Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

Author's Note: Happy Halloween week, everyone! This story takes place sometime post-season 7—and in a universe where Jackie and Hyde got engaged (as it should've been). Bob's also married to Joanne. I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE
COME ALONG FOR THE RIDE

November 13, 1980

Kenosha, Wisconsin

Jackie and Hyde's Apartment

…

A pungent, chemical scent pulled Hyde from sleep. His head was pounding, and his hand slid over Jackie's spot on their bed. It was empty, and the bottom sheet was cool to the touch. She'd been out of bed for a while.

He kept his eyes shut, but his headache throbbed behind his eyelids. The chemical smell was fueling his hangover, making the symptoms worse. Was Jackie repainting their bedroom? He wouldn't have put it past her. They'd gotten wasted together last night. She'd been in a kinky mood, and though work had tired him out, he missed fooling around with her. Increased hours at Grooves meant less sex, and neither of them was happy about it.

She'd brought home some quality wine from her talk show, What's Up, Wisconsin? He finished off the first bottle with her, but his memories became hazy after that. He couldn't even remember if he'd gotten lucky. His hangover-headache wasn't helping. Neither was that chemical stench.

"Jackie," he said into his pillow, "stop painting." No answer, and he turned his aching head to the side. "Jackie..." his voice was a groan, "stop."

Still no answer. What the hell was she doing? He pushed himself up and sat back against the bed's padded headboard. The bedroom's lamps were off, but morning light shone through the windows—and Jackie was gone. That explained her lack of response, but where did that pungent smell come from? She hadn't been painting. The walls were still a benign shade of Periwinkle blue.

He stood up slowly. His pounding skull made searching the room painful, but something on the bed caught his eye: his pillow case. Its lavender color was streaked dark brown.

"God damn it." His stomach churned with nausea. If he'd drunk enough booze to have an accident on his pillow and then freakin' slept on it, he needed to quit drinking.

He picked up his pillow and sniffed the case. To his relief, it didn't stink like shit. It smelled like that chemical. Partying with Jackie last night must've gotten freaky, but he was in no shape to theorize. A haze had infiltrated his brain. He needed a couple of aspirin.

He plodded into the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. The fluorescent bulb above the sink winked to life, and his eyes closed at the brightness. They partially opened again once his back was to the bulb. Aspirin, man. His skull would stop hurting after he downed some aspirin.

He reached for the medicine cabinet. Its mirrored door reflected the bathroom tiles and his squinting face—only it wasn't quite his face. His reflection was off somehow, but his hungover mind had to be playing tricks on him. He opened the cabinet and took out the aspirin bottle. But when he re-shut the door, that strange version of himself was still in the mirror.

His eyes, nose, and mouth were right, but his hair was wrong. It was matted down instead of frizzy. No longer blond but a dark brown. His sideburns were dark, too.

"No way." He ran a hand through his flattened curls, and his reflection did the same. "No damn way. " His fist clutched the aspirin bottle, and a scratchy, incredulous laugh clawed up his throat. "She wouldn't have screwed with the 'fro."

The mirror had to be reflecting wrong. Didn't have enough light. He turned toward the fluorescent bulb. It shone over a much larger mirrored cabinet, but even under direct light, his curls and sideburns were dark brown. He also had splotches of brown dye on his cheeks and neck.

"Shit." He licked his thumb and tried rubbing the dye off his cheek. No go. "Jackie … man, what the hell did you do?"

The question drove more pain into his head Aspirin needed to be in him freakin' yesterday. He opened the sink's cabinet and grabbed a four-ounce glass. He filled it with water, swallowed down a pair of aspirin, but the pills threatened to come back up. His hands clenched the sink and knocked something to the floor. Didn't matter. For now, he took steady breaths, willing the aspirin to stay down.

