Cal grins that stupid grin with his black tooth showing. He likes to brag that he got his black tooth playing football, but I know the real story. His sister, Kate, socked him good when he scratched up her Carole King album. Cal says he was sick of hearing “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” every stinking day of his life.

Scarlett Stalling walks toward the line, holding her bratty sister Tara’s hand. Scarlett looks cool wearing a bikini top underneath an open white blouse and hip huggers that hit right below her belly button. With her golden tan and long, silky blond hair, she could do a commercial for Coppertone.

Scarlett doesn’t go to the back of the line. She walks over to me. To me. Smiling, flashing that Ultra Brite sex appeal smile and the tiny gap between her two front teeth. Cal grins, giving her the tooth, but I lower my eyelids half-mast and jerk my head back a little as if to say, “Hey.”

Then she speaks. “Hey, Toby, would ya’ll do me a favor?”

“Sure,” I squeak, killing my cool act in one split second.

Scarlett flutters her eyelashes, and I suck in my breath. “Take Tara in for me.” She passes her little sister’s sticky hand like she’s handing over a dog’s leash. Then she squeezes her fingers into her pocket and pulls out two crumpled dollar bills. I would give anything to be one of those lucky dollar bills tucked into her pocket.

She flips back her blond mane. “I’ve got to get back home and get ready. Juan’s dropping by soon.”

The skin on my chest prickles. Mom is right. Scarlett Stalling is a flirt. Mom always told me, “You better stay a spittin’ distance from that girl. Her mother had a bad reputation when I went to school, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Cal punches my shoulder. “Great going, ladies’ man!”

I watch Scarlett’s tight jeans sway toward her house so she can get ready for the only Mexican guy in Antler Junior High. Juan already shaves. He’s a head taller than the rest of the guys (two heads taller than me). That gives him an instant ticket to play first string on our basketball team, even though he’s slow footed and a lousy shot. Whenever I see him around town, a number-five-iron golf club swings at his side. I don’t plan to ever give him a reason to use it.

“Fatty, fatty, two by four,” Tara chimes as she stares at the trailer. “Can’t get through the kitchen door.”

“Shut up, squirt,” I mutter.

Miss Myrtie Mae frowns at me.

Tara yanks on my arm. “Uummmm!” she hollers. “You said shut up. Scarlett!” She rises on her toes as if that makes her louder. “Toby said shut up to me!”