The Monkees were in the middle of practice when the phone rang. "Mary, Mary" faded away as the group stopped playing.

"I'll get it!" Micky ran to the phone, snatching up the receiver. "Speak, it's your dime!"

Hello, Micky."

Micky's face lit up as he heard his mother's familiar tones. "Hi, Mom! What's up?" He was surprised to hear from her so soon. He'd just gotten back yesterday from a weekend at home.

"Hi, Mom!" yelled Peter from the bandstand. He'd unofficially adopted Micky's mother as his own upon their first meeting, and she treated him like a second son.

Micky rolled his eyes as his mother chuckled warmly. "Tell him I said hello, Micky."

"Fine, fine," Turning toward the guys, Micky mimed a wave at Peter, who beamed his approval. Looks like he was getting a brother after all these years!

"Okay, Mom, I told him. So why'd you call, anyway?"

"Can't a mother call just to talk to her child?" his mother questioned innocently.

"Very funny, Mom."

"Seriously, I just called to tell you the news," Janelle continued. "The munchkins have the chicken pox."

"Aw, that's too bad." Covering the mouthpiece, Micky turned toward his fellow Monkees. "Debbie and Gina have the chicken pox," he told them, naming his two school-age sisters.

His mother's voice buzzed in his ear, and he turned his attention back to the phone.

"What did you say, Mom?" Micky asked.

"I said, that you'll probably be next."

"What do you mean, Mom?" Confusion showed on Micky's face. "Don't you remember, I had the chicken pox in the second grade."

"No," his Janelle corrected. "That was the measles."

"The measles? But what about that time when I was eight? I seem to recall being really itchy."

"Nope. Poison ivy."

"Are you sure I've never had them, Mom.?" Micky pleaded, hoping against hope that she was wrong.

"Micky, I think I would know!" she stated firmly. "Face it, son. You're sunk! You were away at camp the summer when all the kids in the neighborhhood gave it to each other. If you'd gotten it then you wouldn't be in this fix now!"

"All right, all right, I believe you." He stared daggers at Davy and Peter, who were snickering over his predicament, having no qualms at blatantly eavesdropping.

Heaving a disgusted sigh, Micky wrapped up the conversation. "So how long before I know if I'm gonna get them?"

"The doctor said anywhere from ten to fourteen days," Janelle answered. "Unfortunately, the girls were at their most contagious when you were here."

"Okay," Micky said resignedly, unconsciously reaching up to scratch his nose. "I'll let you know if anything pops up here... no pun intended!"

"You do that," she ordered. "Take care, son. I love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

Hanging up the phone, Micky scratched his tummy with his free hand. He was starting to itch just thinking about it!

Davy and Peter finally lost it, practically rolling on the floor with mirth.

"Can the hysterics, you two!" Micky groused. "It's not funny!"

"Speak for yourself!" Davy retorted. "I think it's bloody hilarious! Right, Mike?"

Mike just sat there on the bandstand, face unreadable.

"Mike? Are you okay?" Peter asked.

"Did he say chicken pox?" Mike asked in a whisper.

"Yeah. What of it? He's the one who's probably going to get them, not us," Davy replied.

"He's not the only one," Mike said, voice returning. "I've never had them, either."

"You're kidding!" Peter exclaimed. This was getting funnier by the minute! "How did the two of you manage to get this old without ever getting the chicken pox? Everybody gets them!"

"Mom said I was away at camp the summer the plague hit our neighborhood," Micky answered. "How about you, Mike?"

"Simple," Mike said, glaring at Micky. "I never had any brothers or sisters to give 'em to me!"

"Cheer up Mike," Peter consoled. "It's not so bad. Besides, you and Micky may not even get them."

"I wouldn't count on that, Peter. According to Mom, the kids were at their most contagious this past weekend. What a time to spend a few days at home!" Micky clenched his fists in frustration.

Mike stood up, determined look on his face. "Well, you go ahead and have the chicken pox. I, for one, refuse to give in to a childhood illness!"

~*~

"What was that you said about not giving in to a childhood illness, Mike?" Davy covered his smile with his hand as he watched Mike concentrate on his reflection in the bathroom mirror, counting the red dots on his face.

