Sunday I woke up feeling like I'd been sick with the flu. Like I'd had one of those bad, convoluted, unexplainable fever dreams.

And what I've figured out about bad, convoluted, unexplainable dreams of any kind is that you've just got to shake them off. Try to forget that they ever happened.

I beat it into the kitchen and poured myself a killer bowl of corn flakes. And I was about to drown it in milk when my mother comes waltzing in and snags it away from me. "You are going to wait, young man," she says. "This family is going to have Sunday breakfast together."

I shook it off, all right, and got out of bed early 'cause I had eaten almost nothing the night before and I was starving! But as I was trucking into the kitchen, I glanced into the family room and noticed that my dad was sacked out on the couch.

He rolled over and kind of groaned, then curled up tighter under his skinny little quilt and muttered some pretty unfriendly-sounding stuff into his pillow.

This was not good. This was a sign of battles still in progress, and it made me feel like an invader in my own territory.

"But I'm starving!"

"So are the rest of us. Now go! I'm making pancakes, and you're taking a shower. Go!" Like a shower's going to prevent imminent starvation.

At breakfast my father didn't look like he'd spent the night on the couch. No bags under his eyes, no whiskers on his chin. He was decked out in tennis shorts and a lavender polo shirt, and his hair was all blown dry like it was a workday.

But I headed down to the bathroom, and on my way I noticed that the family room was empty. The quilt was folded and back on the armrest, the pillow was gone… it was like I'd imagined the whole thing.

Then my grandfather came in, saying, "Patsy, the house smells wonderful! Good morning, Rick. Hi there, Bryce," and winked at me as he sat down and put his napkin in his lap.

Personally I thought the shirt looked kind of girly, but my mom said, "You look very nice this morning, Rick."

My sister appeared in a triple-X miniskirt and platform shoes, with eyes that were definitely of the raccoon variety. My mother gasped, but then took a deep breath and said, "Good morning, honey. You're… you're… I thought you were going to church this morning with your friends."

My father just eyed her suspiciously.

"Lyn-et-ta!" my mother sang out. "Break-fast!"

"I am." Lynetta scowled and sat down.

Mom brought pancakes, fried eggs, and hash browns to the table. My father just sat there stiff as a board for a minute, but finally he shook out his napkin and tucked it into his collar.

"Here it comes…," my father muttered, but my mother gave him a glare that shut him down cold.

"The solution is…," my mom said as she served herself some pancakes, "… we're going to invite the Bakers over for dinner."

"Well," my mother said as she sat down, "I have come up with a solution to our situation."

"Thanks, Dad," she says with a smile, then tells Lynetta and me, "Of course I'm serious, and yes, if Juli and the boys want to come, they'll be invited."

My father blurts out, "What?"; Lynetta asks, "All of them?"; I put in, "Are you serious?"; but my grandfather heaps on another fried egg and says, "That, Patsy, is a marvelous idea."

Mom smooths the napkin into her lap. "Maybe it's about time I found out."

My sister starts cracking up. "Do you know what you're saying?"

Lynetta turns to me and says, "She's inviting the core of Piss Poor over for dinner -- oh, this is something I really woke up expecting!"

"No, Rick. A sit-down dinner. Like we have when your clients come over." He stopped chewing. "You're expecting them to dress up?"

My father shakes his head and says, "Patsy, what purpose does this serve? So I made some stupid cracks last night. Is this the next phase in my punishment?"

"It is something we should have done years ago."

"Patsy, please. I know you feel bad about what you found out, but an awkward dinner party isn't going to change anything!"

My mother ran syrup all over her pancakes, popped the top closed, licked her finger, then locked eyes with my dad. "We are having the Bakers over for dinner."

Mom glared at him. "What I'm expecting is for you to behave like the gentleman I always thought you were."

Dad went back to his potatoes. Definitely safer than arguing with Mom.

And that, she didn't have to tell him, was that.

Dad took a deep breath, then sighed and said, "Whatever you want, Patsy. Just don't say I didn't warn you." He took a bite of hash browns and mumbled, "A barbecue, I suppose?"

Granddad ate plenty, even for him, but I couldn't tell what he was thinking. He was back to looking more granite than human. Me, I'd started tuning in to the fact that this dinner could be more than awkward -- it could be trouble. Those rotten eggs were back from the grave, looming large and smelly right over my head.

Sure, Granddad knew, but no one else in my family did. What if it came up at dinner? I'd be dead, fried, cluck-faced meat.

Lynetta wound up eating the entire white of a fried egg and almost a whole pancake besides. Plain, of course, but from the way she was glutting and giggling as she ate, it was obvious that at least she was in a good mood.

