Tick tock, tick tock, went the clock on the wall of Mr. Maneuver’ fourth period Spanish class. Deb stared at the second hand as hard as she could, willing the time to speed up. In just a few short minutes, she would march out the doors of West Swedshon Junior high and go the mall with the Dudettes. There they would eat succulent food at the food court, and maybe, just maybe, Deb would procure a goat for her mother to slaughter.

“Senorita Webster,” Mr. Maneuver chirped, cutting through her daydream. “El mundo a senorita Webster. Como sueno el tigre?”

“El dog ate el homework,” Deb offered, not knowing the answer to Mr. Maneuver’s weird Spanish questions. The class erupted into laughter and Deb was secretly thrilled.

“En Espanol, Deb Webster,” Mr. Maneuver persisted. What on Earth did he want from her, anyway?

“Come on Mr. Maneuver,” Deb moaned. “You know I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t even understand what the heck you’re talking about.”

“Deb, it’s time for you to pay attention in my Spanish class and stop clowning around like Bozo the clown. Now listen again to the question and answer me: como sueno el tigre?”
“Uh….uh…..” Deb faltered, totally stumped.

Ring! Ring! Just when she was so embarrassed she thought she might die of embarrassment, the bell rang, signaling the end of fourth period.

“Saved by the bell,” Deb chortled, gathering her books and rolling her emerald eyes at Mr. Maneuver. “Come on, Dudettes, let’s get going. We have a lot to do at the mall.”

“Wait a minute, Deb. I was going to ask you to stay after class, but then the bell rang.”

“You snooze, you lose,” Deb sang, storming past the popular, young teacher.

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Maneuver replied, pulling a chair up to his desk. “Have a seat.”

“NO,” Deb shrieked, startling herself with the empty classroom’s formidable acoustics.

“Not on your life, Bub! I haven’t the time. Jennifer Chicken and I are taking our posse to the mall for a shop-a-mania session right this instant.”

“Deb…what are you talking about?” Mr. Maneuver massaged his temples and let out a deep sigh. “School’s not out for three hours. You can’t just pick up and go to the mall.”

“I’m eighteen and I can do what I want,” Deb announced, defiance twinkling in her mischievous eyes.

“You’re in eighth grade, Deb. I know this because you are in my eighth grade Spanish class. According to my calculations, that would make you about fourteen. Now have a seat.”

“Stop it, you big pervert,” Deb pouted. “Stop hitting on me. I’ll never date you and I’ll never make out with you, so just give it up, lame-brain.” With that, Deb pranced out the door. The Dudettes were waiting for her in the hall.

“Is that true?” Squealed Jennifer Chicken. “Does he really hit on you after class?”

“Yeah,” Deb sighed, spinning the dial on her combination lock. “I think someone told him about my modeling career. He’s been trying to make it with me ever since.”

The Dudettes exchanged wide-eyed glances. They were clearly impressed. Deb could hardly believe how beautiful Jennifer Chicken looked as she yanked open her locker and leaned inside to retrieve her purse. Her long, wheat colored hair fell over her fabulous blue, fur poncho in a way that could melt anyone’s heart, even the Grinch who stole Christmas. What would Jennifer Chicken wear on Christmas? Deb wondered to herself. Probably something totally outrageous, like a gorgeous, red dress and a matching hat, she imagined.

Following the Dudettes outside to the bike rack, Deb felt like she was walking on air. The Dudettes hopped on their bikes and growled “vroom-vroom,” pretending to rev their engines. Deb plopped down onto her trike and roared like a lion. It was loud, and the Dudettes were startled.

“Who rides a trike anymore,” Jennifer Chicken wanted to know. “And while we’re at it, who roars like a lion?”

“All the fashion models in New York City, that’s who,” De informed her. “But that’s okay, you can still ride your two-wheeler if you want to. Whatever awakens the fire in your loins.”

“Let’s ride!” chirped Jennifer Chicken, eager to get a move on. Her luxurious blonde mane and the pink streamers on her bike trailed out behind her as she sped down the street, Deb and the Dudettes pedaling along at her heels.

