True (. . . Sort Of) by Katherine Hannigan

Galveston’s hair.
    And Clarice came home early. “Hey,” she called, “where is everybody?”
    â€œMa,” RB answered, “we’re upstairs.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œNothing,” all three replied.
    â€œGal, get down here.” Clarice summoned her.
    Delly heard her sister retreat.
    The battle might be over, but Delly knew the war would go on. She’d need a different plan for Tuesday, or Gal would be bald, and she’d be banished to Trouble Town forever.
    She fell on her bed, worn out from fighting the fight, and wasted from a week of counting.
    After supper Clarice came to Delly’s room. She sat on the edge of the bed.
    Delly was so spent she hardly noticed her.
    â€œOne week and no trouble,” Clarice said.
    â€œHunh,” she mumbled.
    â€œDelly,” Clarice told her, “your dad and I decided that when you have a month of no trouble, you get a Delly Day.”
    That woke her up a little. “Huh?”
    â€œWhatever you want, for a day.”
    Delly’d never had Clarice or Boomer to herself, except for meetings with police Officers and principals. The part of her that remembered happiness wanted to holler, “Jiminy fipes!” Instead, she murmured, “Hmm.”
    â€œI’m proud of you, Del,” Clarice rasped.
    Delly’d never heard that before, either. Just like that, those five words filled her up. They inflated her, like a baDellylloon. She wasn’t tiny or tired anymore. She was blown up to bursting with Clarice’s pride.
    Then there were no numbers, only happiness. She was Clarice’s again.
    â€œMa,” she said, because the word sounded so good.
    Clarice got up. “Good night, Delly.”
    â€œGood night,” she replied. She fell asleep with her lips curling up to her eyes.

Chapter 22
    T here was a reason now, a good one, for staying out of trouble. It wasn’t the Delly Day or to keep her mom from crying. It was being Clarice’s pride.
    Tuesday morning Delly was still puffed up with it. It woke her with the words, “Ma’s proud of me.”
    But the numbers were backing up behind her happy thoughts. “Bawlgrammit,” she muttered; then she let them through. Clarice’s pride depended on it.
    The numbers were blown up, too. They were fat and fluorescent-colored. They sashayed around her brain singing, One, two, three . . .
    â€œGood morning, Ma,” she rasped as she came into the kitchen.
    â€œGood morning, Delly.” Clarice smiled.
    â€œWho do you think you are—strutting like you’re six feet tall?” Galveston hissed.
    The numbers trumpeted an attack. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, they blared.
    Delly high-stepped it to the toaster, and the rest of breakfast went without a hitch.
    It was a long day of counting, though, even with Clarice’s pride. By recess Delly and the digits were tiny and gray again.
    On Alaska, as birds flapped around Ferris Boyd, Delly thought about after school. It’d be her and Galveston, with only the dinky numbers between them. There’d be hand-to-hair combat; Clarice’s pride would be crushed.
    â€œWhat’ll I do?” she mumbled. Everywhere else was fun or fights.
    Then the idea slapped her, like a smack to the brain. “Shikes,” she exclaimed.
    â€œIt’ll be just like sitting on Alaska,” Delly told herself. “No fun, no fights. And no Galveston.
    â€œFerris Boyd,” she whispered, “I’m following you home.”
    At the end of the day, Delly watched Ferris Boyd slump out the back door of the school, then she ran to the front. “Go with Cletis,” she hollered at RB. “I’ll be home later.”
    RB went pale with worry. “You in trouble?”
    â€œNah,” she said. “I got a project.”
    â€œWhat kind of project?”
    Delly told the truth, sort of. “It’s about birds and squirrels and stuff. I got to