Free Mothership by Martin Leicht, Isla Neal Page B

always gone by Donald, which he hated, or Donald Duck, which some of the more creatively-challenged five-year-olds in our school thought was hilarious. So when we were watching the flat pic one afternoon at my house and Molly’s totally awesome partner in crime, Duckie, showed up on-screen—with his funky, floppy hair and his funny round little glasses—well, it seemed like an obvious transition. I decreed then and there that all best friends should be named after waterfowl. And my Duckie has been Ducky ever since (as a five-year-old I felt little need to check the spelling). I asked him once if it bugged him having everyone in school call him that, and he looked at me, deathly serious, and replied, “Anything’s better than Donald.”
    “I do like them,” Ducky says with a sigh. “It’s just . . .” But he trails off.
    “Would you rather catch up on some old episodes of Martian Law ? We haven’t watched any in a while. It doesn’t have to be Molly Ringwald.”
    “No, that’s fine,” Ducky says. “Really.”
    “Hey, stealth spaz,” I say. “Spill.”
    “It’s just . . .,” he says again, then shrugs. “I was thinking we could, maybe, you know, go to the dance this time.”
    As soon as Ducky says it, I get this feeling in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a fossilized hair ball or something. “Why would we do that?” I ask slowly.
    “Well, the whole crew is going,” Ducky says. But he’s kicking a rock while he says it. He won’t even look at me. “Jennieand Leo and Greg and Malikah . . .” He counts them off on his fingers. In my head I’m pairing them off in the most logical combinations. Why all our friends suddenly feel the need to mingle with the innies and dance in circles with their hands on one another’s waists is beyond me, but I’m not on board.
    “So who’d be your ‘date’ in this madding crowd? Malikah?”
    Ducky clears his throat. “Uh, no,” he says.
    Okay, I swear I’m not operating on dial-up here. I know that boy plus girl plus spending lots of time together can sometimes lead to one or more of the involved parties falling for the other one. And I think—I’ve thought it for a couple months now, actually, ever since I caught Ducky watching me in the mirror while I brushed my hair—that maybe that whole falling thing has happened to Ducky. And that sort of sucks. Because I don’t want to date Ducky. I don’t want to date anyone. I went on one date, once, with Ricky Goldfarb back in seventh, and he tried to kiss me on the mouth, and I bit his lip so hard it bled. Maybe when we’re, like, forty, Ducky and I can fall for each other. Until then I wish we could just keep watching flat pics, playing Jetman, and having contests to see who can launch the foulest moon rockets.
    Ducky stops walking and looks at me, and I think for a second that he might say it—an awkward, stumbling declaration of love that up and ruins our whole friendship.
    “It’s just that I found the perfect dress,” he says, flicking an imaginary lock of hair over his shoulder in his best Britta impersonation. Seriously, he ought to take that falsetto on the road. He could make a fortune. “But on second thought I don’t think I have the hips for it. So Molly Ringwald it is.”
    I laugh. “Good,” I tell him.
    That’s when we hear the noise behind us, the sound that’s a cross between an old-fashioned kazoo and a pygmy elephant in heat. We turn and look, and wouldn’t you know it’s Cole and Britta, driving along with shit-eating grins like they’re the goddamn prom king and queen, revving the engine of his classic red ’55 Kia Metric convertible. Beside me Ducky lets out a groan.
    Cole spots us and waves, and then—seriously, what the hell?—pulls over to the curb to say hey.
    “Hey,” he says.
    I can sense Ducky’s entire body go stiff. So I do what any good PIP would do in such a situation.
    “Bite me,” I tell Cole.
    Britta, who looks like she’d rather be swallowing live