“BTS,” she says. “The K-pop band? Ya know, Korean pop music?”
“No comprende,” I tell her. From the corner of my eye, I see Oscar watching us from across the room. We’ve been talking, but things just feel weird, and I’m sure him seeing me and Kiera all buddy-buddy isn’t helping.
She giggles before turning back around. “I have so much to teach you.”
She’s right. There’s so much I don’t know. But right now what I really don’t know is who the heck I’m going to pick for my project.
I end up spending time at Miss Flora Mae’s house on Monday and then again on Tuesday. I snuck another response from me into this week’s package for Mr. Joe Salazar. So if I’m doing my math right, my next published letter should be in this Thursday’s paper.
On Wednesday, there’s another fresh batch of letters waiting for me in the mailbox, and I run inside, water the plants, turn on the radio, wave to Bette Davis the cat, and tear into the latest letters.
With a fizzing glass of ginger ale in hand, I find that the letters have a way of blending together. It’s not that they’re boring, but it’s just a surprise to see how much everyone has in common and how alike all our problems really are.
Some of the letters are pretty funny. One guy is about to move in with his girlfriend and is scared of farting in his sleep. I decide to write him back, taking a page out of Mom’s book when I remind him that sometimes bodies are just bodies. I assure him that farting is totally normal.
Another woman writes in asking for tips on how to get her cat to learn how to use and flush the toilet. One lady wants to know if it’s polite to try to bargain with the guy behind the deli counter, and one guy even sent in a picture of a mole shaped like Mickey Mouse, wondering if it was too cool to get rid of or if he should let his dermatologist remove it. I leave all of those for Miss Flora Mae.
My favorite, though, is one I can’t resist answering.
Dear Miss Flora Mae,
I start kindergarten next year, and I’m so nervous that I haven’t been able to sleep. My mom said maybe you would have advice. In fact, she’s the one writing you for me. I hope that’s okay.
Sincerely,
Little Miss Nervous
P.S. Hi, Miss Flora Mae! —Little Miss Nervous’s Equally Nervous Mom
This is the first letter that I’ve read that I not only relate to, but I’ve been there. Maybe I’ve found my calling in giving advice. Mom always said I had a bossy streak.
Dear Little Miss Nervous,
I’ve been there. We all have. Starting a new thing is always scary. No more naps and snacks whenever you feel like it and no parents there to make you feel safe. The first thing you should know is that everyone else is just as nervous as you are. The second thing you should know is that you have way more reason to beexcited than nervous. There’s no guarantee that every day of the school year will be awesome, but most things aren’t all good or all bad. Enjoy the good days and learn from the tough ones. But most importantly of all: don’t trade lunch with anyone who eats peanut butter on their ham sandwich. I made that mistake once, and it only took one time to learn my lesson.
Sincerely,
Miss Flora Mae
And for the first time, it really hurts me to type her name and not my own, because this is one I want to take credit for.
When I get home to Mom’s, she and Dad are sitting on the couch, laughing at some awful pun the weatherman just made about our chances of rain this week.
“What are y’all doing?” I ask. It takes a whole lot of self-control to not remind them that they’re divorced.
They both turn around and Mom says, “We thought we could use a family night out.”
“Huh?” I drop my backpack on the kitchen table. “Like, all three of us? On a school night?”
Dad half smiles. “We’re still a family, Sweet Pea. We just are—”
“We’ve taken a new shape,” finishes Mom.
Dad nods. “Exactly. And tonight we thought we’d take the shape of a bowling league. What do you say?”
Dad’s always been the bowler in the family, and I’m no good without bumpers. The last time they made a big effort for all three of us to be together, they told me they were getting a divorce, so it’s hard not to wonder what bad news awaits me. That’s not enough to stop me from saying, “Winner buys me a few rounds on the crane machines!”
That night, Dad goes easy on us, but he can’t stop himself from scoring a few strikes. We order nachos and burgers and share a slushy that’s bigger than my head.
