A/N: Criticism is very welcome. The plot, the pacing, the characterizations, the prose. All is fair game. Thank you for reading.


"What do you mean you won't help us?" T.J. asked, astonished. "Gretchen, please! You saw the same thing we saw! Spinelli needs us. And you got Galileo back – so what's the problem?"

Gretchen held her long lost computer tightly to her chest. "The point, T.J., is that nothing has changed. Yes, it would be easy to put your betrayal behind me now that I have Galileo, but why should I? Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I will spend this recess in the library. Mikey, if you'd like to join me?"

It was plain obvious that Mikey hadn't thought supporting Gretchen would cost him his recess. "Oh, I. . ." Mikey bit his thumb, anxiously searching his poetic mind for the right words. He stammered, with an uncertain, rising pitch.

"Oh, forgive, forgaved, a friendship repaired is a broken heart saved?"

Gretchen blinked. "Interesting premise, but forgaved is not a word, Mikey. Perhaps what you need is to read a nice big thesaurus, to help with your rhyming. Come on, I'll show you where to find some."

"Oh." Mikey's head drooped, resigned. "I guess that sounds fun."

T.J. was speechless as he watched Gretchen go back into the school, Mikey slowly trailing behind her. "Spending recess in the library? And dragging poor Mikey down with her? This whomps!"

"She's lost it, Teej," said Vince. "Her mind, I mean."

"Well, you guys were pretty hard on her yesterday," said Gus, sheepishly. "Maybe you should just apologize?"

T.J. gave Gus a sharp look. "It might come to that, Gus. It just might. But, quite frankly, I'm not feeling very apologetic right now. Let's focus on saving Spinelli."

Gus shrugged. "So what do you want to do? Did you come up with a plan."

T.J. touched the brim of his cap. "I've got something cooking. But it's a little too hot right now for my taste. We'll call it Plan C. Today we'll begin plans A and B."

T.J. knelt down and used his finger to write in the dirt. "Gus, you and I will be on Plan A. We need intel. Somehow the Ashleys got King Bob to back their play. We need to find out how they did it and see if we can get King Bob to reverse the order. If we can do that, it'll be an easy victory."

"What I don't get is, didn't we think the Ashleys were blackmailing Spinelli?" asked Gus. "If King Bob ordered her to join them, why was she acting so weird? Wouldn't she have just told us?"

T.J. nodded. "That's true, Gus. But whatever is going on behind the scenes, the Ashleys wouldn't get a Royal Order if they didn't need to. I figure if we knock out that block, their whole evil plan comes crashing down."

"Sounds good, Teej," said Vince, "but what do you have for me. What's plan B?"

"Simple, Vince. I realized last night that no matter what we do, the Ashleys will keep coming at Spinelli. Even if we win today, tomorrow there will always be another battle. I don't know about you, but I'm sick of it. There's only so much recess in a kid's life – they're wasting Spinelli's, and they're wasting mine. What we need is a nuclear deterrent."

"Gee, T.J.," said Gus, "I don't know. My dad would be pretty mad if he found out we had one of those."

T.J. squeezed Gus's shoulder. "Not a real bomb, Gus. A – what do you call it? - metaphor bomb. Something we can drop on them at any time, that they know we can drop, and that they'll do anything to keep from dropping. It could be a secret, an embarrassing photograph, evidence of criminal activity, or even a nasty rumour. I don't care. The mitts are off."

Vince frowned. "Nice idea, but how can I find something if I don't know what I'm looking for – something that might not even exist?"

"You're right. And you're wrong. Look, we don't know what we're looking for. That's true. But we do know how to get it."

At his friend's confused look, T.J. explained. "Do you remember when Ashley A.'s little sister stole her diary? She was pretty helpful once we got it back for her."

Gus jumped in, excited. "What about when Menlo and Randall used our personal files to push us around? The Ashleys did whatever they said, just like us!"