When the girls finally rolled up to the Swedshon Mall, Deb knew she had made it in life. She had been there before, but that was before she had become popular. Now, the Mall took on a whole new identity, like Disney Land. Deb was as happy as a clam, which was a coincidence, because clams on the half-shell just so happened to be her favorite food.

“Good lord, I’m in heaven!” Deb screamed as she burst through the revolving door, flanked by the Dudettes. Never in a million years did she imagine she’d make so grand an entrance. With the twenty dollar bill from Timmy Bones’s codpiece nestled snugly inside her scrotum-shaped knapsack, she felt like the Queen of England.

“This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” she bellowed, letting her mighty voice fill the mall’s vast rotunda. People on every level stopped and stared. Apparently, the cat was out of the bag: everyone in Swedshon knew that Deb Webster had become popular. Word travels fast, she thought.

“We’ve got some serious shopping to do,” Jennifer Chicken purred, lowering her sensual eyelids.

“But first, its time for some serious chow.”

“Tell me about it,” sighed Donna McDonald. “Maybe we should go to McDonalds.”

“Stop trying to pretend that your father owns McDonalds,” snipped Millie Miller. “Everyone knows I’m the richest girl in school. The jig is up.”

“We’re all eating at the food court, and that’s final,” Jennifer Chicken interjected. “We already fought about this in the hallway at school, and I’ve had it.” Nobody dared contradict Jennifer once she had laid down the law. After all, she was the most popular girl in school.

Deb joined the Dudettes in a single-file line on the escalator. As the fabulous machine carried them up toward the mezzanine, Deb looked pityingly at the lowly citizens of Swedshon who scurried down below. For a moment, her heart went out to those less popular than she. What was their reason to live, she wondered. But before she could wonder another wonder, the four girls had reached the mezzanine. The food court splayed out in front of them like a dazzling island oasis, or a casino. The world was truly her oyster, Deb realized with a rush of excitement. She felt it so strongly that she had to scream it out to all the world.

“The world is our oyster!” Deb bellowed, allowing her sensual timbre to fill the vast atrium once again. And once again, like clockwork, people stopped what they were doing to stare at Deb, who relished the attention.

“Um…Doreen?” Jennifer Chicken began, ducking behind a potted plant. “Maybe you shouldn’t scream whatever’s on your mind so often. Maybe you should just cool it.”

“Poor, little Ms. Chicken,” Deb replied. “You’re so naïve. You see, in New York City, all the models have spunk. They’re never afraid to speak their minds. When they have something to say, they don’t hold back. But I guess you wouldn’t know that, because you’ve never been to New York City. You should spend some time in the Big Apple, when you get a chance. You might learn something.”

Deb reached into her scrotum-shaped knapsack and withdrew her tube of Pink Mink lipstick, painting it over her heart-shaped mouth with a flourish. Jennifer Chicken grasped the tube of Pink Mink that hung from her neck by a dainty golden chain, and did the same. Deb literally could not believe her eyes. The Dudettes were emulating her behavior!

“I don’t know about you turds,” Deb exclaimed offhandedly, “but I gotta get me some grub. I’m heading over to Teryaki Tavern for some yaki soba. Who’s with me?”

“I am, I guess,” Millie Miller conceded. “I’m the one who wanted Japanese to begin with, but nobody else could afford it.”

“I guess I’ll go, too,” Jennifer Chicken agreed. “I’ll get some teriyaki chicken, because my last name is Chicken.”

“I still want McDonald’s,” Donna McDonald grumbled. “But, when in Rome…”

The four girls clonked on over to the Teriyaki Tavern, purchased their lunches, and plopped them down onto orange, plastic trays. Jennifer Chicken spotted a table for four and pounced on it, seating herself so that she was facing the escalator, and could spot new arrivals to the food court before anyone else could. Deb knew that Jennifer was hoping to spot the hot and steamy Timmy Bones, which reminded to her to bring up the subject.

“Listen up, J. Chicken,” Deb declared, attacking her yaki soba. “There’s something we need to talk about, and his name is the hot and steamy Timmy Bones.”

“Oh, really?” Jennifer challenged, batting her thick fringe of eyelashes. “what about The Bones?”

“I want him to take me to the Holiday Hop, that’s what,” Deb retorted, “and I get what I want. Deal with it.”

The Dudette’s mouths dropped open.

