Page 40 of Mad Mabel

“You will.”

“Won’t.”

“Will.”

“Won’t.”

“Will!”

I couldn’t help it, I was laughing. “Fine. I’m getting on. Get ready to crash and burn.”

“Not gonna happen.”

She planted her feet as I sat on the handlebars.

“See,” she said smugly. “No crashing and burning here.”

“Your feet are still on the ground,” I replied. “As are mine.”

“Not for long,” she said, lifting her feet and placing them on the pedals. I heard a groan and the bars tilted.

“Hell’s bells,” Daphne murmured, and then we both landed sideways on the road with an almighty crash.

I felt weak from laughing. More than weak, I felt faint.

The rain had stopped and Daphne and I sat on the porch in fits of giggles. Miraculously, we’d both emerged largely uninjured from our fall, though I was starting to feel a little sore. I’d even let her give it two more tries before Daphne was able to accept that perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to carry me on her bike. Of course, any fool could see this.

“All right, all right,” she’d said, hiding her amusement under an irritated expression. “So, I’m not as mighty as I thought. But we’re both fine, aren’t we? You’d get worse injuries from a pillow fight, am I right, Mabel?”

It was impossible not to laugh. I felt positively giddy—not justwith the euphoric post-laughter energy, but also with thatindescribable sensation of being in on a joke with someone, of being part of something scandalous and fun.

“Why did you come here?” I asked her. “And how did you know where I lived?”

“I started at St. Mary’s a week ago. I have to say, Mabel, I understand why you didn’t reply when I asked if you had lots of friends.”

The good feeling died inside me. Had she discovered what a friendless loner I was and come on a pity visit? And did that mean that kids at school were talking badly about me? Doing it in front of the one person who’d made me feel like a friend? The thought brought me quickly down out of the clouds and back to reality.

“The students there are real buttnuggets. I’ve been counting the days until you return to school.”

I snorted—both with relief as well as at the word “buttnugget.” Daphne laughed out loud. “Did you just snort?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I’m a dreadful laugh-snorter. Always have been.”

Now she squealed. “A laugh-snorter! How perfect! I fart when I laugh.”

I laugh-snorted again. “Really?”

“Sometimes. My brothers call it a ‘lart.’ A laugh-fart.” Daphne was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. Then, with the most impossibly perfect comedic timing, she let squeal an enormous fart.

We became hysterical. Each time it appeared our laughter was close to subsiding, one of us snorted or farted and the whole thing started up again. It was intoxicating. And so we remained, larting and snorting until I thought I would burst open with happiness.

23

NOW

“Alot of people know your story, Elsie,” Libby says, placing her mug on the coaster I provided. “At least they think they do. But this is your chance to set the record straight. With so many stories about you out in the zeitgeist, where do you even start?”

I sit back in my chair and whistle. I haven’t the foggiest idea.