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they liked the Backward Dance. One girl said it had given her the courage to ask a boy who she’s always liked. But the interview with Ms. Russo, our kinda-out-there art teacher, was a downer.
    â€œThe Sadie Hawkins Dance is a vestige from a long-ago time, when the cultural mores prevented women from having anything other than a subservient role in their dating lives.”
    Huh? As often with Ms. Russo, I needed a dictionary to translate what she said into plain English. Happily, Bet did the work for me.
    â€œWhat Ms. Russo is saying is ‘Should we continue a practice that sort of makes fun of women? Are we desperate for guys, and can we ask a boy to a dance only one time a year?’ ”
    But the class wasn’t in the mood for deep thinking.
    â€œCancel the dance?” Clementine Caritas, my locker neighbor, asked in an impatient tone. “I already bought a cute straw hat to wear.”
    â€œMy band is playing that dance. It’s our first gig,” Forrest said.
    â€œDuuuuude,” Luke said, annoyed as he looked over at Forrest. I was noticing how boys were starting to use dude to mean all sorts of things. It was almost like aloha to them.
    I glanced at Forrest, and he looked annoyed, too.
    â€œPipe down,” Mr. Ford said.
    I was up in the air about what I wanted to do. On the one hand, I wanted the dance to happen if I could go with Forrest. And with his band performing, I obviously wouldn’t miss it. But on the other hand, I was a little too chicken to ask Forrest. Someone else might ask him before I gathered up enough courage. My bee-stung lip looked normal again, so maybe I should strike now?
    I debated all this in my head, back and forth, completely unaware that I was already too late.

Six
    For a few weeks it was smooth sailing for the newly independent pinklockersociety.org. Piper handled all our technical issues and got us back online. We continued regular meetings in our new basement location. We answered at least one question every day, but we tried to do more. There were so many. No school officials had called us down to the office. Our parents didn’t seem to notice. We had heard nothing from Edith.
    Our recent questions covered everything from bra trouble to boy trouble, including a lot of questions related to the Backward Dance, which was now two weeks away. But variations on “When will I get my period?” continued to be the most popular question topic of all.
    Really, it was mind-blowing (and reassuring) to see how many middle-school girls obsess over their periods. Sure, some girls had already gotten theirs in late elementary school, but plenty of girls were in my boat—in eighth grade and still nothing. I was growing somewhat, though, in every department, if you know what I mean. I was no longer as worried about my own period situation. I could pass along my knowledge that it’s OK to bloom a little late. And people were so relieved to have their questions answered that they actually wrote us fan mail. Seriously!
    Tons of people wrote in to say thanks. One girl said, “A massive enormous thank you!” She signed her note “A Pink Thinker.” Other frequent visitors said stuff like “You guys rock!” “Keep it up!” and “Stay pink!” That’s why Kate and I were so shaken up when we got the next e-mail. It was totally mysterious, and whoever wrote it wasn’t looking for advice. She was giving us some.
    Dear PLS,
    Please cease operations now. I can’t keep warning you!
    Signed,
    A Pink Friend
    â€œI still think it’s a prank,” Piper said.
    â€œI guess it could be Taylor,” Kate said, but I could tell she didn’t mean it.
    â€œNah, I doubt it,” I said. “Taylor told Bet she’d ‘been there, done that’—remember?”
    â€œWho would call themselves ‘A Pink Friend?’ Must be a girl, right?” Kate said.
    â€œOr it it could be a guy