THEY’VE BEEN CRUISING AROUND, or, as Ana Mae likes to say, pokin the Hokey. Now they’re doing one of their favorite things: picking blackberries.
And Ana Mae is laughing. “You’re jealous!”
Jubilee has just told Ana Mae about Albert shouting “I’m Jack!” as he rode Hazel, which he persisted in calling Scramjet. Already Jubilee regrets she said anything. She laughs back. “Jealous? Not.”
Ana Mae laughs harder.
“What?”
“You’re so funny, Ace. You should see your face. You’re the world’s worst actor. You”—she pops a berry into her mouth—“are jealous”—another pop—“of Jack.”
Jubilee throws a berry at Ana Mae. “I am not!”
Ana Mae rolls her eyes, tosses up a berry, catches it in her mouth, sighs, “Whatever.”
“Don’t whatever me,” Jubilee growls. “Listen to what you’re saying. What’s that supposed to mean—me, jealous? You think my little brother likes that … male … better than me? His own sister?”
“Hey, don’t get your pants in a bunch.” As a peacemaking gesture, Ana Mae tosses a berry for Jubilee to mouth-catch. To show she’s not ready for peace, Jubilee swats it away. So Ana Mae flips one to herself. “No big deal, Jubie Jube. Albert’s a boy. Jack’s a boy. Boys side with boys. So, like, what’s new?”
Jubilee snaps, “Albert is not a boy. He’s a brother. Mine.”
Ana Mae gapes at her pal with open amusement, breaks out laughing. “Ace, girl, I think you’re a little, like, confused?”
Jubilee’s shock-face may or may not be fake—it’s hard to tell. “Oh really? So first I’m jealous and now I’m confused.”
Which sends Ana Mae into another howl. “I guess. You are one messed-up—” Before she lands on the word chickie, three blackberries pelt her face.
Jubilee sneers, “Say your prayers, girlfriend,” and the berry fight is on.
Round the thorny tangle of berrywhips they go. Screaming. Laughing. Flinging. Trash-talking. Pickerpoke-yipping, “Ow! Ow!” Suddenly, as Ana Mae fires one over the thicket, Jubilee vanishes.