Later, as I was brushing my teeth, I considered bribing Juli. Getting her on board so that nobody brought up the subject of eggs. Or maybe I could sabotage the dinner somehow. Make it not happen. Yeah, I could -- I stopped myself and looked in the mirror. What kind of wimp was I, anyway? I spit and headed back to find my mom.

"What is it, honey?" she asked me as she wiped off the griddle. "You look worried."

"About her… eggs?"

"What can be…," she said, then looked at me and stopped cleaning. "Oh, it is serious. Honey, what's wrong?"

It had been ages since I'd voluntarily fessed up about something to my mom. It just didn't seem necessary anymore; I'd learned to deal with things on my own. At least, that's what I'd thought. Until now.

She touched my arm and said, "Bryce, tell me. What is it?"

I hopped up to sit on the counter, then took a deep breath and said, "It's about Juli's eggs."

She laughed. "I don't know about that." I just waited.

"Yeah. Remember that whole chicken-hen-salmonella disaster?"

"Well, what you don't know is that Juli didn't bring eggs over just that once. She's been bringing them over every week… or about that, anyway."

"That was quite a while ago, but sure…"

I double-checked to make sure my dad or Lynetta wasn't lurking around somewhere, then whispered, "Will you swear to secrecy?"

"Well, I was afraid Dad would get mad at me for not telling her we didn't want them, so I started intercepting them. I'd see her coming, get to her before she rang the bell, and then I'd toss them in the trash before anyone knew she'd been here."

"She has? Why didn't I know about this?"

"Yeah. As of last week. Because Juli caught me chucking a carton in the trash outside."

"Oh, dear."

"But I take it they have stopped?"

I whispered, "You're sworn to secrecy on this whole egg thing, right? I mean, Juli told Granddad, so he knows, but I don't want this to spread to, you know, Dad."

"Exactly."

She studied me a minute, then said, "Tell me you've learned your lesson, honey."

I looked down and mumbled, "I told her that we were afraid of salmonella poisoning because their yard was such a mess. She ran off crying, and the next thing I know, she's starting to fix up their yard."

"Oh, Bryce!"

"Exactly."

"Oh, Bryce!"

She was dead quiet for a minute; then very softly she said, "Thank you for your honesty, Bryce. It does help to explain a lot." She shook her head and said, "What that family must think of us," and got back to cleaning the griddle. "All the more reason to have them over for dinner, if you ask me."

"Well, I kept thinking they'd stop! How long can a stupid chicken lay eggs?"

"So what did you tell her?"

"Okay, then." I let out a big sigh of relief. "Thanks."

"I have, Mom."

"Oh, and Bryce?"

"Right," I said, and headed outside to trim the turf.

"I'm very glad you told me about it." She kissed me on the cheek, then smiled and said, "Now, didn't I hear you promise you'd mow the lawn today?"

That evening my mother announced that the Bakers would be over Friday night at six o'clock; that the menu included poached salmon, crab risotto, and fresh steamed vegetables; and that none of us had better weasel out of being there. My dad muttered that if we were really going to do this, it would be a whole lot better to barbecue because at least that way he'd have something to do, but my mom positively smoked him with her eyes and he dropped it.

"Yeah?"

So. They were coming. And it made seeing Juli at school even more uncomfortable than usual. Not because she gushed about it or even waved and winked or something. No, she was back to avoiding me. She'd say hi if we happened to run into each other, but instead of being, like, right over my shoulder anytime I looked, she was nowhere. She must have ducked out back doors and taken roundabout ways through campus. She was, I don't know, scarce.

Making that connection sent a chill down my spine. And I wondered -- what was she thinking? Could she really be that interested in root derivations?

I found myself looking at her in class. The teacher'd be talking and all eyes would be up front… except mine. They kept wandering over to Juli. It was weird. One minute I'd be listening to the teacher, and the next I'd be completely tuned out, looking at Juli.

It wasn't until Wednesday in math that I figured it out. With the way her hair fell back over her shoulders and her head was tilted, she looked like the picture in the paper. Not just like it -- the angle was different, and the wind wasn't blowing through her hair -- but she did look like the picture. A lot like the picture.

Darla Tressler caught me watching, and man, she gave me the world's wickedest smile. If I didn't do something fast, this was going to spread like wildfire, so I squinted at her and whispered, "There's a bee in her hair, stupid," then pointed around in the air like, There it goes, see?

"Give me your sharpener and I'm history," she said with her hand out.

That night I was doing my homework, and just to prove to myself that I'd been wrong, I pulled that newspaper article out of my trash can. And as I'm flipping it over, I'm telling myself, It's a distortion of reality; it's my imagination; she doesn't really look like that…

Darla's neck whipped around searching for the bee, and I straightened out my focus for the rest of the day. The last thing I needed was to be scorched by the likes of Darla Tressler.

