And that’s it. I almost want to scream at Mr. Bryant to come over here and just talk to Dad. He’s the same person he was last year or the year before. Right?
But still, just those few words between them makes something in Dad’s posture ease as we drive home under the glow of stars.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Home Sweet Home
At breakfast on Tuesday morning, Mom’s sunflowers are on full display. Ever since last night, Mom and Dad are both buzzier than normal, and their vibes are pretty contagious.
I guess that’s why there’s an extra bounce in my step as I stop at Miss Flora Mae’s mailbox to drop off the package of letters for Mr. Joe, including my own letter, which I typed up on the typewriter early this morning.
Just as I’m shutting the door of the mailbox, a dusty black car turns down the street and into the driveway beside me, making a clunking noise as it bottoms out.
She’s back. Miss Flora Mae is home. I wonder if she’d notice if I ran inside to make sure her house is just as she left it. And then part of me is sad. Over the last few weekswhen neither of my homes felt like home, I found a place with Bette Davis the cat, the radio, and Miss Flora Mae’s plants.
I follow the car up the driveway and watch as she pulls into her garage. She swings the car door open, and one bare foot steps out. Mom drives barefoot on long road trips too. Miss Flora Mae groans as she pulls herself out of her car. She wears a long black muumuu and her big cat-eye sunglasses.
“I’d hoped to catch you before you ran off to that school,” she calls down the driveway.
I feel like she can see straight through me. “Hi, Miss Flora Mae. How was your trip?”
“Well, I drove overnight, because I just hate exposing my skin to the sun. It’ll kill you if you’re not careful. My sister’s recovering just fine. Stubborn as hell and won’t listen to a speck of reason, but she’ll be fine.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “I put this week’s letters for Mr. Joe in your mailbox, so you should be all set.”
“And the plants?” she asks.
“Green as ever,” I promise. “Aretha Franklin is pretty awesome, by the way.”
“Well, she’s more than pretty awesome, I’d say.” The wordawesomesounds like a foreign language coming from her. “Did you have any other problems? Anything I should know about the paper?”
I should tell her. Maybe she wouldn’t even be mad. Except that Miss Flora Mae is the most particular person I know, and I can’t imagine how much she would blow up if she knew that some nosy thirteen-year-old had stolen letters from her and then answered them herself. I hadn’t thought this far ahead to what I might tell her. I guess I just thought I never would have to. I just keep telling myself that she probably doesn’t read her own column once it’s printed. Why would she need to?
The letter I just stuck in the mailbox is practically screaming in my ear. But I can’t take it out of there without her knowing.
“Well?” she asks.
“Everything was great! Not a single problem. All good!” I’ve got to get out of here. This woman’s the kind of person who can see through every white lie.
She takes her sunglasses off and stares me down until I feel like I’m pinned in place and I couldn’t move even if I tried.
“Good,” she finally says. “Very good.”
She reaches into her car and digs into the center console. She takes my hand and presses a cold metal thing into my palm.
I look down to find an old, heavy-feeling brooch. It’s a green pod of peas.
“Sweet peas,” she says. “Well, put it on ya.”
I fidget with the pin, and eventually she reaches over and secures it onto my shirt for me.
“For all your trouble. Sweet peas for Sweet Pea.”
I look down. Of course, money would have been awesome, but I didn’t exactly do my job just as she instructed, and I can’t help feeling a little bit guilty. “I thought you didn’t like my nickname.”
She digs into her pocket and hands me a fistful of five-dollar bills, a couple of singles, and two Susan B. Anthony coins. “Here. I guess this is what you’re really wanting.” She pats my shoulder and heads past me and into her house. “It’s growing on me,” she says. “The nickname, I mean.”
We spent all day yesterday reviewing for our final exams. When someone complains that we’ve never had this much work at the end of the school year, Mrs. Young says, “Well, you’ve never been mere days from entering eighth grade either. The workload is about to change, y’all, and if I don’t prepare you for that, I’ve failed as your teacher.”
