As we lie there, waiting to fall asleep, I think about telling Kiera about Miss Flora Mae and maybe even fessing up about the letter to her that I responded to.
But just as I open my mouth, Kiera says, “I can’t believe your dad has kept that room all shut off and hasn’t told you about it.”
For a moment, I feel bad, like he doesn’t trust me enough or that I won’t understand, but then I think abouthow I feel when I have to do any kind of artwork at school. “Maybe he’s embarrassed.”
She nods vigorously, casting a shadow on the wall. “Artsy people can be funny about that stuff. My aunt Simone makes pottery, and she gets real touchy about people going into her studio or seeing any of her work before it’s done.”
“That makes sense.” And then after a moment, I say what I’m scared to even think. “But what if he felt like he couldn’t paint when we all lived together? Like, what if he’s just now painting because it’s like he’s free of me and Mom? He can finally be the person he’s always wanted to be.”
Kiera rolls over to face me. “I don’t know, Sweet Pea, but if that’s true, I think that’s his problem and not yours.”
I want to believe her and for that to be true, but I can’t help but think of the voice mail I deleted today and all the big plans it sounds like Dad has. Maybe that’s all he needed. Space from Mom. From us. And now he can do and be all the things he always dreamed of. Without us. Without me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Common Ground
The next morning is wet and gray, and Mr. Bryant picks up Kiera after his bowling league. When Dad spots his truck from the kitchen, he turns to me and says, “Sweet Pea, why don’t you take the umbrella and walk Kiera out to her dad’s truck so he doesn’t have to get out in this weather?”
“Sure thing, Dad.” I slip on my sneakers and am careful not to open the umbrella inside (bad luck and all that). Kiera and I don’t have to say it out loud to know that Dad sending us out here by ourselves has nothing to do with not making Mr. Bryant trudge up the walkway in the rain.
“I had a good time,” Kiera tells me.
Her dad reaches across the truck to open her door. The rain is coming sideways now. Part of me wants todouble-check that she really did have fun and that she’s sure she wants to be friends again. But my butt is already soaked from the rain, so I just say, “Me too.”
Mr. Bryant gives me a short wave and a nod, and in a gravelly voice says, “Nice to see you, Sweet Pea.”
I run back inside and splash through the big puddle before the front door, because even if Mr. Bryant is a royal jerk, I’m still in a great mood.
On Sunday night, after I finish up my homework, I sneak out while Dad is cooking dinner to package up Miss Flora Mae’s new letters.
As I skip through the living room around to the back to water the plants, I wave in the general direction of the mantel. “Hey there, Bette Davis!”
While I put together the envelope for Miss Flora Mae, I play some music for the plants and find myself swaying along to a man named Otis Redding singing about sitting on a dock. I slide each letter into the large manila envelope and I hold the last one there in my hand for a moment. There’s some kind of rush I can’t quite explain that I got from responding to Kiera. And it wasn’t just because I knew her situation so well. I liked the idea of helping someone, and to be honest, it kind of made me understand why my mom takes her job so gosh darn seriously.
On Monday morning, I settle into my desk. I try waving at Oscar, but I think he’s doing everything in his power not to look in my direction. I tried calling him over the weekend, but every time either Luis or Jorge picked up the phone and said Oscar was busy. Busy with what? His new career on the wrestling team that he has yet to tell me about?
“All right, class!” Mrs. Young claps her hands to get our attention. “Before we get going for the day, I want to remind you all of your last assignment before finals.”
The class simultaneously groans. Our dreaded research presentation. Even though Mrs. Young assigned it back in April, I’ve been putting it off this whole time, and from the looks of it, I’m not the only one.
She’s unfazed. “Before I can let you move on to your new life as eighth graders, you’ve got one last hurdle to jump.”
Someone at the back of the class mumbles, “I don’t jump hurdles. I’ve got a doctor’s note.”
“The seventh-grade research project!” Mrs. Young says, as if any of us could forget. “On any prominent figure you like. Living or dead. Now, remember, they can be YouTube stars or singers or artists or engineers or web designers. As long as you can find actual bona fide research on them using the tools we learned about during our weekly trips to the school library.”
The class begins to buzz with possibilities. No one likes doing a project, but the thought of getting to choose anyone and not just another dusty old white guy? That’s pretty cool.
“Presentations will be given verbally next week just before our social studies final. You have until next Monday to let me know whom you’ll be presenting on,” she finishes.
Kiera swivels around. “Dibs on Jungkook.”
“On who?” I ask.
She gives me a swoony sigh. “Only the dreamiest member of BTS. Honestly, it’s too late for you to even call dibs, because I’ve been working on this project for weeks.”
“BTS?” She is literally speaking another language right now.
