Lucy Doesn't Wear Pink by Nancy Rue

her how to be a girl. She was going to be a girl like her mom — brave and strong and a soccer player who rocked.
    Only when Lollipop leaped from under the pillows with a frightened mew and dove into the toy chest did Lucy realize she’d said it out loud.
    She wanted to dive in after her and hide, but that wasn’t what her mom would have done. Lucy opened her underwear drawer and dug under the pile of rolled-up socks and pulled out the Book of Lists.
    Mom would make a list. Maybe while she was drinking tea.
    Lucy slid the pen from its holder and began to write.

7
    Inez cooked dinner for Lucy and Dad before she left — another thing Dad said he was going to have her do on the weekdays from now on. As they ate, Lucy swallowed more of what she wanted to say than she did of the enchilada she pushed around on her plate.
    Don’t you like it when we cook together? she choked back.
    Do you think our enchiladas are icky? Do you think I’m icky all of a sudden and you need somebody to change me?
    When Dad finally said, “What did you think of Inez?” Lucy just shrugged.
    “Whatever that answer was, I didn’t hear it.”
    “She was okay,” Lucy said.
    “Just ‘okay’?”
    “I don’t even know her. I guess she’s fine.”
    Dad chewed for longer than it took anybody to soften up a tortilla, but Lucy didn’t fill in the blank space. She felt the same way she did in class, staring at that too-white piece of paper and not knowing what was right to put on it.
    “I tell you what.” Dad felt for his checkered napkin and swiped it across his mouth, making a smile appear. “We’ll just give her a try, and if it doesn’t work out — ”
    “How long of a try?” Lucy said. She came up on one knee.
    “How does two months sound?”
    Two months? She could grow an inch in two months. Or be well on her way to failing sixth grade. Or —
    “Luce?”
    But it was better than forever. And in two months she could also show him, and this Inez woman, and Aunt Karen, that she already knew how to be a girl.
    “Hello?” Dad said.
    “Okay,” Lucy said. “Two months.”
    “Good. Now let’s talk about some ground rules.”
    “Dad.” Lucy gave her best elaborate sigh. “I know the rules.”
    “New rules.” Dad put down his fork and held up a finger. “No letting the cats loose on her.”
    Oh.
    Another finger came up. “No disappearing for hours on end with J.J.”
    Rats.
    “Three.”
    “I know. No sneaking hot chili pepper into her tea.”
    Lucy poked her fork into her enchilada and watched the sauce drool out.
    “Well,” Dad said, “that’s all I need to say. You and Inez will work things out.”
    What things? Lucy wanted to shout. Yesterday or the day before, she would have said it. She could have asked Dad anything and not been afraid. But now things were different, like someone had whispered something to Dad that had changed how he thought about her.
    And that changed how she thought about him too.

    At least Mr. Auggy didn’t give their papers back with big red Fs on them the next day. He didn’t even mention the assignment all morning, and by the time recess came around, Lucy could even get a little bit excited about playing soccer. Maybe Mr. Auggy would teach her about that thing he’d mentioned yesterday.
    But when she ran onto their little playing field, ball tucked under her arm, J.J. stopped her with a jerk of his head. His eyes were colder than the air.
    “What?” Lucy said.
    “What’s he doing here?”
    Lucy twisted to see where J.J. was directing his icicle stare. A big, dark-haired boy stood with his back to them, talking to Mr. Auggy. Lucy put the ball up so she could make a face at J.J. behind it.
    “That’s Gabe,” she said.
    “Duh,” J.J. replied.
    “Did he get in trouble?” Lucy peered hopefully over the top of the ball. “Is Mr. Auggy yelling at him?”
    “I don’t hear any yelling.”
    “Lucy.” There was a tug at her sweatshirt sleeve. Januarie was using the Chihuahua