T.J. smile at Gus, proud. "Oh, they've got secrets alright. What kid doesn't? So, Vince, talk to the Tylers. See what the Brittanys have to say. But try to keep it on the down-low. We don't want the Ashleys hearing what we're after. If all else fails, we'll go after their personal files – like Gus said, that we know has something tender inside."

The three boys nodded and split up. T.J. and Gus went off to the Jungle Gym to find King Bob. But as they approached, they noticed that a crowd was forming around the base of the structure. It looked like an announcement was about to be made from the throne.

T.J. couldn't wait to hear what King Bob had to say for himself. He and Gus eagerly joined the crowd, and pushed their way to the front.

At the top of the Jungle Gym, King Bob's closest friends and advisors, Jordan and Jerome, stood side by side. Curiously, there was no sign of King Bob – neither crown, cape, nor sceptre could be seen from the ground below.

After the crowd had been deemed suitably big enough, Jordan called for silence.

"Listen up, kids of the playground! King Bob has grown weary of your petty arguments! He has been exhausted by your ignorance!"

The crowd murmured in confusion. Word slowly got around that ignorance meant being stupid. Jordan continued:

"Your inability to solve even the smallest problem without his wisdom has left his Highness unable to complete his memoirs, and unable to tend to important kingly tasks that have gone too long untended."

"Where's King Bob? Why are we listening to you?" shouted T.J., and the crowd again murmured. It seemed many kids hadn't realized that King Bob wasn't standing up there with his lackeys until T.J. pointed it out.

Jordan and Jerome glared down at him. "You better watch it, Detweiler. Until King Bob is finished with his very important work, we'll be overseeing the playground. And we're not going to be so lenient with loudmouth trouble makers."

"I want to talk to King Bob!" shouted T.J. And his cry was echoed by dozens of kids. Even Gus added his voice in. "Yeah, I want to talk to him, too!" "Where is he?" "What did you do with him?"

Jordan and Jerome struggled to be heard over the noise, but eventually the crowd's desire for answers overcame their interest in shouting.

"Until King Bob is finished with his very important work, he will only speak to kids who have proven their intelligence by solving the King's Riddle," explained Jordan.

"If you can't solve it, then you deal with us," said Jerome.

"Man, this whomps," grumbled T.J. "Figures King Bob would chose right now to lose it again. Everybody else is."

"Maybe the riddle will be easy," said Gus. "I'm kind of okay at crosswords."

Out of the crowd, a tiny voice rang clear, and the kids around her spread out, to let her through. It was Cornchip Girl. "Excuse me," she said, "but I don't know if I could solve a riddle a bigger kid couldn't."

"Then you deal with us," said Jerome, flippantly. "Weren't you listening?"

Jordan stuck his arm out to stop his friend, and he squinted down at his notebook. "Wait, King Bob said something about that. There should be a note. Give me a second, the sun's in my eyes. Can you read that?"

Jerome took the notebook and held it close to his eye. "Oh, yeah. Man, Scribe Kid should be called Scribble Kid. Does he do his homework like this?" Then he looked down at Cornchip Girl, cleared his throat, and said, "Ignore what I just said. King Bob, in his great wisdom, has foreseen this problem. Every grade will get their own riddle.

"So that's it everybody. Spread it around. If you want to talk to King Bob, come ask us for your riddle. We'll probably put up a sign or something. Otherwise, we're in charge. So go play. That's all."

At the end of it all, very few kids actually wanted to talk to King Bob, and the instruction to go play reminded them that recess wouldn't wait for them to get started and could end in the blink of an eye. They scattered like rats.

T.J. and Gus moved closer to the base of the Jungle Gym and called up.

"What's the forth grade riddle!"

Jordan grumbled as he flipped through the notebook. Then he called down, in a clear, deep, almost mystical voice:

"I work in diamonds,

But I don't mine, sell, or steal.

My enemies all wait on me,

But I do my best to dismiss them.

What am I?"

"Huh?" said Jerome. "King Bob told me about that one. I thought he said that was for the sixth graders."

