I reach for the mini flashlight in my nightstand, then wait a few moments until his breathing hits a rhythm and I know for sure he’s out.
I pull the covers up over my head and even throw my pillow over myself to dim the glow of the flashlight. I’m careful to open the letter along the seal without ripping the envelope or sticker. I unfold a piece of paper taken out of a spiral notebook, but with the loose edges torn neatly off.
Dear Miss Flora Mae,
I’m not a big fan of asking for help. Honestly, I didn’t even buy into the whole Santa thing, so writing letters to some random person I’ve only heard of and never met really isn’t my style, if you get what I mean.
But I’m stuck in a big way. My parents are pretty good at being parents. Sometimes my mom is annoying and asks too many questions, and sometimes my dad doesn’t ask enough and works too much, but lately they’ve been fighting. And my dad is starting to care about things he never cared about before, like how often my mom gets her nailsdone and how much money my summer camp costs.
You probably think I’m a spoiled brat. I know I’m really lucky, okay? I don’t need a lecture about that. But the other night when I was supposed to be asleep, I heard my mom talking about taking a break. Like, from each other. I don’t know what to think. It feels like they’re lying to me. And that makes me angry, but more than anything, I want things to go back to how they used to be. I’m not asking for the perfect parents or anything. Just for things to go back to normal.
Sincerely,
Not a Spoiled Brat
Under the covers my breath is hot and muggy. I look over the letter once more. Not to read it, but tolookat it. I would know those little curls at the end of each letter anywhere. Even if we hadn’t spent all of first, second, third, and most of fourth grade swapping notes back and forth, I’d know this handwriting just from seeing it every day at school or from the piles of handwritten notes I’ve seen passed around the classroom.
I scoff. Not a spoiled brat? Yeah, right. When Nana wasstill alive, she’d always say, “When people show you who they are, believe ’em! Walks like a duck, talks like a duck. It’s a duck.”
Glancing down at the letter once more, I feel like I’m holding a ticking bomb and a golden ticket all at once.
I turn off the flashlight and slide the letter under my pillow. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. I know what Ishoulddo with it. I should run back out to Miss Flora Mae’s mailbox first thing in the morning and add it to the bundle of letters headed to her sister’s house.
Or I could keep the letter. I could throw it away and make it disappear.
But what if... I answered it?
I pull the covers up over my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. Whatever decision I make, I don’t think I can make it tonight. But no matter how hard I close my eyes, Kiera Bryant’s handwriting is burned into the back of my eyelids like an image I just can’t shake.
The next morning, Dad makes Texas-shaped waffles for breakfast.
“Mr. DiMarco,” says Oscar, “do you think other states have waffle makers shaped like them?”
Dad laughs. “I think it might just be a Texas thing, buddy.” He flips the iron over. “What do you think, SP?”
The letter is just where I left it under my pillow, and it feels like a lit match, just waiting to catch the whole place on fire.
Dad waves his spatula in the air. “SP? Earth to Sweet Pea?”
I snap to attention. “Uh, yeah. Totally.”
Dad sets the syrup on the table and squints at me. “You feeling okay?”
“Just still a little tired.”
Dad nods, returning to his waffle maker.
Oscar shakes his head. “SP. Not only do you have a nickname, but your nickname has a nickname. I don’t even have a nickname to begin with.”
I shrug. “My dad’s the only one who calls me SP. And only sometimes.”
“Oscar Mayer,” Dad pipes in. “OM! Ommmmmm,” he says like he’s meditating.
“Listen, Mr. DiMarco, no offense or nothing, but people at school have enough things to poke fun at without nicknaming me after a hot dog.”
Dad chuckles and turns back to his waffle maker. “Roger that.”
“Hey, Sweet Pea,” Oscar says a little too loudly. “Have you gotten anything for Kiera’s birthday party tomorrow?”
