue in your speech."

"I'm not going to give a speech," said Arthur dolefully.

"I'm sorry?" Beat's eyes widened in surprise.

"You heard me," the boy grumbled. "You have rabbit ears."

"Yes, I heard you," said the British girl. "I think this is most unwise, Arthur. We can't afford to rest on our laurels. We must keep up the momentum of our campaign."

Arthur shook his head. "There's no more campaign. I'm dropping out."

"No!" Beat exclaimed. "We've come so far!"

Arthur launched into his well-rehearsed excuse. "I've decided the piano is more important to me."

Beat's aardvark jaw dropped.

"I'm going to expand my lessons with Dr. Fugue," Arthur lied. "He says I have potential to become a really great jazz pianist."

His story was met with an icy glare from Beat.

The girl's scowl turned into a condescending smile. "I think the stress is getting to you. I suggest you have a glass of warm milk and go to bed early."

"You can run in my place if you want," Arthur suggested. "I'll be your manager."

"Don't be absurd," said Beat, looking down at her chest. "If Mickie humiliated you by drawing you as a girl, heaven knows what she'll do to me."

----

Fearing that Beat's advice might actually change his mind, Arthur went to bed at the usual time without a glass of warm milk.

He dozed off quickly, and floated into a happy dream. His friends were surrounding him, applauding his victory in the student election. His parents were there, along with D.W. and Kate, and even Pal.

"I'm so proud of you, big brother," said D.W.

"I want to be just like you when I grow up," said Kate.

"I've got the best human in the whole wide world," said Pal.

Arthur and his legion of fans went to the Sugar Bowl together, where they enjoyed a sundae the size of a swimming pool. As he was shoving spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth, he noticed that Mickie was approaching him with a sinister smile. Had she come to congratulate him?

The aardvark girl drew a bill from her pocket. "I'll give you one hundred dollars for your dream," she offered.

"Sure," said Arthur. How could the day get any better? Not only had he beaten Mickie in the election, but she had paid him an exorbitant amount for something he considered to be of little value.

As soon as the bill entered his hand, the scene changed. His family and friends were gone, as was the gigantic sundae. He was standing in the palacial reception room of the Chanel mansion, dressed in a humble suit, Mickie seated on an ornate golden throne before him.

"Go and fetch me a pint of ginger ale," she commanded.

Arthur didn't understand how he had materialized in this place, or what gave Mickie the impudence to order him around. He suddenly realized that while he had been pondering the oddness of his situation, he had marched into the kitchen, poured ginger ale into a silver goblet, and returned to the foot of Mickie's throne.

"What just happened?" he tried to ask, but the words that emerged from his mouth were, "Your pint, ma'am."

"Good work," said Mickie, taking a sip from the goblet. "Now sing a song for me. I want to be entertained."

"Go jump in the lake," Arthur wanted to say, but his mouth had already started singing, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands..."

"Excellent," Mickie praised him as he finished the song. "You're free to go."

Anxious to escape from the terrifying mansion and be reunited with those he cared for, Arthur ran through the gloomy corridors as fast as he could. However, his feet didn't carry him to the exit, but to the servant quarters. Upon entering, he came face to face with all of his friends and family members, dressed in rags and scowling miserably.

"Mickie owns your dream now," Buster explained to him. "You're a figment of her imagination. You have to do everything she says--everything she thinks."

"How could you sell it for so little?" Beat lamented.

"What did you do with the money?" D.W. inquired.

"I don't see the big deal," said Arthur flippantly. "It's just a dream. I'll have a new dream tomorrow night."

"No, you won't," said his mother. "I'm not trusting you with any more dreams after what you did with this one."

Arthur's eyes flew open, and he gasped for breath. What he had dreamed astonished him. Could Mickie really control him that easily?

He sank into slumber again, but had no more dreams for the rest of the night.

----

Something about the You Will Eat Here restaurant attracted customers from throughout Elwood City. Was it the ambience? The chicken pot pie? The hypnotic spiral on the storefront?

Prunella was making her acquaintance with the place for the first time, although she was sure she had visited before. The restaurant employed a 50's motif, with black-and-white portraits on the walls, and a jukebox in one corner. The tables were painted with a red and white spiral pattern.

"What'll it be, Prunie?" inquired Rubella from behind the counter.

"What do I normally have?" asked the bewildered girl.

The establishment was packed with students who had just finished their daily studies at the high school. The Breezy Listening station was piped in through the speakers, but wasn't loud enough for anyone to hear.

"You will have the chicken pot pie," said Rubella, peering into her sister's eyes.

"As you wish," droned Prunella as if in a trance.

"Coming right up." Rubella disappeared into the kitchen.

On her way to the back of the restaurant, Prunella passed by Binky and Sue, who were gazing into each other's empty eyes across a table.

"Duh, hi, Prunella," said Binky.

"Hey there," Sue added. "Sorry I didn't believe you when you said you were cured. Muffy cleared things up for me."

"Not a problem," said Prunella.

"We've got an opening in the cheerleading squad," Sue told her. "I think you'd make a good fit. You've got a nice pair of..."

"Don't listen to her," Francine warned Prunella. "She'll corrupt you." She and Arthur, who had been enjoying malts, gently took the rat girl by the arms and led her away.

"Of what?" Prunella asked no one in particular. "I've got a nice pair of what?"

Francine waited until she had seated Prunella next to her before explaining. "What Sue's trying to say is, you're a very attractive girl."

The compliment made Prunella blush.

"Did any boys look at you funny today?" asked Arthur.

"Uh, yeah, a few. Why?"

"Did your mom ever tell you where babies come from?" asked Francine.

"Yeah, once. A long time ago."

"The point we're trying to make is," Arthur counseled her, "now that you're a teenage girl, the boys will want to do more than just kiss you."

"They'll want to have sex with you," added Francine.

"Okay." Prunella nodded. "But what does that have to do with babies?"

Arthur and Francine exchanged amused glances.

"Sex is what makes girls have babies," said Arthur educationally.

"That's silly," said Prunella, shaking her head. "If that's true, then why don't they make pop songs about babies?"

"I never thought of that," Francine mused.

"Francine and I want to have babies," said Arthur, "but not until we're married."

"When will that be?"

"After we finish high school," replied Francine. "We've got it all planned out. Arthur becomes a famous jazz pianist, and I become a famous jazz drummer. We tour the world for a few years, then I start having babies and become a full-time mom."

"I thought you wanted to be a professional athlete."

"I did once," Francine recalled. "But I can't do that and have babies at the same time."

"I'm really glad you two are planning to get married," said Prunella, who then sighed plaintively. "I don't know how I'll ever get married. What boy would want to marry a girl who's forgotten five years of her life?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that an antlered youth had stepped up to the order counter. It was the same teen-aged George Nordgren that she had helped earlier in the day.

"Hmm..."

----

to be continued