Of course, then a snake ate the rat, and I didn’t know whether to be happy or in fear for my life. Your mother never mentioned that chickens draw rats, and rats draw snakes.”
“You have to keep the feed inside the house,” I inform her. “Like you would dog food.”
Mrs. Welch’s eyes widen. “Ahhhh, very interesting. In any event, should I RSVP in a formal way to your mother, or just leave a comment on her blog?”
“You’re coming?” I catch myself from staggering back into the copier.
“I play a mean twelve-string guitar,” Mrs. Welsch says, and then she winks and gives me the thumbs-up sign. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and suddenly Mrs. Welsch seems simultaneously more human to me and more baffling than ever.
To be honest, Mrs. Welsch is kind of freaking me out.
But I don’t tell her that. “Great,” is what I say instead. “Just leave a comment on the blog about the party, I think.”
“You’re having a party?” Verbena asks, coming up beside me. “When? Am I invited? What should I wear—costume? Ball gown? Tux?”
“My mom’s having a party,” I clarify as we head to our usual table. “And everybody in the world is invited, and it doesn’t matter what you wear, just as long as you sing along.”
It takes me almost the whole lunch period to explain to Verbena what a hootenanny is and why my mom is all fired up about having one.
“It’s like this old-fashioned thing,” I tell her, “like they used to have in the sixties.”
“The 1960s?” Verbena asks, clearly confused.
“No, the 1560s,” I reply, exasperated. “Come decked out in your best Christopher Columbus attire.”
Verbena leans over and draws a frowny face on my hand with a black Sharpie. “Don’t be sarcastic,” she admonishes me. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of a hootenjammy—”
“Hootenanny,” I correct her, sighing.
“Hootenanny,” she says. “And I’m trying to understand. People are going to come over to your house and sing songs? Together?”
“Like one big happy family. With guitars. And, if we’re lucky, ukuleles.”
Verbena shrugs. “I think it sounds like fun, and your mom sounds like a neat person. Original. My mom never invites anyone over. She gets home from work, throws herself down on the couch, and yells, ‘I’m famished, someone go order take-out.’ That’s why I’m so fat—Chinese take-out and pizza.”
“You’re not fat,” I say. “You’re really not. Besides, skinniness is overrated.”
“Tall, skinny people always say that,” Verbena complains. “You have no idea how hard it is to be five-four. I eat one piece of chocolate, I gain five pounds. By the way, what kind of food is your mom serving at the hoot—uh—hootah-whatever?”
Now we get to the only part of my mom’s scheme that doesn’t irritate me. “She’s having it catered. Allen and Sons’ barbecue, hush puppies, and slaw. The nectar of the gods.”
Verbena closes her eyes and gets a dreamy expression on her face. “Mmmm, I love hush puppies, especially when they’re just out of the fryer.”
“I have a friend who works at Allen and Sons. I bet he’d get you all the hush puppies you wanted.”
Allen and Sons is where Monster has a job as a pig smoker and chief hush puppy fryer. “Stop by, I’ll hook you up with some ’cue,” he told me when he dropped me off at home on Monday. Looking across the table at Verbena, I have a sudden vision of the two of them as a couple. He’s big and tall, she’s short and curvy, and she probably wouldn’t mind that he was big, and I know he wouldn’t mind that she was curvy, and they’re both—well, unique.
“You want to come with me to Jam Band Friday?” I ask her, thinking I can introduce them and see if any sparks fly. “I could use some friendly support.”
“I guess so,” Verbena says, popping a sugar-free coffee-flavored toffee into her mouth. “You don’t think they play really loud, do you? Really loud music gives me headaches.”
Hmmm, maybe Monster and Verbena aren’t a match made in heaven after all. Still, you never know.
Jam Band meets at 3:25, right after the last bell Friday afternoon, and I’ve promised Monster I’ll be there. I’m not sure becoming the Jam Band’s lone girl bass player is going to help me in my quest for the title of Most Normal High School Student Ever, but at the very least it will up my coolness quotient a good 150 percent.
Friday morning I drop off my bass in the band room. I have