He swings the gate open for me. “Well, let’s get a move on it. I’m starved. And I was promised pizza in exchange for physical labor.”
“Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t have done it for free,” I say, walking through the gate. “You love me. I’m your best friend.”
He laughs dryly. “You’re my only real friend.” He points to Cheese sitting in the window. “Did you hear that, Cheese? I’m herbestfriend!”
That gets a real laugh out of me. One time when Oscar was spending the night, Cheese fell asleep on his face. Oscar woke up sneezing every five seconds. I explained to him that it was a sign of affection, but Oscar, who is just a little bit allergic to just about everything, swore that Cheese had a jealous vendetta against him.
Outside of Cheese, though, Oscarismy best friend and I’m his, but since my parents announced their divorce—or as my mom called it, their “mindful division”—he’s beenthere every step of the way, and somehow it’s brought us even closer.
We walk in silence past Miss Flora Mae’s house, where we can see her sitting in her sunroom on her typewriter, watching us over the top of her gold reading glasses. Her long silver hair is wrapped into a bun on the top of her head, and her white skin is soft with wrinkles that I used to always want to trace with my finger when I was little.
Miss Flora Mae’s house is the only two-story house on the block. A long time ago it was a pure white with black shutters, but now it’s a little dingy, with graying edges and chipping paint. The big wraparound porch and the second-floor balcony are still a pretty incredible sight. But I guess people figured out that scientists weren’t lying when they say heat rises, because out here in Valentine, Texas, where it looks like someone just plopped our town down in the middle of a desert, no one really messes around with tall buildings unless they have to. So Miss Flora Mae owns one of the few two-story houses on this side of town, which was mostly built up in the last fifty or sixty years.
Oscar looks away quickly, careful not to make eye contact with my neighbor.
“She’s not gonna put a curse on you,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “That lady knows everyone’s dirt. She’s like your mom, except your mom actually has tokeepeveryone’s secrets. It’s her job. But people just write MissFlora Mae and dump out all their feelings for her advice column. She’s bound to know something awful about everyone in this town.”
He’s right. Mom’s obligated to keep secrets in a way Miss Flora Mae isn’t. Mom calls it “doctor-patient confidentiality.” Heck, even when someone says hi to her at the grocery store and I try to nose around to find out if they’re even a client of hers, she winks and says something about everyone knowing everyone in this town.
“Well, you’ve never written to Miss Flora Mae,” I tell him, “so you’ve got nothing to worry about—unless there’s something you’re not telling me...”
He rolls his eyes. “Trust me. I’m not that desperate.”
His reaction makes me clam up. I’ve written Miss Flora Mae three times in my life, and not once has she ever written back. It’s the kind of thing I try to push to the furthest corner of my brain along with every other unanswered question I have.
Dutifully, Oscar opens the gate to the house just on the other side of Miss Flora Mae’s, and I trudge up the steps to my dad standing in the doorway.
This house was only empty for two weeks after the Cordova family moved out before Mom came up with her “genius” idea for Dad to live on the same street as us. For the last four months, Dad lived in the El Cosmico Hotel ina room with two double beds so that I could come over and stay with him. During the day the El Cosmico is a pretty run-down place, but at night, when it was harder to see the dust and dead roly-polies in the windowsill, I actually sort of liked sitting out by the pool with Dad under the glow of the flashing hot-pink letters and neon-green cactus of the sign. But I know Dad was getting pretty down with motel life and not having a real kitchen to cook in.
“It’s a big night,” Dad says. “First night in the new house.” He throws his arms up, gesturing to the house behind him. “Not too shabby, huh, Sweet Pea? And I’ve got some curry chicken pot pie in the oven.” Dad pushes his fingers through his hair. Mom used to call it one of his nervous tics—fidgeting with his hair. I’m white, like both my parents, but like Dad I’ve got an olive-y undertone and have the same black hair as he does. It’s wiry and thick, like his bushy eyebrows, which it looks like he passed on to me too.
I give the tiny porch one good look, trying my best to give this place a chance. The only thing that makes this house feel more like home than Mom’s place is Dad’s beat-up work truck out front—a black pickup with a bed full of scaffolding and painting supplies. “Same street. New house.”
“I even painted the door to match,” he points out. And sure as heck, he did. “I was thinking we’d get a porch swing just like—”
“Mom’s,” I say flatly. I shake my head and point to the door. “You got the wrong shade of blue.” I feel immediately bad as I turn to Oscar and say, “Let’s go.”
Sometimes Oscar says the wrong things at the wrong times, but right now he’s got my back and follows me into my room in my new second home. And because he’s a true best friend, he even slams my bedroom door for me because my hands are full.
Chapter Two
The Most Important Meal of the Day
“Sweet Pea?” asks my dad as he knocks on my bedroom door the next morning. “First breakfast in the new house! How do you want your bacon?”
“You can come in,” I tell him, the covers pulled up over my face. In the last year, Dad has gotten a little weird around me. He’s careful about giving me plenty of time to answer him before he comes into my bedroom, and the last time I had to dress up for Easter Sunday, he said my dress was flattering. Flattering! What kind of word is that?
It started two years ago when he was pulling the laundry out of the dryer and held up my training bra for both me and my mom to see. He laughed and told my mom he must have accidentally shrunken one of her sports bras.The laughter stopped immediately when he noticed the color draining from my face. I yanked it out of his hands and marched to my room, slamming the door behind me. (I guess you could say I’ve got a thing for slamming doors.) It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know. But the whole suddenly-having-to-wear-a-bra thing is bad enough without making it Dad’s business too.
I moan from beneath the covers. Spending the night without Cheese felt just plain wrong. After Oscar and I shared a pizza with Dad, I tried bringing Cheese over here to stay with me, but he kept pawing at the screen door. Mom even bought him an identical litter box for Dad’s house and went through the effort of sifting out clumps from his old litter box to mix in with his new litter so he’d recognize his scent. That’s real dedication. But it’s like Cheese is staging his own one-cat revolution and he’s the only one who’s not playing along with this “mirror living” nonsense.
“Extra crispy on the bacon,” I tell my dad. “And scrambled cheesy on the eggs.”
“Cheesy eggs and super-dead bacon. Coming right up!”
I wait for the door to close behind him before I throw my sheets back and slink out of bed.