Jordan squinted down at the notebook.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Stupid handwriting. Here's the forth grade riddle."

And in a rather plain voice, he read:

"All I say is sighted,

I am seen but never looked for.

My riddle cannot be decoded,

until you notice the décor."

Gus scratched his head. "Gee, that sounds harder than the first one. It doesn't make any sense at all! Think they'll repeat it if I ask, so I can write it down?"

"Actually, Gus," said T.J., with a thoughtful expression. "I think we'll have an easier time if we get our hands on that notebook."


To her own surprise, Spinelli didn't dread her first recess with the Ashleys. When the bell rang, and was answered by the screech of thirty chairs being slid back at once, Spinelli neither jumped up nor flinched back.

'What more can they really do?' she thought.

She was already sitting with them, was dressed like them. She had even laughed with them, smiled despite herself, and though she hoped to heaven that no one saw, the fact was her nightmare had come true.

Part way through class she went to the washroom just to look in the mirror. Ashley S. looked back at her with a slight frown, and a inquisitive glimmer in her eye.

'Who are you?' Ashley S. seemed to ask. "Why are you so afraid of me?"

"I'm not afraid," Spinelli replied. And feeling foolish, she had returned to class.

At first she was worried the Ashleys would continue that dumb etiquette program they put her through last time. But the more she thought about it, the less she cared. It was strange how different things were this time around. Had so much really changed in just a few months?

Just a few days ago, she would have said she was the same strong armed, fist waving, quarterback crushing, boot wearing, mud stomping, cartoon watching Spinelli she always was; that was the only Spinelli she ever knew. But that was also the Spinelli the Ashleys broke, a Spinelli she herself had left behind when she fell to her knees with tears in her eyes and begged them to let her go.

After that day, Spinelli had become someone new. Spinelli 02.

But that wasn't the only change, merely the first in a long line of changes. Spinelli had been a ballerina, and danced in front of the whole school. With the help of her friends, they had done what the Ashleys never could, and turned her into a girl who could win a beauty pageant. She'd been an artist, a religious leader, a mama's girl. (And for one strange, secret hour in Miss Finster's kitchen, she had even been a hula girl.)

It was incredible, now that she really thought about it, how much she had changed – how much was still changing. She thought she was settled, bedrock solid, but that was just a mirage. No, not even a mirage. She just hadn't been paying attention.

So when the class emptied, Spinelli dutifully followed the Ashleys onto the playground, quiet but unafraid. Balancing books on her head, or serving tea, or studying the finer points of table manners didn't seem so existentially frightening as it once did.

Though it did still seem boring.

When all the girls came together, instead of pulling out a carefully designed agenda, Ashley B. asked, just like a normal girl would, "So, what do you want to do?"

Spinelli perked up like a sleeping dog who had just heard the word, "walk."

"How about some kickball?" she suggested. The Ashleys had only begun to frown before Spinelli threw out another idea. "Or what about skipping? You guys like skipping, right?"

"Can you even double dutch?" asked Ashley Q. with a skeptical expression.

"I don't think so," said Spinelli. "Well, how about drawing. We could get some chalk and –"

"Like, hold up, Ashley S.," said Ashley A. "We could totally teach you how to double dutch. It'll be fun. "

Spinelli smiled and nodded. She didn't know about fun – how could a game without violent physical contact be fun? – but it would be better than anything else the Ashleys might cook up.

For their part, the Ashleys were secretly very pleased that Ashley S. was taking an active part in their new friendship, and that she had suggested things they might actually like. While they did need to train her, they could think of few things more frustrating than dragging a stubborn and obnoxious mule like Spinelli to water and trying to make her drink.

They could do it – they would do it, if they had to – but there was a real chance they'd drown her.

Ashley A. hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Skipping wasn't exactly Spinelli's thing. She only ever did it in gym class, and never understood how some people thought a training exercise could be fun. Even Vince only ever did it to show off.

But then, she'd never skipped with anyone before – only beside them.

