Our heroine, Myrtle B. Jones, and her best friend, Taffy Black, sat on a low brick wall in a vacant lot, cussing and spitting seeds like they always did. Myrtle was wearing all black and chains. Taffy, who had decided to become a children's book author, had abandoned her goth look for a sweater vest and long denim skirt. She was writing with a red colored pencil in big loops and swirls on notebook paper stuck in a clipboard.
"Myrtle," Taffy said, "what's another word for 'decapitate'?"
"Like for a person or for an animal?" Myrtle said.
"Either."
"Behead."
"Thanks."
Myrtle spit some seeds and cussed. She looked out over her kingdom. The parking lot to the south was faded and cracked, the weeds in the vacant lot were tall and dried out, but the gypsies who had set up camp the week before had moved on, and peace was restored.
A boy in a red windbreaker was walking up the sidewalk.
"Hey," Myrtle said, "look at that fat kid."
"Get out of here!" Taffy shouted at the kid. She jumped off the wall and picked up a rock to throw.
Myrtle stood up and folded her arms. "You're in our territory, Corleone. You better get out of here."
The boy turned and started running away. "You guys are stupid and fat," he yelled over his shoulder. Taffy threw the rock and hit him between the shoulderblades. He fell down, squealing.
"You know what we need?" Taffy said to Myrtle.
"What?" Myrtle asked. They sat down on the wall again.
"We need a sidekick," Taffy said.
Myrtle guffawed. "We have a sidekick. You're the sidekick. You're my sidekick."
"Excuse me?" Taffy said. "I am incredulous."
"It's true though," Myrtle said.
Taffy sighed. They sat quiet for a while. Finally, Myrtle said, "Well, maybe an orphan boy."
"I know!" Taffy said. "That's exactly what I was talking about!"
The girls placed an ad in the local paper and put up posters around the neighborhood. WANTED, the advertisements said, BOY AS SIDEKICK, PREFERABLY NAMED JOEY OR TINY TIM. MUST BE ABLE TO RIDE BIKE FAST/CRIPPLES OKAY TOO.
A week later the line of boys applying for the position stretched from one end of the vacant lot to the other. Myrtle and Taffy interviewed applicants all morning and then went to the diner down the street to discuss and make a decision. Taffy ordered a coffee, as usual, and Myrtle ordered steak and eggs. Myrtle began eating ravenously, but Taffy just sat with her hands cupped around her coffee cup.
"There's so many great applicants," Myrtle was saying between bites. "It's going to be so hard to pick just one."
Taffy didn't say anything. Myrtle said something else and Taffy still didn't respond. She was smiling, looking into her coffee.
"Taffy, excuse me, would you listen to me?" Myrtle said, snapping her fingers in Taffy's face. "I said, I think we should make a short list of applicants to ask back for second interviews."
Taffy smiled and sighed. "Second interviews," she said. "Oh, good idea, yeah. Let's interview that Edgar kid again."
"That Edgar kid, are you kidding? He's so inappropriate."
"What's wrong with him? He's perfect!"
"He's not a cripple, he's not an orphan, he doesn't even have a Gatsby. Absolutely not. Moving on..."
"Not moving on," Taffy said. "We're interviewing him again or I'm never talking to you ever again."
"Fine," Myrtle said. "But that doesn't mean we're hiring him."
On the day of the second round of interviews, Taffy had on a long red dress with a navy blue belt. She remained silent through the first interviews and kept looking off into the distance. When the boy Edgar came into sight, she jumped up and smoothed out her dress.
"Hi sunshine," she said to him when he arrived.
"Hi," Edgar said.
Taffy smiled and looked at the ground.
"Edgar," Myrtle said, "we'd like you to tell us why you think you'd be the best man for this job."
"What's your favorite color?" Taffy said.
"Blue," Edgar said.
"Mine too!" Taffy said.
"Edgar," Myrtle said, "what would you do if you were our sidekick and a young hooligan came up and tried to steal our lunch money?"
"Do you like tacos?" Taffy said.
"Yes."
"I do too!" Taffy said. "I bet your parents love you. If you were my baby boy I'd never let you go."
"Knock it off," Myrtle hissed out of the side of her mouth. "You're scaring him."
"I need to go," Edgar said. He turned and left.
Taffy watched him walk down the block, her head tilted to the side and a dreamy smile on her face. She sighed and then giggled.
"He's hired," she said.
"No he's not," Myrtle said. "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, Myrtle," Taffy said, "the boy's got eyes that are like pools of coffee, if pure coffee sprang up naturally in high mountain lakes, clear sunshine sparkling on the surface. He's got a smile that could feed the hungry, he's got curly hair that-"
"Taffy!"
"My heart is a hammer beating at my breast."