“Earth to Doreen,” snarfed Jennifer Chicken. “Listen to me, and listen good: I am Jennifer Louise Chicken, the most popular girl at West Swedshon Junior High School. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. Timmy Bones and myself were destined to be together, and I can prove it: we frenched for ten seconds at Life is a Bowl of Cherries,” she blurted, in reference to the local bowling alley. “He was totally bowled over, if you know what I mean.”

“Big whoop,” Deb reasoned. “I frenched Blue Robin at Red Lobster, just to see what it was like. And now I know what it’s like.”

“Okay, that’s the other thing,” Jennifer Chicken continued. “If you want to roll with me and the Dudettes, you’ll have to forget about Blue Robin. She’s old news. Anyone knows that.”

“I already have,” Deb chirped. “I’m just saying that we once frenched at Red Lobster. You’re not the only one who’s frenched, you know.”

“I’m the only one who’s frenched The Bones,” Jennifer quipped. “The fact remains that I’m going with him to the Holiday Hop, if anyone is.”

“We’ll see about that,” Deb responded, raking her fingers through her mop of auburn curls like a sensual lady. “The Bones needs someone with style. Someone with grace. Someone who understands him. Someone who appreciates his hard, leathery codpiece and his tiny top hat. Someone who can make him goat-meat sammies. Someone who just became popular. Someone who is a fashion model. Someone with a helmet of curls and a scrotum-shaped knapsack. Someone with tons of pubic hair. Someone like me.”

“Tell us more, Doreen,” Jennifer cooed with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Tell us more about your pubic hair.”

“Yeah, tell us more,” the Dudettes begged, nodding their heads in unison.

“Uh…well,” Deb began, “let’s see…I have a lot of pubic hair. I’ve had it since the seventh grade. It’s thick and wedge-shaped, like a slice of pizza, or a fan. Or a slice of quiche. Timmy Bones is going to go crazy for it on the night of the Hop. Until then, he continues to haunt my dreams. He and I are going to get into some SRB; translation: seriously romantic behavior. He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”

In response, Jennifer chicken and the Dudettes all burst out laughing. Deb whirled around and found herself face to face with the hot and steamy Timmy Bones. She was so embarrassed she could have died of it.

“Hi, Bones,” she murmured sheepishly. “What’s doin’?”

“Hi, Big D,” The Bones replied curtly. “Shouldn’t you be at home, slaughtering a goat?”

“Not just yet,” Deb retorted. “We’ve got some serious shopping to do before I get into any of that business.” Then, on impulse, she added, “We’ve got to get our dresses for the Holiday Hop.”

“If I hear one more word about the Holiday Hop, I’m gonna go INSANE,” bleated The Bones, twirling his finger around next to his ear for emphasis.

Uh-oh. Everyone in Swedshon knew that the last time Timmy Bones went insane, he had torn off his tiny top hat and danced maniacally in an abandoned warehouse for hours. It wasn’t pretty. The town sheriff had nearly thrown him in jail. Nobody wanted a repeat of that performance.

“Don’t go insane, Timmy Bones,” Jennifer Chicken breathed. “Go ape shit. It’s the new slang.”

“What’s slang for goat-meat sammies, hot and fresh off the grill?” The Bones demanded, eyeing Deb out of the corner of his eye. But before anyone could answer him, The Bones had turned on his heel.

“Sianara, Dudettes,” he called over his brawny shoulder.

“Sianara,” the Dudettes called in reply.

“That was really embarrassing when he heard me talking about my wedge of pubic hair,” Deb observed.

“Well, maybe next time you won’t discuss your pubic hair while we’re eating,” Jennifer mused, popping a morsel of teriyaki chicken into her mouth. “And while you’re at it, maybe you’ll stop trying to steal The Bones…that is, if you want to keep hanging with us Dudettes, that is. Your choice. Come on girls, let’s hit the boutiques.”

“In New York City, they’re called ‘tiques,” Deb informer her. She had no idea if this was true or not, but she refused to let Jennifer Chicken have the final word on the matter.

“Where do you wan to go first,” Millie Miller asked. “Cool Closet? The Style Shack? Dress City? Gown Town? The Frock Zone? Where?”

