The first time I prepared myself for a picnic was kind of like walking in high-heeled shoes. Not that, being a twelve-year-old boy, I had ever walked in high-heeled shoes. It wasn't like I was born with picnicking etiquette. Anyway, it was too late. For Picnicfor picnic lessons. And, and someone had already checked out the last copy of Twelve Steps to Proper Picnicking. I had to wing it. Atat this point. And, and just hope she wouldn't find out.


My grandfather sitting in front of the television, pretending to be reading the paper instead being fast asleep. Grandma in the kitchen peeling potatoes and humming some old song everyone was tired of. Marge in the kitchen in front of the “Boob tube,” as Mama put it. And me. Ready to skedaddle at a moment's notice.


We have gone together for three months, and now I have just decided to be with friends. Even knowing he stills wants the boyfriend and girlfriend thing. The ring on the finger thing. The til'til death do us partpart' thing. He wants me to be his girl. Until he's Ninety sixninety-six and when I'm Ninety Fiveninety-five.