Myrtle slapped Taffy across the face. "Simile! Metaphor! Get ahold of yourself, Taffy Black. He's only seven years old."
"Almost eight," Taffy said. "And I'm only twelve."
"Almost thirteen!" Myrtle said. "You're old enough to be his babysitter."
"I don't babysit," Taffy said. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.
Myrtle rolled her eyes. "This has got to stop and you know it. Okay, moving on. That Gary kid is pretty good, amputee and all, but I think Jimmy Jones-"
"Edgar has a skateboard and a 19-year-old brother," Taffy said.
"Forget him."
"Never!" Taffy said. She began sobbing.
"We're hiring Jimmy," Myrtle said. "He's got a good name, and plus he has that scrappy little dog. We'll find a suitable hat for him and he'll be perfect."
"I guess," Taffy said. She looked in the direction Edgar had walked, looked at the dirty skyline in the fading daylight, looked at her hand, looked at Myrtle.
Taffy Black held terrible grudges.
Myrtle and the Beautiful Friendship
The situation was quite dire. It had been three days. Taffy's parents whispered with the doctors who came to see their daughter - the doctors, too, had been shut out; Taffy was refusing to speak.
In the corner of the living room, Mrs. Black sat upright on the new green upholstered chair, weeping silently.
Dr. Watson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Black," he said. "There's nothing I can do."
Mr. Black swore and punched the air.
"The only thing I can recommend..." Dr. Watson began - Mr. Black froze, Mrs. Black wiped her eyes and looked up - "...is calling Myrtle B. Jones."
"Myrtle B. Jones?" Mr. and Mrs. Black said together.
"Yes," Dr. Watson said. "Myrtle B. Jones. A smarter child I've never seen in all my days."
"Except Taffy, of course," Mr. Black said.
"Of course."
After the old doctor had left, Mr. Black said, "Well, I guess I'd better walk over to the Joneses."
"Really, Mr. Black," Mrs. Black said. "You're actually going to do it? Myrtle B. Jones?"
"Her father's a lawyer, Bunny."
"But her mother!"
"I know, but what else can we do?"
Mrs. Black sighed. Mr. Black walked out the door.
Two hours later he came back, disheveled and out of breath, with a ruddy rotund 11-year-old girl in tow. Her hair was a mess, sticking straight out in every direction. Her dress and pinafore were filthy, and she had only one shoe.
"You're Myrtle B. Jones?" Mrs. Black asked her.
"Indeed I am," the girl said. "Show me to the invalid."
"Myrtle," Mr. Black said, "I told you on the way over, she's not an invalid, she just refuses to get out of bed. Do not use that word around her. We don't want her thinking anything's wrong with her."
"Yes yes yes," Myrtle said. "Where is she? Show me to her."
Mr. Black took Myrtle down the hallway to Taffy's door. Before he opened it, he whispered, "Remember, no invalid talk." He knocked softly and then opened the door.
Myrtle stepped into the room alone. It was dark and musty.
"Peww," Myrtle said. "No wonder you're dying, I swear there's toxic fumes floating around in here."
There was movement under the sheets of the bed but Taffy didn't speak.
Myrtle's eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness of the place. The bedroom floor was covered in clothes, shoes, My Little Ponies, a portable stereo, piles of paper, and a printing press.
"Geesh," Myrtle said. "What a mess. What are you, some kind of pig?"
Taffy stuck her head out of the covers. "Who are you?" she demanded.
"Who are you?" Myrtle said.
"What are you doing here?" Taffy said.
"What are you doing here?" Myrtle said.
Taffy rolled her eyes, Myrtle did the same. Taffy growled, Myrtle just stood there. Finally, Taffy sat up.
"Fine," she said. She got out of bed, walked to the window, and raised the shade. She pushed open the window and got back into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck. "There, I hope you're happy now, I'll probably catch my death from the draft."
"You will not," Myrtle said. "Anyway, I'm here to find out what your problem is."
"They sent you?" Taffy asked.
"Yes."
"They're just mad that I won't talk to them."
"I know," Myrtle said. "Parents are so dumb."
"I know," Taffy said. "It's just that I'm so tired of everything."
"So you think this helps?" Myrtle walked over to the foot of the bed and sat down on it.
"I guess not, but I can't stand seeing it, all the mediocrity."
"Yeah. Did you see that snot Britney Whitney's dance recital? Barf!"
"That's why I'm here, that's what sent me over the edge."
"I nearly had the same reaction. But then I thought, you know, the mediocrity is nauseating, but there she is up there in her sequins and spandex doing something."
"Something crappy."
"Yeah, but at least it's something. She's doing something. What are you doing, Taffy Black? Tell me that."
"Shut up," Taffy said.