“Let’s go to that new place,” Jennifer Chicken suggested. “Let’s go to Le Fashion Français.”
A hush fell over the Dudettes. Le Fashion Français was the undisputed cutting edge in Swedshon style. It had been under construction for ages, and was rumored to have a leather sofa inside. Deb’s eyes followed Jennifer Chicken’s manicured index finger as it pointed across the mezzanine. The rumors were true: Swedshon’s hottest new ‘tique was finally opened for business!

“Let’s go,” Deb shouted, and took off toward the brilliant new shop with the Dudettes clattering along behind her.

Le Fashion Français was every bit as spectacular as Deb had imagined (if not more so). In addition to the leather sofa, the gorgeous store had marble floors and a humongous, pink chandelier hanging from the ceiling. All the salesgirls wore barets and sweaters embroidered with Eiffel Towers. A life-size sculpture of a standard French poodle perched on a marble pedestal by the cashier, and racks upon racks of the latest French fashions lined the mirrored walls.

“Now this is my kind of place,” Millie Miller murmured appreciatively.

“This is so dainty,” Deb remarked. “I wish they had something like this in New York City for when I model there on a frequent basis.

“This place is all the rage,” Donna McDonald added.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jennifer Chicken creaked, pulling an electric-blue gown off the rack. “Hmm…I think this gown would bring out the electric bluw in my eyes, don’t you?”

“Oui, oui,” a baret-clad saleslady answered, beating everyone else to the punch. “Zees is zee latest in French fash-UN. In fact, it has just arrived from Par-EE yester-DAY. Would you like to try it on, Madamoiselle?”

“Yes, I would, Madam,” Jennifer Chicken replied, “but only if your have it in a size two. ‘Cause that’s the size I wear: size two.”

“And I would like to try THIS,” Deb roared, selecting a powder-pink strapless number with a slit up the side. “I’d like to try it in a size zer-OH,” she added, trying out her French accent in reference to her bony carcass.

“But of course,” the salesgirl replied. “My name is Babette. Should you need anything at all, do not hesitate to ask.” And with that, Babette scooted off to the fitting room in a cloud of French perfume.

“Down to business,” Millie Miller declared, diving head-first into a rack of slinky frocks.

“I’ve got to find the most expensive attire in this store before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” Donna McDonald wanted to know.

“Too late to buy the most expensive outfit in the store, silly. I’ve got to find it before it goes on sale. Here it is!” She tooted triumphantly, holding up a floor-length gown encrusted with shimmering, gold sequins. “Wearing this gown to the Holiday Hop will be like rolling around in a huge heap of money. Or drinking champagne in a stretch limousine…and then somebody comes over to the limo to talk to me, and I push the button and roll up the window right in their face to show that this conversation is O-V-E-R, over. This gown is a sensation!”

With that, Millie Miller pranced off to the fitting room, her expensive golden gown bobbing along behind her.

“I guess I’ll try this one,” Donna McDonald said, fingering a green, velvet cocktail dress with sparkly beading in the shape of a cat’s face. Puffy, lace sleeves and a matching train completed the look. Donna McDonald, Jennifer Chicken, and Deb Webster joined Millie Miller in the fitting room area. She had already slithered into her expensive, golden gown, and was twirling around and around in front of the mirror.

“What do you think,” she whispered dreamily. “Do I not look like the richest girl in school?”

The girls had to admit that Millie Miller looked positively wealthy. The gold sequins gleamed in the soft light of the chandelier, showing off her figure to perfection.

Not wanting to be outdone, Jennifer Chicken leapt into her electric blue gown and sashayed around the store, bopping her head to the beat of the French music that played in the background. “How about it?” she sang, whirling about like a whirling dervish. The electric blue gown was made of satin and had only one sleeve, which left one shoulder bare. This had the curious effect of making Jennifer Chicken look even more popular than the already was.

Donna McDonald was quick to jump on the bandwagon by diving head-first into the green, velvet cocktail dress and striking a pose. The beaded cat-face design on the front leapt out at the Dudettes, as if to say “meow.”

Last but not least, Deb grasped her pink gown and pulled it up over her sleek carcass. Turning to face herself in the mirror, she let out a low whistle.

“Well, well,” she groaned, “lookie what we have here. If it isn’t Doreen Webster, the world’s most sensational fashion model!”

