I open the folder and there they are. Each letter I’ve written to Miss Flora Mae. A rush of embarrassment makes me clam up, and I think I’d rather just take these letters and bury them in my backyard next to my pet hamster, Sir Waffles (RIP, Sir Waffles).
“So I guess you don’t respond to every letter?”
She sighs. “Well, there are two answers to that question. The first is: kid, I get a lot of letters. There aren’t enough hours in a day to answer ’em all. For a town this small, there are certainly a lot of people looking for a user’s manual to this thing called life. And, ya know, to be perfectly honest, if you just read my responses and think for alittle while, I bet you could find that I’ve already answered all your questions. It’s just that someone else was doing the asking.”
“And what’s your other answer?”
She smirks. “My second answer is that sometimes you’ve just gotta live through life without any shortcuts. Sometimes the only way you can figure out which way is up is to swim to the surface all on your own. It stinks, but it’s true. And sometimes people answer their own questions in their letters. Writing can help suss things out, but sometimes we don’t see the answer because it’s not the one we’d hoped for.”
I sigh so hard my lips sound like a motorboat. That’s what Mom would call some hard truth. But I bet it’s true for everyone. Even Mrs. Young or Cliff VanWarren or Miss Flora Mae herself.
“So that’s why you didn’t respond to my letters?”
“Mostly,” she says. “Plus, I knew they were from you, and I don’t have any kind of code of ethics for advice columnists, but something about responding to people I know when I have more details about them than their letters lets on feels like cheating.”
“But you still kept them?”
She chuckles. “I didn’t say I wasn’t tempted to respond.”
“Well, then help me now. Please? What do I do about Oscar?”
She coughs up a dry laugh. “Well, I find that when I’m having trouble expressing myself, it helps if I try writing a letter.”
“All the kids at school know,” I say. “Or at least they’re about to. They know I answered some of your letters. A few even think I killed you and took over your job entirely.” I shouldn’t say it, but I’m going to anyway. “You know some kids even think you’re a vampire.”
“The only vampire I’m related to is Count Chocula.” She waves her hand, brushing away the gossip. “Let ’em think what they want. You’ve got a knack for this, my dear, and I don’t serve up compliments for fun. But first you’ve got to sort things out with your parents and this Oscar boy. I won’t have all this pacing back and forth in front of my house. It’ll stress my plants out.”
I feel awful about Oscar, and I hate that I pushed him so far away. “You think a letter might do the trick?”
She leans back in her armchair. “Not just any letter.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Three Legs Are Better Than Two
Mrs. Young bends down to tie my ankle to hers. “Too tight?” she asks. Her hair is in two huge buns on either side of her head. She wears big yellow sunglasses with lenses that look like lemons and a T-shirt that saysTexas Derby Divaswith a pair of roller skates on the front.
I tug on the rope a little. “Nope.”
“You feeling any better?” she asks more quietly.
For the first time a heavy weight sinks in my chest, and I realize that I’m really going to miss Mrs. Young. “Well, waking up extra early for my test wasn’t great, but at least we didn’t finish last in the wheelbarrow race.”
She holds her hand up for a high five. “Told you I’ve got skills.”
And she wasn’t wrong. Maybe teachers aren’t an alien species after all. Actually, I take that back. Teachers are total aliens from another galaxy, but at least most of them come in peace.
Since I stormed off before I had a chance to sign up with anyone else yesterday, I was the lucky one to end up with Mrs. Young. I wasn’t exactly pumped about spending my last day of seventh grade tied to my teacher, but I guess there are worse things. Like spiders. And toilet paper stuck to your shoe. And oatmeal-raisin cookies where the raisins look like chocolate chips.
Greg and Kiera are partnered up at the end. I’m sure Kiera’s mad at me, but I’m hoping she’ll understand I didn’t mean to hurt her. Still, I’m nervous to even see her. We were only just getting back on track again. And Oscar... Oscar won’t even look at me. I’ve got a plan, though.
Last night, I left Miss Flora Mae’s and went back to Mom’s, where she and Dad were sitting on the steps to the front porch just like old times.
The two of them scooted apart and made room for me in between them.
“I guess we have to talk,” I said.
They both draped an arm over my shoulder and Dad said, “How about you let me do some talking first? Fair?”
