Exceptional Rachelle's Version Detour : Stranger Danger by Rachelle Allen      Book of the Month Contest Winner

Background Rachelle Allen and Gretchen (GW) Hargis are on a road trip from Baltimore to the FS International Convention in NJ. They encounter detours galore.         Gretchen is behind the wheel of my car, because I never forgot her confession of how she vomits if she’s in the passenger seat. Jane – you know, because she “called it” – is riding shotgun, and Rebekah and I are in the oh-so-roomy back seat of my brand new Mercedes luxury sedan. We leave Amish Country and make our way to Long Island and the boarding school for aspiring opera singers, run by my own former student, Maria Antinerelli.         After I phone her to arrange it all, I call my husband, Bobby, to update him on all that’s happened since Sunday and what’s on the current day’s agenda.         As I begin to teach Rebekah how to use her new phone, Jane takes the opportunity to say, “Now that I’m a new member of FanStory, I’ve begun to write poetry. Let me read you a few of my favorites so far. Rachelllllllllle? Are you and Rebekah listeningggggg?”         We exchange bemused looks, Rebekah and I, and I say, “Oh, yes, Jane, by all means. Let’s hear these masterpieces!”         Jane adds, “Because, you knowwwwww, I used to write poems alllllll the time in college. Did Tova tell you thaaaaaaat?”         “No,” I say. And because she’s just annoyed me by extending her words in a way that sounds like a goat – an animal I now hate – I ask sweetly, “Did you graduate together? 1970, right?”         Gretchen gives me Wise Eyes in her rearview mirror, and, in my periphery, I see Rebekah covering her teeth with her lips.         “Stilllllllllllll. It was good enough to survive the test of tiiiiiiiiiime,” Jane replies.         Oy. If Google Maps is correct, it will be another three hours and thirty-one minutes before we arrive in Long Island. There is not enough Calgon – or chocolate – on the planet to take me away from this whiny, annoying speech pattern.         “Okayyyyyyy!” says Jane. “Here’s the first one. It’s called ‘Luscious.’         Your plump lips         Seek my awaiting mouth---”         “Um, JANE!” I break in, a little more emphatically than I intended. “Anything G-rated you can share?”         “What?” Jane asks. “Whyyyyyy?”         “Well, because Rebekah is (a) sixteen and (b) Amish, so we need to be respectful here.”         Gretchen’s face in the rearview mirror is now Pepto Bismal pink from suppressing laughter. I’m just grateful she hasn’t been consuming a beverage because I know for a fact that, if she had, it would be geysering from her nostrils right now.         Jane sighs heavily and roots around in her spiral-bound notebook. “Fiiiiiiiiine,” she says in a tone that makes it oh-so intentionally clear that fine isn’t even marginally the case.         “This one’s PG,” she says. “Readyyyyyyyy?”         Gretchen mouths ‘no’ at me in the mirror.         “It’s called ‘Consummation.’         Approach me in all your naked splendor---”         “YO!!! JANE!!” I squawk. “What does ‘PG’ stand for in your world? Pretty Graphic?”         “Oy veyyyyyy!” she responds.         “Yeah, well, right back atcha!” I say with my No Nonsense Teacher edge. How is Tova friends with this woman?         Rebekah begins to rock a bit and rapidly whispers The Lord’s Prayer.         “Hey, Gretchen!” I say. “Let’s listen to some music! It’s already set to the Classical station.”         But even with that distraction, every twenty minutes or so, Jane announces a poem she’s found in her trove that she’s deemed okay for young audiences. But every single time, I have to shut her down by the end of the first line. This is starting to feel like a Tik Tok prank, the online jokes people play on unsuspecting others for the purpose of getting viewers.         This new detour is so much worse than the original one! Thanks, Tova! I’ll be in touch; don’t you worry about THAT!         Finally, after about ninety minutes, Gretchen suggests we stop at a mall so that we can find some contemporary clothes for Rebekah. That’s how dire this is: my friend Gretchen, who could not care less about clothes, has volunteered to find an entirely new wardrobe for a sixteen-year-old she’s known three days. Surely Armageddon awaits at the next rest stop!         A mall appears relatively soon, and Gretchen pulls into a parking space. As we pile out and stretch, my phone dings, and I see that Gretchen has texted me.         “Pleeeeeeease can’t we lose her somewhere in the mall and then just ditch her altogetherrrrrr? When the authorities question us, we’ll claim we simply forgot she’d been on the triiiiiiiiiip.”         “Sooo tempting,” I text back. “But she knows our final destination and will be there with a poison dart gun. I’ll talk to her privately if you take Rebekah shopping.”         “GLADLY!!!” She texts back.           “Bet you never in your life imagined that that would be your preference over any other choice offered, did you?”         “Never.”         “Okay,” I say. “Rebekah, in an effort to make you look like a normal, regular sixteen-year-old rather than a frou-frou Barbie princess, Gretchen wants to be your personal shopper. But you have final say over everything you choose.”         Her eyes light up. I hand Gretchen my VISA and say, “No limit today.”         “No!” says Rebecca at once. “My family gave me money, and I had money saved, too.”         “This is on me,” I say. “Save your money for when you’re in Long Island.”         She actually hugs me, and I want to give Gretchen my Amex Platinum card, too. “Meet back here in ninety minutes?” I ask.         “Perfect,” says Gretchen.         Jane and I watch them disappear into the west entrance to the mall, and I am convinced I see a spring in Rebekah’s step.         “Shall we go shopping, toooooo?” Jane asks. “I love that hat you’re wearingggggg. I’d like to get one exactly like it!”         I stop abruptly to just stare at her. “Seriously?” I ask. “Don’t you think that would look a bit peculiar? The two of us in matching black berets with red ostrich plumes?”         “Well, those Guardian Angel people all used to wear red bereeeeeeets!” she says.         “Yeah, and the Army guys wear green ones, but you and I don’t belong to an organized group.”         “FANSTORY!” she reminds me at once.         “Okay, but this is not a FanStory beret. You understand that, Jane, right?” I am incredulous that we are even having this absolutely stupid conversation. I feel like I’m Alice, this is Wonderland, and I have fallen down the rabbit hole.         “Heyyyyy!” says Jane. “Now that we’re by ourselves with no, you know, impressionable minor in our midst, can I read you one of my poemmmmmms?”         I know I won’t be able to hold her off for eighty-six minutes, so I relent, generously taking one for the team.         She extracts a sheath of rumpled notebook pages from her oversized handbag then jockeys them into a single jumble.         “This one is called ‘Screw Me Like You Meeeeeeean It,” she announces to anyone within earshot, and all I can think is I miss my Amish life more than I ever would have imagined.         When she finishes, she gives me the haughty, triumphant stare of a prima donna who feels she’s just given a world-class performance. “Wellllllllll?” she asks.         “When we get to the convention,” I tell her, “the first person I want you to meet is Lancellot.” Then I add, “Jane, please promise me that you won’t read any more of these while Rebekah’s in the car. Can you do that for me?”         She gives me the angry pout of a six-year-old deprived of ice cream.         “I will be so very appreciative if you could do that,” I add with a kind smile and warm, loving eyes that I so seriously do NOT mean.         “Wellllllll, okayyyyyyyy,” she finally says.         “Oh, you are such a sweetie,” I say and suddenly have an epiphany. Her name may be Jane Babies, but her strangeness reminds me of Baby Jane, the psychopathic character played by Bette Davis in the movie where she keeps her disabled sister captive in their house.         I get a head-to-toe shiver.         “Heyyyy!” I shout, then feel immediately chagrined that now I, too, am drawing out my words. “Let’s go into the mall and get some coffee! There’s bound to be a big crowd in the food court!”         So as not to be too spectacularly obvious about my motive, I quickly add, “We can people-watch!”         I’m so spooked by the Baby Jane aspect right now, I don’t even wait for a response. Instead, I hustle toward the mall entrance while fervently hoping she doesn’t follow me in. Gretchen’s idea to ditch her was spot-on. This woman is certifiable.         I text Gretchen: “Nutjob Jane and I are in the Food Court. Meet us there.” Then, just for good measure, I add: “Jane Babies/Baby Jane. From this point on, no one does alone time with her. I bet Tova’s using this reprieve from her to move to Madagascar and leave no forwarding address!”         Gretchen texts back: “Agreed” then attaches pictures of Rebekah in THE cutest grey-and-pink striped Nike t-shirt, matching skirt and leggings ensemble ever made. She looks like a real teenager – and a fashion-forward one, at that.         My Jewish Mommie Red Alert vibe abates a moment as I take in the delightful transformation occurring just a few stores away. Trade-offs, I think to myself.         Just then, Jane is standing beside me. “Welllllll, I also love your shoooooooes, too,” she says. “Can’t I look for a pair just like themmmmmmm?”         Forget Baby Jane, now she’s feeling like the Bridgette Fonda character in the movie Single White Female. I mean it; if I hear even one note of the Dueling Banjoes song from Deliverance, Jane Babies will think I have turned into a spaceship with the way I will rocket away, leaving her to cough in the wake of my fuselage. Book of the Month Contest Winner Recognized

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