When it was her turn, she prayed she wouldn't embarrass herself. And her prayer was answered.

Twice she got tangled within the first ten jumps, but only twice. Then, somehow, she found the rhythm of double dutch. The Ashleys sang their counting rhyme, which was all about shoes and shopping and credit cards, but as Spinelli jumped, their voices faded away, and she began to find the beat inside her own head. There was no thought, she just – skipped. It was unexpectedly zen.

When her shoe finally caught the rope, she stumbled to the side, and was suddenly huffing and puffing hard. She nearly fell over, but Ashley T. steadied her.

"That was. . . was. . . like. . . harder than I thought," said Spinelli through sharp breaths. Her heart was in her ears.

"That was, like, spectacular!" said Ashley A. Even Ashley Q. looked impressed. She said,

"293. You, like, almost touched my record. I'm 312."

Spinelli gave her the same look she would use if Ashley Q.'s red hair had just transformed into a nest of vipers: it was a look of shock and awe.

"That's insane," said Spinelli. "No wonder you kick so hard."

Ashley Q. pursed her lips, but looked rather happy at the comment, despite herself.

She decided to show Spinelli how double dutch was really done.

For the rest of the recess, Spinelli stayed on the sideline, spinning one of the four handles. Every now and then she liked to crack the rope like a whip against the blacktop, and earned a few glares for it, which made her smile.

She also took the opportunity to look around the playground. It was sunny day and everywhere kids were running and hopping and tackling and throwing.

She didn't see T.J. or the others, though for a second she thought she saw Vince lurking near the kindergarten fence. They must be working on something to free her. She hoped they would figure something out soon.

For some reason, that thought struck her. Free her. Here she was, in the clean and open air, swinging a rope for Ashley Q. to hop over, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her neck and the cool breeze in her hair, and all the while her friends were working to save her.

She wanted them to save her – from playing with some girls on a blacktop.

It sounded kind of crazy.

What were they saving her from?

If she just stopped – if right that moment she dropped the rope and walked away, found her friends, and spent the rest of recess with them – what would happen?

They Ashleys might go tell King Bob, and he might send some sixth graders to force her to keep playing with the Ashleys. How terrifying.

Or, maybe King Bob would send her to the Dodgeball Wall, or maybe give her a swirly or something for disobeying him. That was a more concerning possibility, Spinelli had to admit.

Yet, there was something unreal about the whole idea. Spinelli couldn't really believe it.

She watched the Ashleys laugh and joke with each other. She might have been smiling herself.

They hadn't spoken about Randall.

They hadn't needed to.

Spinelli slowed the spin of her rope to let Ashley T. jump in.

Anyone watching would have seen a girl playing with her friends.

Wasn't that what was happening?

The bell rang. Spinelli blinked, and in a dazed manner, she dropped the skipping rope and stepped backward.

"I need to stop thinking so hard," she mumbled to herself. She shook her head to wake herself up. "Then I need to stop talking to myself. Don't you lose it, Spinelli."

As the girls started moving toward the doors, Spinelli groaned as she realized she was still dressed like Ashley S. She had meant to change back into her own clothes before recess ended so that she didn't have look like an Ashley when she was with her real friends.

The Ashleys were unsympathetic when she said as much.

"I am not wearing this home," said Spinelli. "I don't care what fancy order you have King Bob sign. If my family sees me like this I'll die."

"Don't be such a baby," said Ashley A. She sighed. "You can change in the clubhouse after school, if you insist. But that means you'll have to get changed there every morning before class."

Ashley B. looked very serious. "That is, like, non-negotiable."

"And tomorrow you can change in the morning, but then you'll have to come straight over to my house after school if you don't want your parents to see," said Ashley A. "I don't want my parents to see you looking like, you know, how you normally do."

Spinelli blinked.

'Am I actually dreaming?' she wondered.

"I'm not going to your house," she said, slowly. "Why would I do that?"

The Ashleys rolled their eyes. "For the sleepover?" they said as one.