"You shut up," Myrtle said.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"You're Myrtle B. Jones," Taffy said finally.
"I know."
"Fine," Taffy said, "I'll get up. But only if you promise to be my best friend."
"Fine," Myrtle said.
"Good," Taffy said. "Go call my priest."
Myrtle left the room and marched into the living room. "Call her priest," she said. Mrs. Black burst into tears again and Mr. Black fell to his knees.
"Oh knock it off," Myrtle said. "She's not dying, I'm sure. She just wants to talk to someone with half a brain."
Mr. Black got to his feet. "Very well," he said. "I'll call Father Josh."
In the corner of the living room, Mrs. Black sat upright on the new green upholstered chair, weeping silently.
Dr. Watson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Black," he said. "There's nothing I can do."
Mr. Black swore and punched the air.
"The only thing I can recommend..." Dr. Watson began - Mr. Black froze, Mrs. Black wiped her eyes and looked up - "...is calling Myrtle B. Jones."
"Myrtle B. Jones?" Mr. and Mrs. Black said together.
"Yes," Dr. Watson said. "Myrtle B. Jones. A smarter child I've never seen in all my days."
"Except Taffy, of course," Mr. Black said.
"Of course."
After the old doctor had left, Mr. Black said, "Well, I guess I'd better walk over to the Joneses."
"Really, Mr. Black," Mrs. Black said. "You're actually going to do it? Myrtle B. Jones?"
"Her father's a lawyer, Bunny."
"But her mother!"
"I know, but what else can we do?"
Mrs. Black sighed. Mr. Black walked out the door.
Two hours later he came back, disheveled and out of breath, with a ruddy rotund 11-year-old girl in tow. Her hair was a mess, sticking straight out in every direction. Her dress and pinafore were filthy, and she had only one shoe.
"You're Myrtle B. Jones?" Mrs. Black asked her.
"Indeed I am," the girl said. "Show me to the invalid."
"Myrtle," Mr. Black said, "I told you on the way over, she's not an invalid, she just refuses to get out of bed. Do not use that word around her. We don't want her thinking anything's wrong with her."
"Yes yes yes," Myrtle said. "Where is she? Show me to her."
Mr. Black took Myrtle down the hallway to Taffy's door. Before he opened it, he whispered, "Remember, no invalid talk." He knocked softly and then opened the door.
Myrtle stepped into the room alone. It was dark and musty.
"Peww," Myrtle said. "No wonder you're dying, I swear there's toxic fumes floating around in here."
There was movement under the sheets of the bed but Taffy didn't speak.
Myrtle's eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness of the place. The bedroom floor was covered in clothes, shoes, My Little Ponies, a portable stereo, piles of paper, and a printing press.
"Geesh," Myrtle said. "What a mess. What are you, some kind of pig?"
Taffy stuck her head out of the covers. "Who are you?" she demanded.
"Who are you?" Myrtle said.
"What are you doing here?" Taffy said.
"What are you doing here?" Myrtle said.
Taffy rolled her eyes, Myrtle did the same. Taffy growled, Myrtle just stood there. Finally, Taffy sat up.
"Fine," she said. She got out of bed, walked to the window, and raised the shade. She pushed open the window and got back into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck. "There, I hope you're happy now, I'll probably catch my death from the draft."
"You will not," Myrtle said. "Anyway, I'm here to find out what your problem is."
"They sent you?" Taffy asked.
"Yes."
"They're just mad that I won't talk to them."
"I know," Myrtle said. "Parents are so dumb."
"I know," Taffy said. "It's just that I'm so tired of everything."
"So you think this helps?" Myrtle walked over to the foot of the bed and sat down on it.
"I guess not, but I can't stand seeing it, all the mediocrity."
"Yeah. Did you see that snot Britney Whitney's dance recital? Barf!"
"That's why I'm here, that's what sent me over the edge."
"I nearly had the same reaction. But then I thought, you know, the mediocrity is nauseating, but there she is up there in her sequins and spandex doing something."
"Something crappy."
"Yeah, but at least it's something. She's doing something. What are you doing, Taffy Black? Tell me that."
"Shut up," Taffy said.
"You shut up," Myrtle said.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"You're Myrtle B. Jones," Taffy said finally.
"I know."
"Fine," Taffy said, "I'll get up. But only if you promise to be my best friend."
"Fine," Myrtle said.
"Good," Taffy said. "Go call my priest."
Myrtle left the room and marched into the living room. "Call her priest," she said. Mrs. Black burst into tears again and Mr. Black fell to his knees.
"Oh knock it off," Myrtle said. "She's not dying, I'm sure. She just wants to talk to someone with half a brain."
Mr. Black got to his feet. "Very well," he said. "I'll call Father Josh."
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