His stomach relaxed after a moment. He gave it a few extra seconds, just to be sure, then picked up what he'd dropped. It was a bottle of nail polish remover. A bag of cotton balls was resting on the sink, too, along with a note. Jackie. She must have left these things for him, and he picked up the note. It was written in her loopy, feminine handwriting:

Steven,

I couldn't get all the hair dye off your face and neck. Use the nail polish remover and cotton balls to do it. And make sure to scrub. I'll be back soon.

Love,
Your fiancée,
Jackie.

He stared at the note's ending salutation. She wouldn't be his fiancée much longer if she didn't have a good reason for what she'd done.

Under the word INGREDIENTS, the bottle of nail polish remover listed a bunch of chemicals. Screw it. He was taking a shower. That dye wasn't staying in his hair. But after three scrub-throughs with shampoo, his hair was still brown—and soap hadn't and removed the dye from his cheeks or neck. What was that crap made from, nuclear waste?

He didn't bother toweling himself dry. He used the nail-polish remover as instructed, and finally the brown stains lifted from his skin.

"Steven?" Jackie's muffled voice came through the door, along with a knock.

Hyde was naked, and he threw on his robe and tied it closed, in case Jackie wasn't alone. He had no clue what she was up to. For all he knew, she could've brought a camera crew here to film him.

He opened the door slowly, steeling himself for another shock, but Jackie was by herself. "Oh, it's perfect!" she said and and reached toward his sideburns.

"'It's perfect'?" He backed away from her. "If your next words don't explain my hair, we're gonna have a serious problem."

"We're driving to Las Vegas."

"Vegas?" His headache had faded, but the haze in his brain was growing thicker. "I got work. You got work—what?"

"No, we don't." She leaned against the bathroom's doorway, effectively trapping him inside. "Well, actually, I do have work, but going to Vegas is part of it. The camera crew will meet us there. You, on the other hand, have the next few days off. I arranged everything with your dad."

"What do you mean 'arranged'?"

"Angie's coming in from Milwaukee to fill in for you at Grooves. She, your dad, and I agree you need this."

"Need what?" He gestured for her to move away from the door, and she took that as a signal to stroll down the hallway. "Hey, don't walk away from me." He followed her into the living room. "What the hell is going on, Jackie? Why're you talking to people behind my back and 'arranging' things?"

She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, she stopped beside their couch. Spread on it was an old pair of his jeans—the widest bell bottoms he'd ever owned—and his orange dashiki shirt, something he hadn't worn since early high school. The sight of them thickened his haziness, but she waved her arm over his clothes as if they were a prize.

"Tah-dah!" she said, and he scratched the back of his damp hair. He was beginning to feel as dumb as Kelso, but a smile burst on her face. "I picked these up from the Formans last week."

"Why?"

"You're going to be Greg Brady."

"I'm gonna...?" His body stiffened, and his neurons had to be misfiring. He'd thought the pot he smoked was destroying his brain cells, but no. It was Jackie.

Greg Brady's name had no business being associated with Hyde. Hyde's life wasn't a sitcom. It didn't include a widow with three daughters or a widower with three sons. And even if did, the widow and the widower wouldn't get hitched and combine their six kids into a family. They'd get drunk, sell their kids to the highest bidder, and run off with the money.

"You're going to be Greg Brady," Jackie said again, and he cringed. "Paramount Pictures Corporation is holding a huge—and I mean huge promotional event in Vegas for The Brady Girls Get Married. It's a TV movie that'll air early next year, and Paramount's hoping it'll launch a new Brady Bunch TV series."

"So you terrorized my hair for your TV show?"

"No, no. My TV show isn't affiliated with Paramount or ABC," she combed fingers through her own hair nervously, "so I'm not breaking any rules. We're still eligible."

Hyde's breathing grew short. Her words hadn't cleared the haze but turned it into smog.. He needed to sit, and he half-collapsed into his black armchair.

"Steven," she stared at him, as if he were the one not making sense, "you agreed to this last night."

"I don't remember last night."

"It doesn't matter. You still agreed. I have it on tape." She plucked a small tape recorder from the couch's end table. She pressed play, and his sex-voice grunted through the small speaker.