Spinelli shook her head violently. "Sleepover? No. No way. There was nothing in our deal about sleepovers. You can forget it."

Ashley A. whispered in Ashley B.'s ear, "So like a baby," and they giggled.

Then Ashley A. flipped her hair back and said, "What if we gave you tomorrow off? Would you come over then?"

It wasn't exactly a fair deal. The Ashleys were offering Spinelli twenty minutes in return for a whole evening, along with who knows how much of the morning.

Still, that twenty minutes was prime time. Recess. The most important time in their short lives. Spinelli couldn't throw it away so easily. She knew her friends would really appreciate it. Especially if she didn't tell them about the sleepover. All six of them together, all day, without dresses or make up or lost computers – It would be like things were normal again.

Spinelli stuck out her hand. "Deal. I'll come to your dumb sleepover. Of course, I'll have to ask my parents."

"Like, of course."


Class was strange, but that figures. Spinelli was stuck between the two Ashleys, isolated from her friends, and it didn't seem like Ashley Q. or B. knew what to do with her either. Whatever rhythm they had between them apart from the other Ashleys was completely thrown off with Spinelli there. Instead of whispering and passing notes all class, as they usually did, they sat silent and attentive. Every now and then Ashley B. would turn around to say something to Ashley Q., but then she would see Spinelli, give her a weak smile, and then turn to face the front.

Miss Grotke was probably happy with the change, Spinelli figured.

For her part, Spinelli dealt with the awkwardness by drawing a dragon that was being strangled by a vine covered in flowers on her worksheet, and by shooting strange looks at Gretchen and Mikey, who were for some reason at the back of the class. She knew why she was away from her friends, but what was their problem?

When the bell rang, Spinelli immediately stood to go over to Gretchen's desk – though not before Ashley B. grabbed her wrist and warned her not tear her dress or put her shoes anywhere near, like, mud.

"Oh, brother," said Spinelli, rolling her eyes as she pulled her wrist free. "If your shoes are so delicate, then you should have known better than to make me wear them."

"Just be careful," snapped Ashley Q.

"We're going to recess, not on a runway," Spinelli mocked; "Do you think if you have the cleanest shoes in school, Finster is going to crown one of you Little Miss Playground? I'm happy to break it to you – no one cares what you look like."

Ashley Q. gasped and covered her cheeks with her hands. "Oh, no, you are, like, totally right, and we're actually so shallow and you've, like, totally changed my entire, like, view of the world and stuff. Thank you so much, Ashley S. All my life I've been waiting for your, like, simple wisdom. Actually, can you write this down? I, like, dare not forget."

She rolled her eyes and then walked away.

Spinelli blew a raspberry at her back.

"Ew," said Ashley B. "Anyway, to answer your question, we don't, like, need prizes for being beautiful. I mean, they are nice and all, and I do, like, want people to recognize how pretty I look, but we're not begging for attention, like some girls I know. The only prize an Ashley needs is the satisfaction and confidence that comes with always looking your best. Don't worry, you'll, like, learn."

"I bet," mumbled Spinelli.

When she finally made it over to her friends, Gretchen and Mikey had already slipped out the door with the crowd.

"Man, Spinelli, I'll never get used to seeing you in a dress," said Vince.

"Do you feel really weird?" asked Gus.

Spinelli shrugged. "Honestly, I keep forgetting what I look like. It's only when I see my nails that I remember." She flashed them for the group to see. "I managed to talk them down from pink, but blue isn't much better. Every time I see them, it's like I've fallen into one of my nightmares."

T.J. pat her on the arm and then guided the group outside. "Well, today we're going to wake you up. I've got a few plans in motion that you can help a lot on. Vince has been gathering information. Anything we can get on the Ashleys that they might not want people to know. Not too much luck so far, but it's early days. You need to be on the look out when they talk to you. I doubt they've let anything slip around you just yet, but they just might."

"We're also trying to figure out King Bob's riddle," added Gus. "I was working on it during class, but boy is it tough."