"Just shut up!" warned Mike. He thought he'd dodged a bullet when two weeks had gone by with no signs of the illness. His luck ran out on day fifteen, when he'd woken up sweaty, itchy, and with enough spots to play a mean game of connect-the-dots. "I don't believe this! Struck down in my prime by a kiddie virus!"

"Hold it down in there, will ya?" Micky's scratchy voice drifted in from the adjoining bedroom. "Can't a guy die in peace?"

"You're not dying, Micky." Peter walked into the bedroom, shaking his head. Poor Micky! He'd managed to get them even worse than Mike! "The doctor is on his way. In the meantime, he said for you two to stay in bed."

"Well I'm sure not goin' anywhere lookin' like this!" Mike stated, trudging out of the bathroom and falling face first on his bed.

"Look at the bright side, Mike. At least we don't have any gigs to cancel!" Peter joked, trying to be helpful

Mike didn't even bother to lift his face out of the pillow. "That's so comforting, Pete," came the muffled words. "Chicken pox and poverty--I've always wanted to try that combination!"

~*~

"I could use some help here, Davy," Peter said as he loaded two supper trays. "Somebody's got to keep those two in bed and occupied."

"Can't do it," Davy replied, checking himself out in the mirror. "I've got to get ready for my date. Besides, I'm no good at that sort of thing--sick people give me the willies!"

"Davy, c'mon," Peter pleaded. "I can't do this all by myself."

"All right, man. Tell you what--I'll clean this place up when I get back," Davy replied, gesturing at the Pad. "You can take care of those two, though. I'm not cut out to be a nurse!"

"And I am?" Peter asked.

"Sure! You're the sensitive one, I'm the swinging playboy--it's our lot in life," Davy stated, fiddling with his collar.

"Fine, David," Peter snapped. "You do what you want--I really don't have time to argue." Picking up the trays, Peter headed for the staircase.

"Righto!" Davy agreed cheerfully. That was almost too easy, he thought, heading for the door.

~*~

"Peter!" Micky's strident tones echoed through the Pad. "Where's my lunch?"

"Coming right up, Your Majesty." Peter grumbled under his breath. Louder, he called out "I'm on my way, Micky!" Tray in hand, he trudged toward the stairs, only to be stopped my Mike's voice.

"Peter, bring my guitar back up here, will ya?"

"Sure, Mike," he answered. "I'll just carry it between my teeth!"

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Mike." Going to the bandstand, he slung Mike's accoustic over his back. Picking up Micky's tray, Peter once again made his way to the staircase.

His foot had just touched the first step when a knock sounded at the front door.

Gritting his teeth, Peter opened the door, balancing the tray on one hand. Four days of being run off his feet had left him on the verge of showing the others the temper they didn't even know he had.

"Mom!" he exclaimed, as the door opened to reveal Micky's mother. "What are you doing here?" Quickly putting down the tray, Peter gave her one of his patented hugs.

"Just came to check on my boys," Janelle replied. Holding Peter at arms length, she scanned his tired features, concerned at the weary tenseness she felt in his shoulders. "And it looks like I'm just in time. What's going on around here? This place is a mess, and you look exhausted!"

Peter looked back at the room. She was right, he acknowledged. Between trying to keep Micky occupied, and keeping Mike from killing Micky, household chores had fallen by the wayside. Dirty clothes and beach towels were scattered around, soiled dishes overflowed the sink, and the floor was gritty with sand. Peter himself didn't look much better. Dark circles ringed his eyes, the rest of his face pale and drawn.

"It's been awful! Mike won't stay in bed and Micky won't eat anything but chile and they want four different kinds of juice and Davy's been no help at all and all they do is whine 'I'm bored' and I haven't been off my feet in two days and I think I'm gonna kill them all!" Peter rambled on incoherently, dropping onto the chaise, draping his forearm over his eyes.

"Peter, why do you let them take advantage of you like this?" Janelle laughed softly.

"What else can I do? They're sick, and Davy's too busy with his social life to help." Peter sat up, resigned to going back on duty.

"Peter, I'm hungry!"

"Where's my guitar, Pete?"

Moaning, Peter sank back down on the chaise. "I'm really gonna kill them," he marveled. "No jury would convict me--not after they heard that!"

"Now, Peter, I don't think murder will be necessary. You just need a few lessons in how to handle them." Picking up Micky's tray, Janelle started for the stairs. "Watch and learn, Peter."

