Free Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship by Anna Hays

than Patch with a capital P.
    I quickly slurp up my yogurt covered with sticky red syrup, which actually tastes okay, except for the puckery effect of the pomegranate. Indigo will be happy to hear that I’m giving her tasty dessert 3.75 stars (out of a possible 5). But my food review will have to wait until later because the phone rings, interrupting our evening. It’s Rock, one of Palmville’s bravest.
    To avoid listening in on Indigo and Rock’s sticky-sweet conversation, I invite Frederick to join me outside in our backyard garden for some night air. He follows, sniffing madly down the narrow path to one of my all-time favorite spots, the hammock that hangs between two slumping lemon trees. I jump on it, letting my feet touch the sky as I slowly rest my head on the canvas pillow at just the right angle. I’ve perfected this move over the years, so it’s not something I really think about much now. Frederick knows the routine too and follows along, landing squarely on my stomach. It’s always the same thing. First I shriek, “Ouch, Frederick! Your paws!” Then he apologizes by licking my face with his rough tongue, begging for forgiveness. Then I say, “I love you, Freddy Fred Frederick!” This evening I add, “You see, here we are having one-on-one time, just like I told you we would!”
    Frederick and I swing on the hammock to the tune of the lone bird who lives in one of the trees above us. If I look up through the green leaves huddled together, I can see him singing his evening song. Every once in a while he flaps his wings, showing off the black-and-white-striped pattern Mother Nature has so kindly given him. Maybehis song sounds sweet, but I’m certain that when a bird sings that loudly and that sweetly, it’s because he’s searching for something, like a girlfriend. So really his sugary melody is kind of a sad song. I look up past the branch at the moon, which only reminds me of Patch, who is somewhere out there living an extraordinarily adventurous life, and who doesn’t have a clue that I exist.
    IMPORTANT FACT: I’ve been searching for my father ever since I can remember. I know only a few things about him, mostly from the dreams I have at night, but I have gathered a few vital pieces of evidence, plus some key information.
My father’s name is Patch.
I have a blurry black-and-white photo of him wearing a hat.
I’ve received colorful postcards from him (in my dreams) with super short messages on them, promising an imminent return.
I am Patch’s daughter.
    As I swing back and forth, I realize that the singing feathered bachelor and I have a lot in common. We’reboth searching for a loved one under the glow of tonight’s silvery moon.
    A loud giggle travels from the kitchen through the screen door, interrupting the winged Romeo’s “where is my true love?” melody. He stops to listen. Then he picks up on Indigo’s giggly tune, mixing it with his own, and soon I’m hearing it in stereo.
    FACT: Indigo and Rock’s hide-and-seek relationship weighs on my mind. Rock is not my father and can never own the piece of my heart designated for fathers. I could never imagine a substitute father living under the same roof.
    I swing back and forth, staring at the moon, plugging my ears from the chirping, singing, giggling bird above me and from Indigo’s extra loud and extra long conversation with Rock. I decide to take out my PDA to see what digital news has come my way.
    There are two messages waiting for me. The first one is marked “Extremely Urgent,” and it’s from Mademoiselle Clamdigger.
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
    Â 
    Why are you still hanging out with freaky girl? Do you have any idea how many international germs insects carry?: O! Ame
    P.S. What are you wearing tomorrow?
    P.P.S. I’ll see you at Purple Haze after school, oui?
    IMPORTANT QUESTION: Why does Amy