True (. . . Sort Of) by Katherine Hannigan Page A

Then she said softly, “Ferris Boyd, I don’t need to come in your house. And I don’t want to play ball with you, because I hate that game. I’ll just sit on the stoop. How’s that?”
    The girl stayed still.
    Delly let her. It was as if she asked, Will you give me a minute? and Delly told her, Sure, without a word.
    Finally, Ferris Boyd tipped her head toward the house. She trudged up the drive.
    It was the best “yes” Delly’d never heard. “All right then.” She grinned. She followed her to the steps and sat down.
    When Ferris Boyd came out with her ball and the bowl, the black cat leaped onto the stoop. It smelled the air around Delly. “Trrrrrrrp,” it trilled, and Delly didn’t know if that meant, She’s okay or Let me tear her up.
    Ferris Boyd put her hand on the cat’s back. It flicked its tail twice, then went to the bowl. When it was done, it lay down beside Delly.
    â€œBawlgram cat,” she breathed, but she didn’t pull away.
    It was all right watching Ferris Boyd play basketball. For about a minute.
    Maybe Delly did it to pass the time. Or maybe she knew you’re not really friends till you know all of somebody, including their trouble.
    â€œFerris Boyd, want to hear a story?” she asked.
    The girl kept playing.
    â€œAll right then. Troubletale Number One: the first time Officer Tibbetts tells me I’m BAD.”
    The cat turned its head to her. The birds quit chattering.
    â€œWe went to the fair.” Delly began. She told about the Poultry Pavilion and how sad those cooped-up chickens looked. “They were squawking at me, ‘Please, please, set us free.’ So I did. After, they were prancing around, like they were at a party.” She grinned, remembering that.
    Suddenly her face darkened. “Next thing I know, Verena’s holding me up, hollering, ‘Bad, bad, bad.’ And I was so dumb, I thought she was joking.” She glanced over at her friend.
    Ferris Boyd wasn’t playing; she was watching Delly. Her eyes were blue sadness. But now the sad was for somebody else.
    Delly didn’t want it. “It’s just a story.” She smirked.
    Ferris Boyd understood. She started dribbling again.
    Delly was quiet for a bit. She’d always hated hearing that story. Somebody’d tell it, and it was all about her trouble, not her trying to help. Telling Ferris Boyd was different, though. Delly didn’t feel bad; she felt better.
    â€œWant to hear another one?” she asked.
    Ferris Boyd took a shot and swished it.
    â€œTroubletale Number Two,” she declared, “I’m a brownie burglar.”
    The whole time Delly talked, the girl played ball. She didn’t shake her head or tsk-tsk like everybody else. It was as if, for Ferris Boyd, Delly weren’t horribadible at all.
    â€œYou ready? ’Cause here comes Troubletale Number Three.” Delly started another one.
    And the girl kept playing.

Chapter 31
    A s long as Ferris Boyd didn’t quit, neither did Delly. She got all the way through Troubletale Number Five and was about to begin Number Six.
    Suddenly the ball stopped bouncing. Ferris Boyd was standing on the steps with her backpack.
    â€œOh,” Delly said. “Hey.”
    The girl stared off at the woods.
    Then Delly realized what she’d done. In less than an hour, she’d told her brand-new friend some of the worst things about her. Now Ferris Boyd knew about the tiny ton-of-trouble sitting on her stoop.
    But Delly wouldn’t ask, You change your mind about me? Instead, she said, “I’m pretty bad, huh,” and snickered.
    Ferris Boyd didn’t look at her. She walked away, to the woods.
    And Delly had her answer.
    Just like that, the feeling bad was back, beating her up. “You’re too much trouble for anybody,” it told her. “You can’t even keep a friend for a day.”
    Delly’s eyes started stinging.