But there she was. The girl in my math class, two rows over and one seat up, glowing through newsprint.

"Nothing, and stop calling me that! And don't barge into my room anymore!"

Lynetta barged in. "I need your sharpener," she said.

I slammed my binder closed over the paper and said, "You're supposed to knock!" And then, since she was zooming in and the paper was still sticking out, I crammed the binder into my backpack as fast as I could. "What are you trying to hide there, baby brother?"

Until first period the next morning, that is. Man! What was I supposed to do with it? I couldn't get up and throw it out; Garrett was right there. Besides that, Darla Tressler's in that class, and I could tell -- she was keeping an eye out for wayward bees. If she caught wind of this, I'd be the one stung.

But two seconds later my mom was calling for me, and after that, well, I forgot that the paper was in my binder.

"Dude!" he says. "What's your problem?"

Then Garrett reaches over to snag a piece of paper like he does about fourteen times a day, only I have a complete mental spaz and slam down on his hand with mine.

I dug it out of my drawer and tossed it at her, and sure enough, she disappeared.

"Sorry," I say, tuning in to the fact that he was only going for lined paper, not newspaper.

"Dude," he says again. "You know you've been really spaced lately? Anyone else tell you that?" He rips a piece of paper out of my binder, then notices the edges of the newspaper. He eyes me, and before I can stop him, he whips it out.

I pounce on him and tear it out of his hands, but it's too late. He's seen her picture.

Before he can say a word, I get in his face and say, "You shut up, you hear me? This is not what you think."

The way he said it scared me. Like he was playing with the idea of roasting me in front of the whole class. I leaned over and said, "Zip it, would you?"

The teacher hammered on us to be quiet, but it didn't stop Garrett from smirking at me or doing the double-eyebrow wiggle in the direction of my binder. After class Darla tried to act all cool and preoccupied, but she had her radar up and pointed our way. She shadowed me practically all day, so there was no real window of opportunity to explain things to Garrett.

"Whoa, kick back, will ya? I wasn't thinking anything…" But I could see the little gears go click-click-click in his brain. Then he smirks at me and says, "I'm sure you've got a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you're carrying a picture of Juli Baker around with you."

What was I going to tell him, anyway? That the paper was in my binder because I was trying to hide it from my sister? That would help.

Besides, I didn't want to make up some lame lie about it. I actually wanted to talk to Garrett. I mean, he was my friend, and a lot had happened in the last couple of months that was weighing on me. I thought that if I talked to him, maybe he'd help get me back on track. Help me to stop thinking about everything. Garrett was real reliable in that arena.

Luckily, in social studies our class got library time to do research for our famous historical figure report. Darla and Juli were both in that class, but I managed to drag Garrett into a back corner of the library without either of them noticing.

And the minute we were by ourselves, I found myself laying into Garrett about chickens.

He shakes his head at me and says, "Dude! What are you talking about?"

"Back in the sixth grade?"

"Yeah. Remember how you were down on me for wondering what a hen was?"

He rolled his eyes. "Not this again…"

"Man, you didn't know jack-diddly-squat about chickens. I put my life in your hands and you dumped me in a bucket of bull."

"Remember when we went and looked over her fence?"

So I told him about my dad and the eggs and salmonella and how I'd been intercepting eggs for nearly two years.

"You know," he says, still grinning, "about Juli."

"Man, she caught me!"

He just shrugged and said, "Makes sense to me."

Garrett gives me a real chumpy grin and says, "A retard? Well, that explains a lot, doesn't it?"

But we were in the library. And besides, it flashed through my mind that if I decked him for what he'd said, he'd turn around and tell everyone that I was hot for Juli Baker, and I was not hot for Juli Baker!

"Whoa, dude!"

I told him about what I'd said, and how almost right after that she was out playing weed warrior in her front yard.

"But then I found out that they don't even own that house. They're all poor because her dad's got a retarded brother that they're, you know, paying for."

"Juli!"

"Who?"

I couldn't believe my ears. "What?"

My heart started pounding and my hands clenched up. And for the first time since I'd learned to dive away from trouble, I wanted to deck somebody.

"Well, so? It's not your fault her yard's a mess."

I tried to talk myself down from feeling that way, but in my gut I was flaming mad at the guy. He'd crossed the line, man. He'd crossed it big-time.

After school Garrett asked me to come to his house and hang for a while, but I had zero interest in that. I still wanted to slug him.

And what made the whole thing so stinking hard to ignore was the fact that standing right next to him, on the other side of the line, was my father.

So I made myself laugh and say, "Oh, right," and then came up with an excuse to put some distance between him and me.