Spinelli raised her eyebrow. "I heard about that, but I thought it was just some kid making stuff up. King Bob has really lost his marbles – for hundredth time. But why is Gus working on it and not Gretchen? I thought she'd have it solved in ten seconds flat. And why weren't Gretchen and Mikey sitting with you guys? What's the deal, Teej?"

T.J. grunted and shook his head. He couldn't speak, for fear he'd say something he'd have to take back.

Vince answered for him. "Well, Gretchen's pretty mad at us right now. Mikey's siding with her to make her feel better, I think."

"And I wish he weren't," said T.J. "If Gretchen was alone, she might realize how dumb she's being. Mikey's just encouraging her to be stubborn."

"Why would Gretchen be mad at you guys?" asked Spinelli, nervously. She knew that Gretchen had every reason to be mad at her. She had hoped Gretchen hadn't figured that out, but the girl was a genius.

"It doesn't matter," said T.J., waving his hand to bat the question aside. He began to pace as he spoke. "Do you know what she said when I showed her King Bob's riddle? I couldn't believe it. I said to her, 'Gretchen, I know you're mad, but I really need your help solving this riddle. It's the only thing standing in the way of us talking to King Bob and sorting out this mess with Spinelli and the Ashleys. So please help us, and we can all get through this and be friends again, playing and hanging out like always.' Well, she takes the riddle, and she then flips though the pages – Gus and I managed to swipe the notebook out of Jerome's pocket with the old bump and grab technique. The answers are supposedly all written on the last page, but none of us can make a single letter out of that handwriting. I swear, I've never seen writing that actually looked like chicken scratch." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the notebook. He tossed it to Spinelli. "Can you read that?"

Spinelli shook her head. T.J. sighed.

"Someone's got to tell Scribe Kid to go easy on the sugary drinks. His hand must be shaking something awful.

"Anyway," T.J. continued, resuming his frantic pacing "Gretchen flips through the pages, reads the riddle out loud a few times, then tells me she's got it. She knows the answer. Or, at least she thinks she does. But you know Gretchen – I'd take her guess at anything over the very text of a textbook. I'd believe her over my own eyes and ears. The girl is smart."

"So what did she say?" asked Spinelli, to move him a little closer to the point.

T.J. threw his hands in the air. "She didn't say. She refused to answer. All she said was, 'The riddle doesn't sound like him, but that makes sense if you think about it.' I mean, can you believe that?"

"I should go talk to her," said Spinelli. "Where is she?"

"She said she was going to the library last recess," said Vince. "I'll bet she went there again."

So Spinelli set off for the library, promising to knock some sense into Gretchen.

To be honest – and Spinelli might as well be so with herself considering how many secrets she's been holding lately – Spinelli didn't want to talk to Gretchen. She had only just lost the guilt she carried when Gretchen was worried about Galileo, and she thought now that he was back everything would be fine.

Yet now that guilt had returned, and it was mixed with frustration and – anger. She was angry with Gretchen. She didn't know why she had caused this rift in the group, but the reason didn't matter. After all they'd been through, to do this – Spinelli had to be literally dragged away from her friends by forces outside her control. Gretchen was just being – well, Spinelli didn't know yet, but it wasn't looking good.

She found her sitting alone at a table with a several stacks of books piled around her. Spinelli pulled up a chair and plunked down beside her.

"What are you doing, Gretch?" she asked, not caring to whisper. The windows were open and the noise of the playground trickled in like the sound of an old radio.

"I am reading, as you can see." Gretchen didn't look away from her book.

Spinelli wanted to snap at her. But she didn't. Instead she asked,

"Where's Mikey?"

This time Gretchen set her book down. Her face was pinched.

"Mikey is in the bathroom. I don't expect him to return. The acoustics in there are far more interesting to him than the company in here."

"Can you really blame him?" asked Spinelli, incredulous. "It's recess and you want to read! T.J. didn't say what happened between you and the guys, but whatever happened it can't be so important that you'd throw away your recess. You're dying in here, Gretch!"