He cringed again. This was not something he'd ever wanted to hear, but amid a jumble of happy groans, his recorded voice said, "Keep goin'..."

"So if you let me make you up as Greg," Jackie's recorded voice said, "we can win the thirty-thousand dollars."

"Sounds … good."

"There!" She clicked the tape recorder off. "You heard yourself. You said 'Sounds good.' That's a verbally-binding contract."

His awareness turned inward. The smog in his skull had thinned, and fuzzy memories fell through his mind like snowflakes. Jackie had been on top of him last night, naked. Her hands were planted on his chest, and she did most of the moving. "You were sober last night," he said.

"Well..." she held up a finger, "I did have one glass of that wine. But you kept going and didn't notice I'd stopped."

His mouth fell slack. "I drank most of that bottle myself?"

"Yeah, and some of the second one. I took advantage of your genetics and upbringing, but I'm not sorry. I wanted to kill two birds with one stone."

His genetics and upbringing. His alcoholic mother and stepdad. He couldn't count how many nights he'd watched them empty bottles of booze together. Then they'd fight with each other until one of them left the house or passed out.

"I didn't stop," he said and dark clouds rolled into his chest. Fear rumbled across his ribs like thunder. "I gotta stop."

"That's one of the birds I wanted to kill." Jackie sat down on his lap. Only a cotton robe was protecting his privates, but she was careful. "You drink too much, baby." Her fingertips brushed through his wet hair tenderly. "When you get home from work, you drink so much beer that you're barely present with me anymore. I don't like it, and you need to have consequences. To wake you up."

"So I'm Greg Brady."

"Yes. It was either this, or I stage an intervention … which probably wouldn't have gotten through to you."

A sigh pulled out of him. He needed time to process all of this, but he still hadn't gotten the full story. He recalled a bit from the tape. "Thirty-thousand bucks?"

"That's the second bird," she said, and a quaver set into her voice. She was frightened, and he guided her body to rest against him. He sat back in the chair with her—as reassurance he wasn't going anywhere, that he'd listen until she was finished—and, finally, she explained. "In Las Vegas, Paramount is having a contest for Brady Bunch impersonators. The first-prize winners get to collectively share thirty-thousand dollars. I've already recruited our friends, and they're waiting for us at the Formans'. We rented a V.W. bus, and we're gonna drive to Vegas."

"I look nothin' like Greg-freakin'-Brady."

"Mm-hmm." That was her way of saying she disagreed with him; he'd heard it many times before, and she got off his lap. A pink folder was in her hands a moment later. She pulled out a promotional photo of Barry Williams, the actor who played Greg, and held it in front of his face.

"You have the same curly hair," she said, "the same sideburns, and now the same hair color. Your eyes are blue like his, and your body-type is similar, too." She tapped the photo with her finger. "But you're going as the Johnny Bravo version of Greg Brady. That's where the outfit comes in. He's a cool rock n' roller."

"No, he's a lame-ass pop singer." His jaw clenched, and a heavy breath pushed out of his nose. "Man, you've been my chick for three years. Your idea of cool should've improved by now."

"Oh, whatever. You get to wear your sunglasses."

He studied the hippie-inspired clothes in the photo. Barry Williams looked like a moron, and Hyde would look almost as ridiculous. But getting to wear his shades was a consolation. "Fine. Who're you goin' as?"

"Marcia." She slid the photo back into the folder. "Donna will be Jan, and Fez will be Cindy—"

He coughed. "Fez is goin' as a chick?"

"He has her lisp, and it's Vegas." She put the folder on the end table. "They don't care if you're white or black, male or female, or even foreign. … Actually, they do care if you're foreign because then you're not eligible, but Fez has his citizenship, so he's fine."

"Who else did you wrangle into this?"

"I'll let you find out when we get to the Formans'." She started folding up Hyde's old clothes on the couch.

"Hey, don't I need those?"

"It takes over a day to drive to Vegas. I don't want you stinking up your costume before we get there."

"Oh."

