She'd done it.

  Our mother had challenged a neighborhood "orphan" to get out of that outfit.  She'd literally changed her clothes and declared herself a little mama.  It was a start.  The orphan outfit had been taking on too much weight and was dragging her down.  Especially as we swam around as mermaids. 

  Because most of us already had mothers nobody was all that excited about her new outfit.  A meeting was called.  But each place she went had been cleared of kids before the meeting time.  She bust through the leaf and branch covered piece of tin roof "hiding" the tank spot in the woods. 

  One kid jumped and let out a weird-sounding noise.  Other cammoflouged people and dogs fluttered at the edges of the spot.  "What are you doing here?" A voice she pretended not to recognize called out. 

  "This is where the meeting is right?!" 

  A branch being ripped from a tree trunk made a snapping sound.  "Not here whatever it's about." A kid pitched the branch in the path before her.  She left. 

  Our station wagon rolled to a STOP at the STOP sign.  The slew of suction cup bullets/projectiles mostly pelted the vehicle.  But a few with notes attached stuck.  Most everybody in the car had gasped and ducked but not the oldest brother.  "There's a note." He announced.  "What's it say?"  In his changing to lower tone voice he said, AIDS.