Dear Not a Spoiled Brat,
I think you’re suffering from a medical condition known as the me-me-me’s. Sometimes the best advice is the toughest to hear, but it sounds like you need a whole bunch of the tough stuff. Have you everconsidered that maybe right now you are the least of your parents’ worries? You say you’re not a spoiled brat, but what if you’re the reason your parents can’t stand each other? I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of their disagreements start with you. You want to know what? Sometimes adults are too easy on kids. Everyone always tells kids it’s not their fault, but maybe it is. Maybe it’s time to grow up and be a little more thankful for all the things you have. Maybe Not a Spoiled Brat is 100 percent a spoiled brat after all.
Sincerely,
Miss Flora Mae
Ask and you shall receive, Kiera Bryant.
Chapter Fifteen
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
The next morning, Dad doesn’t even bother waking me up on time for school, and after having a stream of nightmares where I opened jack-in-the-box after jack-in-the-box with Kiera’s head popping out instead of a clown’s, I’m happy to spend a day at home. I ruined my perfect attendance record back when my parents announced their divorce anyway. I locked myself in my room and went on a hunger strike. (Though to be fair, my parents were totally unaware of the emergency Doritos I stole from the kitchen on day two.)
Miss Flora Mae said Joe would be picking up her letters on Monday afternoon, so once Dad has run out to givesomeone a quote on a paint job and I’m sure my mom has left for the office, I head over to Miss Flora Mae’s.
During the day, this place is still totally weird, but a whole lot less creepy than it was at night. The 100-percent-dead cat is still sitting there on the mantel, and I decide,Heck! If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.“Hey, Bette Davis,” I say to the cat. “You haven’t moved an inch since the last time I saw you.”
Now, if she had, that would be something to completely freak out about.
I head back to the sunroom where Miss Flora Mae keeps most of her plants and find a stereo so old it’s bigger than the giant printer in the attendance office. Taped to the side is a faded piece of paper with a few favorite radio stations penned in Miss Flora Mae’s handwriting. I turn the thing on and am hit with a wall of static.
“Yowza!” I screech and clap my hands over my ears.
I flip through the channels until I land on 109.8 Soul Food. The station is on a commercial right now for a cell phone repair shop, but I pipe up the volume so even the plants on the screened-in front porch can hear.
After grabbing a can of ginger ale from the fridge, I walk around to the little door that leads out to the porch and sit down at Miss Flora Mae’s desk in front of her pea-green typewriter. I open the drawer and find an old pair ofbright-red cat-eye glasses with the lenses missing. I examine them for a minute before putting them on. Feels right.
Over the speakers, a man with a deep, smooth voice says, “Welcome back, my lunchtime angels. Let’s settle into this noon hour with a classic from the queen herself, Miss Aretha Franklin. This one’s dedicated to all you out there workin’ for the man. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, baby.”
And then I begin to type. The music sinks into my bones, and the song sounds a little familiar, like I might have heard it in a movie or something. But this Miss Aretha lady feels every word she sings. She feels it so hard that I do too. I get why Miss Flora Mae calls her the queen. Her voice makes me feel like I’ve got fire in my toes, spreading all the way up to my chest.
Typing my handwritten letter to Kiera so that it looks like it came straight from Miss Flora Mae takes a little while. I think I’ve heard about six or seven songs before I’m done. I definitely hit the wrong keys more than twice and have to start over, because there’s no backspace button on this dinosaur. Reloading the paper is a little tricky, but eventually I get it right.
When I’m done, I check on the plants once more and turn the radio off, even though I actually think I could sit here for a while longer, just listening, especially to Miss Aretha Franklin.
After locking up the house and leaving the cat-eye glasses where I found them, I add the reply letter and Kiera’s original letter to the package of letters that will go to print this week.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T, baby. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Chapter Sixteen
Neutral Territory
If I could brush all my hair in front of my face and just go to school as a giant head of hair instead of as Sweet Pea the Projectile Puker, I would, but the fact is I wouldn’t be able to see where I’m going.
Mom insists on driving me to school and I don’t fight her, because I’m more than happy to not face the bus crowd today. About a block away from school, Mom pulls over onto a neighborhood street.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. It feels like she’s about to say something heavy and serious, but it’s not like she’s getting another divorce.
She gives me a soft smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Sweet Pea.I just wanted to be sure that you understand you have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I want so badly to plug my fingers in my ears and screamla, la, la, la, la!
Reaching over the parking brake, she pats my thigh. “Sometimes bodies are just bodies—”
“And what?” I ask. “Are you going to tell me it’s perfectly natural to puke all over my classmates?”