He remained in the armchair. The smog had lifted from his brain, allowing for clarity of thought. Jackie was right about his drinking. He'd been working extra hard to pay for their wedding. W.B. offered to pay for it, but a home took priority over what was essentially a party. So Hyde asked him instead for a down-payment on their future house.

Still, Jackie had hoped for a lavish wedding her whole life. Hyde wanted to give her what she wanted—in spite of his own apathy about weddings—but he was becoming both a workaholic and an alcoholic in the process.

His head had been too deep in the pressure to realize it. He rarely spent time with friends anymore, and Jackie probably recruited Forman and Kelso for this contest, too. Hanging out with them for a few days would help his psyche. And winning six-grand would let him cut his hours back to something reasonable.

He inhaled deeply, and smelling the chemicals soaked into his scalp, he keenly felt his distance from those he loved—including Jackie. He'd created it, and she must've been freaking out. No wonder she was talking about him to his family.

She paused in her packing up. She'd caught him staring at her. "What?"

"I think your illicit dye-job fixed my brain." He stood up and went to her, but sadness choked his speech. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry … for driftin' away the last few months. I'm not—" A wave of vulnerability crashed into him, and he glanced down at the hardwood floor. "I'm not good at this 'grownup' stuff, you know? Still tryin' to figure out the balance."

"You're better at it than you think." She eased her arms around his waist. "You had to grow up too fast thanks to your lushy parents. Your orphan soul didn't get to be a kid long enough, but there is a balance."

He hoped like hell she was right. He held her tightly, and her cheek nestled against his.

"I tried talking to you about it in the mornings," she said by his ear, "before work, but you've been so pestered and annoyed by every little thing. Then at night, you don't stay sober enough for anything I say to have a lasting effect."

Shame burned in Hyde's stomach like a mass of lit cigarettes. Her description of his behavior reminded him of Bud. He knew he'd end up falling into his stepfather's pattern. That was why he hadn't wanted to get engaged or married—to anyone. Ever.

"Grasshopper," he stroked the back of her hair, "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay, Puddin'. We're gonna figure this out together."

"See, that's never been how I operate," he said. "Thought I'd be livin' my life alone. My screwups were supposed to screw only me, no one else. But lovin' people—letting 'em love me—made crap complicated."

"Well, The Brady Bunch is going to help us uncomplicate things." She pressed a warm kiss into the side of his neck then pulled away from him. "I know I tricked you, but it was for a good cause."

He nodded. She wouldn't have done it unless she was desperate, and thinking about it raised gooseflesh on his arms. The depth of her love for him was terrifying sometimes. She'd risked losing him to bring him back to himself.

But she didn't know the root cause of his getting lost. It was the depth of his love for her.

The feelings she inspired in him were overwhelming. Before her and the Formans, his fundamental examples of love were neglect and abuse. To avoid those hazardous pits, he'd ended up digging his own grave. Impersonating Greg Brady this week was a penance he'd earned.

"Guess I should pack up," he said.

Jackie had his folded-up clothes in her arms. "Oh, your bag is packed already except for your costume."

"Cool. I got a few things to do before we go."

"Like what?" she said, but he was already halfway to their bedroom.

Once inside, he removed his robe and dressed in his usual garb: jeans, a black Led Zeppelin shirt, and his Frye boots. Then he went to the kitchen and did the real work. He took his beer out of the fridge. He emptied the cans of Schlitz into the sink and dumped them into the trash bin.

"Steven, what are you doing?" Jackie called from the living room.

He answered by showing her. He returned to the living room, and she followed him to the large closet by the front door. It contained their winter coats, other seasonal clothes, and the case of beer he'd stashed away. Buying booze in bulk was cheaper, but he hefted the case onto his shoulder. "Jackie, open the door for me?"

She did what he asked, and her expression was hopeful. She had to understand by now what he was up to. Her trust in him was something he'd too often mistreated. He needed to be worthy of it.