The gown was everything Deb had hoped it would be (and more). Just like in the fantasy, it was drop-waisted and totally strapless. The powder pink denim highlighted her emerald green eyes in all the right ways, and the slit up the side accentuated her bony carcass to the maximum level. Best of all, there were three- and four-inch lengths of zipper placed strategically about the bodice, for that New York look that Deb so desired.

“Not bad, Doreen,” Jennifer Chicken offered. “You’ve got a really slinky body.”

The girls all put their gowns on hold, explaining to Babette that they’d be back the next day with their parents. All, that is, except Millie Miller, who purchased hers on the spot by charging it to her American Express card. After all, she was the richest girl in school.
Donna McDonald jumped up and down, sending her corkscrew curls into a bounce-a-thon.
“Oh my gosh, look,” she blurted, gesturing toward Tip-Top Tunes, the mall’s hottest record shop. “It’s The Funky Hunks!”

The Funky Hunks were Timmy Bones’ super cool crew – the coolest boys in school, to be exact. The Bones was their leader, Buck Tight Jimmy was their choreographer, Chad Loaf was their secretary, and Lance McGirk was their treasurer. All four of them were as steamy and dreamy as a steam bath, but The Dudettes each had their eye on their own particular funky hunk. While Jennifer chicken had laid claim to Timmy Bones, Millie Miller was hooked on Chad Loaf, and Donna McDonald was on the prowl for Lance McGirk. That left Buck Tight Jimmy for Deb, if she’d wanted him, but she was determined to make off with The Bones.

“I’d give anything for Chad Loaf to ask me to the Holiday Hop,” Millie Miller fumed. “He’s so utterly funky that it blows my mind.”

“Tell me about it,” crooned Donna McDonald. “If Lance McGirk doesn’t ask me to the Holiday Hop, I’ll be so embarrassed that I’ll just want to curl up into a ball!”

“I feel the same way about The Bones,” gushed Jennifer Chicken, flipping all of her hair to one side. “But I know he’ll ask me. Hey, Doreen, maybe if you play your cards right, Buck Tight Jimmy will ask you to the Holiday Hop.”

Deb let out a deep sigh. She really didn’t care to discuss it. If Jennifer Chicken wanted to push the envelope, Deb would just have to cope with it and hope for the best. Don’t lose your cool, Webster, she thought inside of her mind. Just cool it, and act popular. She decided to change the subject.

“For Pete’s sake, look how funky they are!” Deb exclaimed, gesturing towards The Funky Hunks, who were clustered together in front of Tip Top Tunes, wiggling around in a very funky manner. Apparently, Buck Tight Jimmy had choreographed some new moves for them to do. As they bopped their heads, wagged their behinds and did incredibly funky things with their arms and legs, Deb was struck with the sudden desire to run home and practice her own dance moves in front of the mirror. After all, she wanted to impress Timmy Bones on the night of the hop. Then she remembered the goat meat sandwiches she had to make, and realized there was no time to waste.

“I’ve gotta make for the hills,” Deb remarked. “I’ve got enough algebra homework to kill a small horse.”

“Actually, Doreen’s got a point,” Jennifer Chicken grudgingly agreed. “We’d better head back. I still haven’t written my book report on Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Let’s get a move on.”

The girls made their way down to the parking lot, hopped on their bikes, and peddled home as the Swedshon sunset spread itself across the horizon. As Deb veered of onto Maple Lane and parked her trike in the Webster family garage, she was overcome by the hunch that something huge was about to occur. A shiver of anticipation raced up her spine, and butterflies fluttered around in her stomach in a major way. Very slowly, she walked around the split-level home, making sure not to tread on her mother’s prized begonias. Deb took a deep breath, but nothing could have prepared her for what happened next. There, in the middle of the Webster family yard, stood a the most succulent goat she had ever seen.

To be continued…

previously: Deb Webster & the Curse of the Haunted Textbook, Chapter 3 “The Piping Hot Shower”

previously: Deb Webster & the Curse of the Haunted Textbook, Chapter 2 “The Mysterious Phone Call”

previously: Deb Webster & the Curse of the Haunted Textbook, Chapter 1 “Popular at Last!”