Page 8 of The Executioners Three

She hesitated, knowing she really had no choice. But knowing she also really didn’t want Dr. Born to win this easily, she counted One Lance Bass. Two Lance Bass. Three Lance Bass .

“Alright,” she declared, pulling back her shoulders. “I will cooperate.”

Dr. Born’s posture relaxed. His kindly smile returned. “Thank you. Now, as I said before: I want you to walk me through what you saw, paying particular attention to how it made you feel.”

Two hours after counseling had ended, Freddie found herself slumping into her family’s living room where her stepdad, Steve, scanned the TV Guide.

He’d lately taken to shaving his balding scalp, and Freddie thought it looked Much Better Indeed.

His pale skin was very healthy beneath that disappearing hair!

Freddie’s mom, meanwhile, sorted through a heap of muslin on the couch.

Like Freddie, her dark brown curls were wild and no amount of product or scrunchies could control them.

“No TGIF tonight?” Mom asked distractedly.

“I’m not feeling it,” Freddie muttered. Having missed her special time with Kyle, she didn’t feel up to anything beyond moping, moaning, and occasionally wallowing.

“In that case,” Mom declared, “you get to help me mend these gowns for the pageant.”

Freddie sighed. “I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather you did.”

“I’m a terrible seamstress.”

“And no one will notice a crooked hem from the stage.”

“ I’m helping,” Steve said.

Freddie stuck out her tongue. But then did end up plopping onto the carpet and holding out her hand. “Hand it over, Ma.”

Her mother did exactly that, passing off a 1600s-style gown in a deeply unflattering brown. Every year, when the Historical Society put on the Fête du B?cheron, they capped off the day with the Lumberjack Pageant.

(It had briefly been known as the Reconstitution Historique des B?cherons when Mom had first joined the society in 1979 and tried to organize the chaotic group, but the original members had quickly revolted against that title.

There was historical accuracy and then there was what the locals could actually pronounce, Patty. )

Every year, Mr. Binder directed the play, Mom handled the costumes, and Freddie was forced to perform. This year, though, Mom had sworn Freddie wouldn’t have to participate. Sure, Freddie would help assemble the sets, and yes, she’d help take tickets and donations at the entrance…

But! She would absolutely not have to go on the stage. No way, no how. Last year, Freddie had played a lumberjack, and the fake beard had stuck on a little too well. So rather than shame herself with a five-o’clock shadow at the post-pageant party, she’d fled for home.

She was pretty sure she still had little hairs stuck to her chin.

“Who’s playing our esteemed founder Allard Fortin this year in the pageant?” Freddie asked as she frowned at the gown now draped across her lap. It had a nice little tear at the bodice. Perfect for those old paintings in which a woman’s single boob always seemed to be falling out.

“No one yet,” Mom admitted, a nervousness to her voice that made both Steve and Freddie look up. She forced a laugh. “Oh, we’re just a little late getting enough volunteers is all. But they’ll come. They always come. It’s not like locals don’t know it’s happening.”

That was true. Everyone knew about the fête—and usually, everyone volunteered to be in the pageant. In fact, there was a competition every year for Most Outrageous French Accent, and the winner last year had been Greg.

Boy, had he earned it too. WELCUMMMM TO ZEE VILLAJJJ EE-STORRRR-EEECK!

“I can make sure we get volunteers,” Steve suggested. “It’s a small town. People talk. There’s probably just a mix-up with the dates—”

“No, no,” Mom cut in. She stabbed the gown on her own lap with a needle. “I can handle it.”

If It’s a small town; people talk was the motto of Berm, then I can handle it was Patricia Gellar’s.

She’d been a rare transplant from outside Berm, back in 1979, a few years before Freddie had been born.

And although Mom had tried to blend in with the locals, she’d also been a little too hung up on historical accuracy at the Village.

It had rubbed Bermians wrong. Couldn’t she just blend in like the old head of the Historical Society had done?

Did she really have to make everything so French?

The answer had been yes, it did need to be more French. And no, Patty couldn’t just blend in. While Mom had agreed she wouldn’t go all in by renaming the park La Ville Sur La Berme Village Historique, she had insisted they at least tweak a few things.

City-on-the-Berme Village Historique had become the compromise.

It had taken the first half of Freddie’s life for Mom to finally prove that having an accurate park was, in fact, better for tourism—but it was no wonder she was nervous.

Bermians loved to boycott things when they were mad.

(No one in the entire town had bought a box of Bisquick since the Incident with the Trademark.)

Steve, whom Freddie knew secretly smoothed things over for Mom, just shrugged at Mom as if to say, Suit yourself! Which totally meant he’d be whispering in ears tomorrow.

“It’ll be fine,” Mom insisted. “People always want to commemorate les b?cherons .”

“More like,” Freddie countered, “they want any excuse to drink spiked cider and whine about biased judges in the jack-o’-lantern contest.”

“It’s not whining. ” Steve tipped up his chin. “Judge Raskin absolutely played favorites with his son in ’95… Oh, look!” He snapped up the TV Guide . “Reruns of The X-Files are on channel seven. Wanna watch?”