"I appreciate your concern, Spinelli. But as a matter of fact, what happened between me and the boys is of the utmost importance."

"Why? What happened?"

Instead of answering, Gretchen gave Spinelli an appraising look. "You look very pretty today, Spinelli, if you don't mind my saying so. How was your recess with the Ashleys?"

Spinelli made a face. "Bad. I mean, it was okay, I guess. Just boring. We skipped rope."

"I know," Gretchen admitted. "I could see you through the window. You were very good. A natural."

"Thanks," said Spinelli.

Gretchen's hands were together in her lap. Her knuckles were white, and her face was beginning to glow a faint red.

"If that's all, Spinelli, I would like to spend my recess doing what I want to do, and I am sure you want to spend your time doing what you want to do."

She turned back to her book, and so Spinelli snatched it out of her hands and slammed it on the table. Gretchen stood up, her hands in fists, and trembling. Spinelli stared up at her in disbelief.

"What is the matter with you?" Spinelli asked.

"The matter with me?" repeated Gretchen. "What is the matter with you. That is what I wonder. But of course nobody else does. Of course nobody does. Why would they? You're Ashley Spinelli. The Ashleys want you. T.J. and Vince like you more than me. So it must be me: I'm the one with the problem. You know Spinelli, it's become frightfully apparent that nobody really likes me. Oh, they usually need me. They need my brain. But they don't like me – at least, not as much as they like you. That was really tough for me to face, and I guess I'm still facing it. It's still right there in front of me. That's what we fought about, if you really care. They didn't think it was worth the trouble to help me until after they had helped you." She barked a bitter laugh. "Help you. How preposterous. You didn't even ask for help. They were just terrified they would lose you to the Ashleys."

Spinelli was stupefied. "You're saying this is all about me?"

"No, it is not about you. It is about me." Gretchen could look anywhere except at Spinelli. Her words raced through her lips. "I am sorry to admit it, but at this point it is quite undeniable. I am envious of you, Spinelli. I really am. There, I said it. It's embarrassing. I want to bury my head in the dirt and die. If you'll excuse me, I think I will go do that."

"But Gretchen," said Spinelli, grabbing her arm to stop her running way, "I don't understand. You're – mad at me? What did I do?"

"No, Spinelli. You're one of my best friends." She pulled her arm out of Spinelli's grip and turned her back on her. "How can I be mad at you? All you did is be you, and all everybody else did is like you. I'm not mad. Not at all. Okay, that's not true. I am mad at T.J. and Vince. I'm not mad at you. I'm telling you all this – exposing this part of myself that I want you to know I am deeply ashamed of – because I want you to know I'm not mad at you. I just can't stand to think about you right now."

"What?" Spinelli was shocked. "What does that mean?"

"I've already said far more than I'm comfortable with. I regret saying anything at all."

"You can't just drop that on me and then not explain," Spinelli demanded, her frustration rising. "You 'can't stand to think about me'? What did I do? This is all so bizarre. You're rambling like a crazy person! It doesn't make any sense."

Gretchen shook her head. "I really don't think it's possible for you to understand what I'm talking about. Not because you are too stupid to comprehend what I'm trying to say, but your experience is just so different from my own that mutual understanding is impossible. It's like a child trying to understand the perspective of an adult. I don't mean that to belittle you, only that is the best comparison I can think of in this moment.."

"Gretchen, you're really starting to annoy me," Spinelli snapped. "Can't you just get out with it. Look at me and tell me what your problem is!"

Gretchen turned around. For a second her eyes met Spinelli's before drifting back to the floor. "Fine," she said. "Here it is. You hate the Ashleys and don't want anything to do with them. But Ashley A. was my friend for one single day and it was one of the best days I've ever had. She was my friend because she had no other options. I didn't care. I did everything I could to be like her. All I wanted was for her to like me. In the end it wasn't enough.

"I guess what really bothers me is that I know that if my name was Ashley, the Ashleys still wouldn't want anything to do with me."