Too late. A hundred pounds of persistence tackled him to the ground, knocking the breath from him. Before he could wiggle free, the bane of his existence grabbed his arms and pinned him.

“Gotcha!” Bright brown eyes set in a freckled face with a gap-toothed smile stared down at him.

Dammit, she’d caught him, again. At least this time his brothers and friends weren’t around to ridicule him.

“Francine,” he said, trying to sound stern like his mother, not an easy thing to do with a thirteen-year-old voice prone to cracking. “Let me go.”

“Not ‘til you say it,” she ordered with the command of a queen stifled in a ten-year-old’s body.

“No. I won’t.” To admit it would probably cause the end of the world, his world, not to mention make him a laughing stock.

“Oh yes you will,” she said with a grin, leaning close, the aroma of watermelon bubble gum wafting over him. “I’m not letting you go until you do.”

And she wouldn’t. Francine owned a few pounds on his yet to grow frame. This was one of the times his runt status sucked. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he warned, even if he didn’t actually mean it. His mother would kill him if he bent a hair on Francine’s head, his baby sister’s best friend and ultimate pain in his ass.

“Ha. I’d like to see you try. We both know I could kick your butt in a second. Now tell me.”

“No.”

She retaliated, her fingers letting go of him only to dig under his arms, going straight for his ticklish spots. Mitchell screamed and squirmed as she tortured him, but he couldn’t manage to push her off, no matter how much he tried.

“Say it!”

“Never!”

She gave him a purple nurple, twisting his nipple until he let out an ungodly squeal that no animal or boy should make.

“Say it,” she again ordered with all the pity of an axe murderer. None.

Mitchell knew what she wanted. Dreaded it, in fact. Never, ever would he say it. She could kill him first. He sealed his lips tight and glared at her defiantly.