“Duh,” Freddie replied, and seconds later, the familiar voices of Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder filled the living room. (Mulder was almost as hot as Lance Bass.) An hour later, after many poked thumbs and a crudely repaired bodice, the phone rang.

“It’s Divya,” Steve said after glancing at the caller ID. He passed the cordless receiver Freddie’s way. She scrabbled to her feet and marched from the room.

“What’s up, Div?”

“You have five minutes to get dressed in something black before Kyle gets there to pick you up.”

Freddie stopped dead in her tracks. “Say what now?”

“You heard me. Kyle Friedman, who makes you all woo-woo, is going to be at your house in five minutes. We’re going to Fortin Prep for… Well, I don’t actually know that part. Retribution, I assume.”

“How do you know any of this? Did Kyle call you?” Freddie shoved into her bedroom and dove for the closet. Black, black—what did she have in black that also made her look like the Most Appealing Girl Who’d Ever Lived?

“Laina called me.”

Freddie choked. “Um, excuse me? How does she have your number?”

“I gave it to her.” Divya’s voice went breathy. “In AP Econ, she asked me for it.”

Freddie gasped. “You minx! You didn’t even tell me.”

“I was distracted by Dr. Born.”

“There was time before that! Or after!”

“Oh, shut up and get dressed, will you? You’re down to four minutes now.”

Before Freddie could squawk any further indignation, the line went dead—and she was left with only four minutes to make herself beautiful.

She failed. Miserably. She just didn’t own enough black, which left her wearing dress pants with sneakers.

And although she had a decent black turtleneck, the black sweatshirt she pulled on for warmth was…

Well, she had been much smaller when she’d gotten it from the Lumberjack Pageant six years ago, and the lumberjack axe had started to flake off.

Freddie traded her glasses for contacts, and finally, last but never least, she slipped into Kyle’s letterman jacket. No doubt he would want it back, but she would savor it while she had it.

Mmmm . Manly man soap smell.

“Hey Mom!” Freddie roared, swinging out of her room—only to barrel straight into Mom and Steve standing right there. They looked sheepish.

“Were you just listening to my call?”

Mom gave an appalled gasp that Freddie didn’t believe for one second. Then, in a deft change of subject, Mom reached out and pinched Freddie’s collar. “Where did you get this jacket?”

Freddie couldn’t keep from smiling. “Kyle Friedman lent it to me. And now he’s on his way here . To pick me up.”

“Kyle Friedman?” Steve asked. “Wasn’t he the kid who tried to start a local surf team?”

Mom, meanwhile, grew hearts in her eyes. “He offered you a Fruit Roll-Up in fifth grade, didn’t he? When we had to pick up a box of old documents at his house. What a charmer.”

“Yes,” Freddie said, surprised her mom recalled that. Then again, it had been a Very Exciting Day for Mom—reclaiming forgotten documents in the old Historical Society members’ garages. It had also been a Very Exciting Day for Freddie, since Fruit Roll-Ups were also verboten.

“Me and Divya are going out with him and his friends.”

“Did you hear that?” Mom threw Steve an exultant smile. “She has friends!”

Freddie scowled. “I’ve always had friends.”

“More like friend, singular,” Steve countered.

Once more, Freddie stuck out her tongue. Then she turned to her mother. “You have Xena?”

“Oh, yes!” Mom scooted for the kitchen. “Thank you so much for letting me use her.”

Freddie followed on her heels. “Did you replace the film?”

“Of course.” Mom snagged the Nikon F100 off the counter and handed it to Freddie.

Who instantly hugged the camera close. “Did you miss me, little warrior princess? I know, I know. I missed you too, my sugar wookums.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Get a room, you two.”

Freddie side-eyed him. “Don’t listen to the mean man, Xena.”

“When will you be back?” Mom pushed in. She was bouncing on her toes. “Late? Teenagers should stay out late.”

“I don’t know, Mom. You’re the adult here.”

Mom blinked. “Okay. Then just be back in time for Y2K. No one knows what’s going to happen. It could get dangerous.”

“That’s two and a half months away.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Be serious, Mom. My ride is probably here by now!”

“Her ride, Steve. Did you hear that? She has a ride .”

“Mom!”

“Okay, okay. Does one A.M . seem fair? Maybe two is better.” She tapped her chin.

Freddie’s eyes widened. “Only if you want me to get arrested. The city has a curfew of midnight for anyone under eighteen.”

“Well, then midnight it is!” Mom slapped her hands onto Freddie’s shoulders and twirled her toward the front door. “Although,” she whispered as she pushed her daughter forward, “I won’t tell Sheriff Bowman if you’re a bit late.”

“Your parenting skills are questionable, Mother.”

“As are your teenager skills, Daughter.”

“You’re cruel.”

“And you love me. See you at midnight—or later!”

Freddie opened her mouth to say goodbye, but the words never came. Kyle’s Jeep gleamed on the street below, and instantly her heart lurched into her eye sockets. The world is such a magical place, she thought as she floated toward him.

And it could only get more magical as long as Lance Bass remained in her pocket.