“I can’t believe that Lizzie Borden episode last week,” says Oscar. “Who in the world would want to stay in a bed-and-breakfast inside that woman’s house?”

I laugh as I remember Oscar shrieking at the end of the episode when Cliff VanWarren, the show’s host, an older white man with a square jaw, what Mom calls a “prominent” nose, and shiny black hair, climbed into bed in the same room where Lizzie supposedly became the first female ax murderer. Cliff winked at the camera and said, “Good night. Sleep tight,” and then blew out the one lone candle sitting on the bedside table. Oscar and I both had mega goose bumps.

As we walk down the sidewalk from the bus stop, Oscar teeters around every little crack.

“Someday you’re going to step on one,” I say.

“You’re just jealous of my excellence,” he says, and points past my yard to Miss Flora Mae’s house. “Whoa. I didn’t think she ever even left her house.”

I look up and hold my hand above my eyes to shield myself from the sun. “She leaves her house,” I tell him. “She checks her mail every night.” I’ve spent a lot of time watching Miss Flora Mae, and even though we’ve only spoken a dozen or so times, she interacts with me more than she does with just about anyone else in this town. If you ask me, that makes me an expert on all things Miss Flora Mae. That, and I haven’t missed a single one of her Miss Flora Mae I? letters since I learned how to read.

“Who checks their mail at night?”

“I don’t know. People who work during the day?”

“And vampires,” he says.

“Well, she’s not burning to a crisp, is she?”

But he’s got a point. Not a soul on this street has ever seen Miss Flora Mae outside of her house in broad daylight. The closest she gets is her little makeshift screened-in porch, where she taps away on her typewriter. But here she is in a black lace muumuu and a black wide-brimmed sun hat and black cat-eye sunglasses with her gold reading glasses hanging from a strand of beads around her neck.

“Do you think she was the first goth?” asks Oscar. “Like ever?”

“I don’t know if she’s that hip, but maybe.”

Miss Flora Mae didn’t always wear all black. Dad said before I was born, when Nana was still her neighbor, she wore a lot more normal clothes. But that was before her husband died.

“Hi, Miss Flora Mae!” I call, mostly to make Oscar squirm.

She startles and then whips around, searching for the source of the sound.

“Over here!” I wave from the sidewalk, moving just past our mailbox. Oscar hangs back, but I yank his arm and wave it in the air along with mine.

“Oh, Patricia!” she says.

Oscar snickers. Sweet Pea might be a sort of ridiculous nickname, but somehow, I find my real name even more embarrassing. The first time I ever spoke with Miss Flora Mae and introduced myself as Sweet Pea, she was quick to say she wasn’t a fan of my nickname and would rather call me by my birth name, because she says nicknames should have good backstories, and mine isn’t very memorable. The only history on my nickname is that my dad started calling me his Sweet Pea when I was just a baby, and it sort of stuck. Even with my teachers. Nothing funny or epic about that, so to Miss Flora Mae, I’m just Patricia.