Peter obediently followed her up the stairs. Before they even opened the bedroom door, they could hear the sound of Micky and Mike bickering--again.

"Are you gonna start with that song again," Micky whined. "You're drivin' me crazy playin' the same thing over and over! That's why I conned Peter into takin' your guitar away while you were asleep!"

"I'm trying to finish my new song, if you don't mind! Besides, it's your fault we're cooped up in here, anyway!" Mike snarled back. "And you don't hear me complainin' about that noxious chile you insist on eatin, do ya? Or those comic books you read out loud--complete with sound effects!"

Peter opened the door, and they peeked inside. Micky sat on his bed, surrounded by stacks of comic books, a twisted-nail puzzle, and a set of magician's linking rings, all of which he considered essential to help him while away his "long, pain-filled days."

Mike stood at the window, one hand pulling back the beaded curtain to reveal the beautiful day he was missing.

"At least my comic books are entertaining!" Micky countered. "Not like that tapioca pudding thing you keep singing!"

"That's Tapioca Tundra, you Philistine! You don't..."

A loud, shrill whistle cut off the rest of Mike's tirade. He and Micky looked up in shock, just in time to catch Janelle remove two fingers from between her teeth. For a small woman, she sure knew how to get attention!

"That's better," she stated. "You!" she said, pointing at Mike, "Get back into bed." Mike managed to pull himself together, then blushed beet-red as he realized he was standing in front of Micky's mom in nothing more than a scowl and a pair of silk boxers. He hopped back into bed like a scalded cat, pulling the covers up to his chin.

"And you be quiet, George Michael Dolenz!" Micky quickly ceased his snickering, hanging his head. "You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Running poor Peter ragged this way!"

"Ey, where is everybody?" Davy's voice filtered up to the second floor.

"Up here, Davy," Peter answered.

Footsteps pounded on the metal staircase, then Davy appeared at the bedroom door. "What's going on up here?" he asked.

"Hello, Davy," Janelle greeted him. "You're just in time."

"Just in time for what?" he asked, suddenly wary. There was something about the expression on her face...

"I was just telling Mike and Micky how dissapointed I am in their behavior, and the same goes for you. How could you just let Peter cope with this on his own? You didn't even try to help him, did you?"

"But... but" Davy stuttered.

"Don't give that, Davy!" Janelle continued. "Here's what we're going to do," she stated, moving in on her targets. "Mike, you are going to stay in bed--and no guitar. You're supposed to be resting, not working. That song will wait a few days."

"You tell 'em, Mom!" Micky crowed.

"Don't be too happy, Micky," she shot back. "You're going to shape up, too. You will eat whatever is put in front of you--without complaint--you will read to youself, and you will stop using Peter as your personal slave."

"But Mom..." Micky began.

"Micky, you are in serious danger of losing your spot as Number One Son!" his mother warned. "Now, do you both understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay, Mom."

Davy was trying to back inconspicuously out of the room. He was almost out the door before he was spotted.

"Stop right there, Romeo!" Janelle whirled about to face him. "You're not going anywhere, except downstairs to start cleaning up that mess."

"I'd love to," Davy demurred. "But I've got a date..."

"Break it!" she ordered. "Or better yet, bring her over here to give you a hand--you're going to need it!"

"I'll help you, Davy," Peter offered. "Between the two of us it shouldn't take long. Maybe you'll still have time to go out."

Janelle took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Peter, haven't you heard a word I've said? Besides, you can't help Davy, you have a much more important job to do."

"What's that?" Peter asked, confused.

"You are taking me to lunch at that darling little cafe on the corner. My treat, for having to put up with Dolenz over there!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Grinning, Peter offered his arm, and she slipped her hand though the crook of his elbow. Without another word, he escorted her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and straight out the front door, leaving the others speechless in their wake.

~*~

"Thanks for your help, Mom." Peter said as they strolled arm in arm. "You really know how to handle them. I just have one question, though."

"What's that, hon?"

"Could you teach me how to do it? That could really come in handy!"

Looking up at him, Janelle studied the expressive face, gentle eyes and dimpled smile. She reached up to lay a soft hand along his cheek.

"With 'this' face?" she laughed. "Maybe we just ought to buy you a whip and chain!"