Free The Black Sheep by Sandy Rideout Yvonne Collins

harm by naming Maurice.”
    â€œMaurice? Please.”
    He sounds somewhat entertained and, figuring he’s in as good a mood as he’s likely to get, I deliver the bad news. “Carrie’s friend Aaron invited me to a party and your parents will only let me go if you’ll come, too.”
    â€œWhat about your entourage?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
    â€œI don’t have any choice about that. I just used my one free pass to come down here without them.”
    â€œAaron’s a loser,” he says. “But I’ll think about it.”
    Knowing I’ve pushed my luck far enough for one night, I stand to go. “Okay. Thanks.”
    Mitch says, “His name is Fred.”
    I’m confused. “Whose?”
    â€œThe otter’s.”
    â€œShouldn’t it start with an ‘M’?”
    He smiles—not at me, but in my general direction. I smile too. He can’t be all bad if he names the wildlife.
    That’s when I hear a creak on the stairs. We turn at the same moment to see the camera snout poking through a crack in the door.
    â€œShit,” I say.
    There’s shuffling, and then Judy’s head appears in the crack. “Great job, KB,” she shouts. “Very natural. It’s like you didn’t even know we were rolling.”
    Now Mitch has a good reason to hate me.

T he twins thunder down the old staircase and into the living room, where half the neighborhood has gathered. We’re going to watch an advance copy of The Black Sheep premiere, which will air in a few days. I’m surprised at how quickly Judy has managed to edit the episode. I’ve only been here six days, although it feels like more—and not in a good way.
    â€œPilot to bombardier,” Matt shouts into a walkie-talkie. He zooms around the room with outstretched arms before raising the walkie to his lips again. “Prepare to lock in on target.”
    â€œBombs away,” Mason responds, hurling a hairbrush that resembles mine against the wall.
    They are dressed as fighter pilots, in oversized leather jackets and swimming goggles. Matt is wearing white earmuffs strapped under this chin; Mason’s are pink—and lacy.
    â€œBoys!” Mona says sharply. “Are those Maya’s bras?”
    â€œCan’t be,” Meadow answers. “Maya’s aren’t padded.”
    All eyes—and cameras—turn to catch my reaction.
    The flush rolls over me so fast it almost knocks me down, but still I manage a feeble defense. “How do you know they’re not Mona’s?”
    The crowd cracks up.
    â€œMona hasn’t worn a bra since her mother’s funeral in 1988,” Max explains.
    â€œAnd only then out of respect,” Mona confirms.
    Judy’s smile stretches so far it threatens to decapitate her. Why isn’t she bugged that the boys have confiscated the crew’s walkie-talkies?
    I snatch futilely at Mason while Matt targets his big brother, Mitch, who has appeared in the doorway. Raising his arms, Matt shouts, “Target locked in! Prepare for missile departure!” He loads a tampon, adorned by a tiny American flag, into my purple thong and launches it.
    Time slows as the white projectile sails through the air. Heads turn to follow its trajectory. Three seconds later the tampon lands in Mitch’s soda.
    The twins high-five each other. “Splash down!”
    Mitch sets his glass on a table and then reaches for my thong, now dangling from the snout of a ceramic otter. He offers it to me with a flourish and says, “Nice color.”
    Carrie’s brother, Calvin, grabs the thong and twirls it over his head on one finger, whooping. In a frenzy, the twins leap for it until Max crosses the room and puts each boy in a headlock. Without waiting to retrieve my property, I bolt for the back door.
    Bob and Chili are so intent on following me that they collide in the doorway and curse at each