Outside in the hallway, he went to the floor's garbage room. He opened the case of beer and dropped each can down the incinerator chute. The old patterns stopped here, with the Goddamned Brady Bunch.

Jackie and Steven arrived at the Formans' on schedule. All her recruits for The Brady Bunch contest were gathered in the living room, along with their suitcases and someone she hadn't expected: Brooke. She was standing with Michael, but Jackie had no chance to ask why. Everyone but Fez burst out laughing as soon as she and Steven stepped inside the house.

"Wow, you actually did it!" Donna said while pointing at Steven's hair.

Eric grinned smugly. "Sha-na-na-na-na—welcome, Johnny Bravo!"

"Yeah, yeah," Steven said, and he looked at Jackie. "How many people did you freakin' invite for this trip?"

"One less than who's here," she said. Then she questioned her recruits. "What's going on?"

People fidgeted at her question and glanced at one another. Only Fez and Mr. Forman showed any lack of fear. Instead, they both seemed grouchy.

Eric elbowed Donna, and she said, "I'm not telling her. Kelso should."

Michael shook his head. "No, Kelso shouldn't. Peter Brady didn't walk around with bruised shins, and I'm not gonna, either."

"For God's sake," Mr. Forman said, "you're all a bunch of sissies. Jackie, you're out as Marcia."

"What?" Jackie's word was a shriek, and everyone winced at the volume of her voice. "No, I have always been the Marcia of this group."

"Well, you're not anymore, sister," Fez said. He was slumped at the foot of the Formans' couch. "But I shouldn't have called you that. Sadly, we are no longer sisters. I'm out as Thindy, too."

Jackie glared at Michael. "Why?"

Michael shook his head again, but Eric stepped forward and said, "Look, Jackie, thirty-thousand dollars is a lot of money, even divided among ten people. You want to win this thing, don't you?"

"Yes, but if I'm not Marcia...?"

"I've watched a lot of The Brady Bunch over the years," Eric gestured to her legs, "and unless you're wearing stilts, no one's gonna buy you as Marcia—especially in comparison to Donna's Jan. So we brought in Brooke to be Marcia. You're gonna be—"

"No, no, no—I'm Marcia." Jackie patted her heart. "I spent a month planning out who would be who."

"Plans change," Donna said. She pointed to each person in the room one-by-one. "Mr. Forman has the surliness to be Sam the Butcher. Mrs. Forman is as sweet as Mrs. Brady—"

"Why, thank you, Donna," Mrs. Forman said and proceeded to laugh.

Donna continued. "My dad's got Mr. Brady's curly hair. Joanne's got Alice's sarcasm. Eric's got Bobby Brady's boyish look. Put a blonde wig on Brooke, and she's Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!" Jackie huffed, but Donna kept talking. "Put a blonde wig on me, and I can pull off Jan. Kelso does a good Peter Brady impression with the cracking voice, and—well, Hyde is Greg Brady. Especially with the darker hair."

Steven sighed, but his irritation was no match for Jackie's. "Are you saying I'm—"

"Thindy!" Fez shouted. "A role that was rightfully mine."

"I am not Thindy—I mean Cindy," Jackie said.

"You're short," Eric said. "You're Cindy."

She crossed her arms over her chest. These imbeciles were ruining her plans. "Bobby was short, too," she said.

Eric knelt down on the rug. "And that's why I'm gonna walk around on my knees. I've got pads for them that fit under my jeans, and I tested out my sneakers. They'll fit over my knees just fine."

"But I'm the popular one everyone wants to be! I'm not a lisping gossip!"

"You got one-fourth of that right," Steven said.

She smacked his arm. "Are you saying I have a lisp?

"No, I'm sayin'..." He paused, as if he was re-thinking his answer. "I'm sayin' you'll be so hot in in Vegas you'll make all the Marcias wish they were Cindy."

"Aww, Steven..." her anger dissolved into affection, "you're so right!" and she rubbed his arm where she'd hit him. "Fine, I'll be Cindy. But what about Fez? He was supposed to get some of the winnings."

