Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) by Brad Whittington

She didn’t seem to be much more than hair and bones covered with a flower-print dress. And she was tying together Thelma’s shoelaces around one of the bars.
    “Then there’s that one.” I followed his gaze to a swing set. A girl hung at the top of the arc, red hair and skirt temporarily in free fall. As we watched, she whisked away from us, hair and skirt following in a blur of red. “Main problem is keeping her quiet.”
    “Ah.” I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be taking notes. We seemed to be moving through the roster of the gentler sex, identifying those characteristics most notable to Ralph. “Talks a lot, does she?”
    “No, she squeaks ever’ time you try ta grab her.” He turned his head to one side to spit but caught sight of the teacher not far away. Checking himself in mid-expectoration, he walked toward the trees, muttering a quick “Come on” between clenched teeth. I followed. Safely behind a large pine, he discharged a large quantity of saliva, which overwhelmed a troop of ants and settled into a clear, brownish pool between the roots. Ralph looked around the tree at the teacher, who was looking elsewhere. With a nod of satisfaction he turned back around. Noting my puzzled expression, he said, “Tobacca ain’t allowed at school.”
    “I see.” I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to chew tobacco, at school or anywhere else, much less risk punishment for it, but declined to share my perspective with Ralph. My clothes already marked me as an outsider. Why exacerbate the issue by sharing radical viewpoints on smokeless tobacco? A voice from behind me interrupted my reflections on controversial opinions.
    “Hey!” This time I could tell this wasn’t a greeting; it was an attempt to get my attention. I turned around. The scrawny black-haired girl stood looking at my belt. She was taller than I had expected. “Did that belt come with a pair of holsters and a six-shooter? Where’s the star?”
    “Star?” I stepped back defensively. She had a pale face and large eyebrows that gave the impression that two caterpillars were line-dancing on her forehead. Her eyes were as black and shiny as a hamster’s. Strands of pine straw jutted from her tousled jet-black hair.
    “Star. Sheriff’s star. Ta go with the belt. And the six-shooters.” Her eyes sparkled. She took a step back, spread her feet into a wide stance, and bent her knees slightly. I took another step back, wondering if this was some kind of hillbilly kung fu. I glanced over at Ralph, noting that he also seemed wary. I looked back at the girl, alert for any sudden motion. She held her hands out from her scrawny hips, bony elbows poking out to either side. “Draw,” she hollered.
    The penny dropped. She was comparing my belt to a play cowboy outfit. Her ignorance of stylish ’60s dress was lamentable, of course. However, her attempt at ridicule only highlighted her own naïveté, and I felt it my duty to defend myself by pointing this out. I tossed the hair out of my eyes. “This isn’t a . . . obviously you don’t know . . . I mean . . .” My voice trailed off into second thoughts. What if she interpreted my correcting her as “messing with her?” She might feel moved to punch me in the gut.
    “Oh, don’t pay her no mind,” Ralph muttered. He turned to my accuser. “Jolene, don’t be so ignernt. This is how Yankees dress. Ain’t you ever seen pictures of the Pilgrims?”
    I felt the need to correct the record on one particular issue. I didn’t see the value in pursuing the slight 350-year gap between Plymouth Rock and acid rock, but my point of origin was an important distinction. “Uh, I’m not a Yankee.”
    “Oh, yeah,” Ralph said. “I fergot.”
    “Yer not?” Jolene asked.
    “No. I was born in Fort Worth,” I replied with a touch more asperity in my voice than is customary for such an admission.
    “Then why do you dress like one?” Jolene asked.
    It was a good question, but I didn’t have an