"He still will," Brooke said. "If we win, Michael and I will give him a third of our portion."

Steven turned toward Fez. "Okay, so why the hell are you so freakin' pissed then? You get the potential of winning cash without having to do any of this crap."

"I wanted to dress up," Fez said.

Red clapped his hands once. "So we're all settled? Good. We got a long drive ahead of us, so get your asses outside and into the bus."

"I have to pee!" Fez shot to his feet. "Don't leave without me!"

He ran upstairs to the Formans' bathroom while everyone else filed into the kitchen. They entered the driveway through the sliding glass door, and a Volkswagen bus, much like the one Michael used to own but bigger, was waiting for them.

Fez rushed outside by the time Jackie and Steven had boarded the bus. Steven helped Fez pull his suitcase inside, and Fez sat in the seat with Michael and Brooke.

Mr. Forman had driving duty for the first part of the trip. Steven went to the front of the bus to sit by him, but Jackie didn't mind. Steven would probably ask for some pre-marriage advice, and she liked that he was being proactive about their relationship.

"Jackie," Fez patted the seat next to him, "sit with Fez. I must give you advice on playing Thindy."

She did as Fez said, joining him, Michael and Brooke in their seat. The fit was tight but manageable, and Fez demonstrated Cindy's facial expressions. Jackie imitated them as best she could. She still wasn't happy with her role change, but their chances of winning had probably improved because of it.

Jackie's main concern, however, was getting Steven back. Her ploy had increased their odds of success, but the game was forfeit if he didn't keep his promise to stay sober.

Hyde had slipped into the seat across from Red. He intended to have a quick man-to-man confab, but Red was muttering about driving a German-made vehicle. Eventually, though, he spared Hyde a glance and chuckled. "Your hair really is something. How'd Jackie bamboozle you into this?"

"Was gonna ask you the same thing 'bout Mrs. Forman," Hyde said. Mrs. Forman was sitting with Bob and Joanne, chatting about Las Vegas and the possibility of meeting Wayne Newton.

"Money," Red said.

"That's all? There's no guarantee we'll win, man. There'll probably be thousands of Brady-losers there."

"Jackie's TV show is footing the bill for our traveling expenses and hotel rooms. They're gonna film this, you know." Red's back straightened, and his eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. "I'm gonna be on television."

Hyde did know. Jackie had told him on the drive to Point Place, much to his annoyance, but Red seemed excited. "Holy hell," Hyde said, "you actually want to do this."

Red coughed. "No. I—Kitty. She's never been to Vegas. She kept goin' on about having a second honeymoon. It figures we'd end up spending it with all of you."

Hyde smirked. "It's okay, man. Your secret's safe with me."

"Yeah? And what's your secret? Did your loud fiancée threaten you?"

"She got me drunk. Taped me agreein' to this."

Red laughed again. "Oh, your life with her's gonna be a boatload of fun, son."

"That's what I'm hopin'," Hyde said quietly, and his gaze drifted to the window, to the highway speeding past. He recognized himself in the gray blur. Jackie deserved more from him than a vague presence, and silently he reaffirmed his promise to give it to her.

Jackie kept her focus off Steven's conversation with Mr. Forman—mainly, because she couldn't hear what they were talking about. She'd switched her attention to Brooke. Betsy was staying with Brooke's mother, apparently, but Michael had suggested taking Betsy with them to Las Vegas.

"But I told him," Brooke said, "that Marcia and Peter Brady sharing a child would probably go against The Brady Bunch's wholesome image."

Wholesome. Jackie internally scoffed at the word. She'd had a less-than-wholesome crush on Greg Brady when she was younger. It was embarrassing now and not something she'd admit to anyone. But maybe some of her innate physical attraction to Steven had to do with his partial resemblance to Greg.

Michael bounced in the seat. "Peter gettin' it on with the hottest Brady would be so—"

"Erotic," Fez said, and Jackie's stomach turned. The idea of siblings having sex was disgusting. She'd never engage in a weirdo incestuous Brady Bunch role-play with Steven. "And I will watch," Fez continued, "because all good TV shows need an audience."

"Remind me again why you're friends with him," Brooke said, and Michael shrugged.

Jackie couldn't take this discussion anymore, and anticipation was tangled up in her veins. She'd been holding back vital information from everyone. Mr. Forman had driven them into Illinois, and she pulled a cassette tape from her purse. Now was the perfect time to break the news.

She walked up to the front of the V.W. bus and kissed Steven on the cheek. "Hey," he said with a slight smile.

His happiness at her presence set off fireworks in her heart. It always did, but she had work to do. She used the back of his seat to support herself. Then she popped her cassette into the bus's tape deck. "I have a little announcement to make," she said. "Steven, can you help me get everyone's attention?"

"Since when do you need my help getting attention?"

"Never, but I don't want Mr. Forman to swerve off the highway because of my shrill, demanding voice."

Steven's smile grew. "I like how you keep seein' the bigger picture of things." He stood up, and she slid her arm around his back. "Hey, Brady-Geeks," he said with an authoritative but unjarring voice, "listen up! Jackie's got somethin' to say here."

Everyone but Mr. Forman looked at her. "Do you all want to win this thirty thousand dollars?"she said, and the bus erupted in a cheered. "Good, so you'll all be fine with having to sing one of the Bradys' songs."

Confused mumblings floated through the air, including Steven's, and Jackie went into detail. "The top non-performing Brady impersonators will only win trifles. The money prizes are going to groups that perform, so I brought my tape of The Bradys' Greatest Hits—"

"More like The Bradys' Greatest Shits," Steven said, and she fought the urge to elbow him.

"We have plenty of time on the road to learn the lyrics to 'Time to Change,'" she said, and a loud, collective groan answered her. "Well, if you're not willing to sing, we might as well turn this bus around."

"We are not turning this bus around," Mrs. Forman said, and she stood up. "Come on, everyone—it'll be fun!"

"No, it won't!" Eric said in the seat behind her. "It's gonna be hard enough walking on my knees, but now I have to sing, too?"

"Oh, you'll do fine, honey," Mrs. Forman said. "You were a perfect tree in your first-grade play, and you'll be a perfect Bobby Brady—because you're my perfect baby boy." Mrs. Forman maneuvered out of her seat, passed by Jackie and Steven, and plunked down on the passenger seat. "Jackie, let's hear this song."

Jackie pressed play on the bus's tape deck. The Bradys' voices sang harmoniously from the speaker, and Mr. Forman grimaced. "Kitty," he said, "I am not singing that fruity song. I'm not singing, period."

"So you can fake it," Mrs. Forman said, "and maybe I'll fake something else during this trip."

Mr. Forman's cheeks reddened, and Jackie suppressed an awe-filled giggle. Mrs. Forman was wise in the ways of husband-control. Jackie would have to take more notes, but right now she had a note for Mrs. Forman: "When the song ends, rewind the tape and start it again."

Mrs. Forman nodded. "Will do."

Things were progressing well. Mrs. Forman would manipulate Mr. Forman into learning the song's lyrics. Bob already understood the melody and was humming along. Soon, the whole bus would be belting out "Time to Change".

Jackie led Steven confidently to Donna and Eric's seat. They sat down together, but Steven didn't appear pleased. "Jackie," he said, speaking low, "you said nothin' about me singing."

She would've preferred more privacy, but Eric and Donna were deep in their own conversation. Their distraction was all the privacy she would get, and she spoke in whispers. "Well, sometimes the bigger picture takes time to reveal itself."

Steven raked his fingers through his brown-dyed curls. He was thinking about something and took time before responding. "At least you didn't pick 'It's a Sunshine Day'."

"I'm not crazy." She grasped his hand and kissed the back of it. "I don't want you to commit suicide on this trip."

His fireworks-inducing smile returned, followed by a laugh. "Glad you're keepin' me in mind."