With a sigh, I give up on the tape and fold the flaps of the box over before taking one last glimpse at my room. Crisp white trim with peach wallpaper and newspaper and magazine clippings pinned randomly all over every surface. A few Miss Flora Mae I? advice column classics, neat pictures of places I can’t even believe exist from Dad’s National Geographic subscription, and a few strips from the comics section of the Valentine Gazette. I still remember painting the trim with Mom and Dad and the way Mom squealed when Dad ran a wet paintbrush down her back.

I think I sort of get what adults mean when they say, “If these walls could talk.” Let’s be real, though. The thought of talking walls spooks me out big-time.

As I step backward out the front door of the house, the screen door creaks as it shuts behind me. “Goodbye, home,” I whisper mournfully.

“A tad dramatic, don’t you think?” calls Oscar.

I whirl around.

“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t need any more help.” He stands on the sidewalk. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your big moment.”

I huff, blowing my thick black bangs into the air. “I wasn’t having a moment.” I look back at the house—a redbrick one-story with white trim and a bright-blue door (Mom’s addition)—only slightly different from every other house on the block except Miss Flora Mae’s. “Okay, maybe I was.”

“And the Academy Award goes to . . . Sweet Pea DiMarco!”

I look off into the distance. “I’d like to thank the little people—and by little people, I mean my best friend, Oscar. My Academy Award is the most exciting thing to ever happen to him, so let’s have a moment of silence for how sad that is.”

“Har, har,” he says. “You know I’m the talent in this relationship.”

I laugh. “If you’re the talent, I’m the brains.”

He swings the gate open for me. “Well, let’s get a move on it. I’m starved. And I was promised pizza in exchange for physical labor.”

“Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t have done it for free,” I say, walking through the gate. “You love me. I’m your best friend.”

He laughs dryly. “You’re my only real friend.” He points to Cheese sitting in the window. “Did you hear that, Cheese? I’m her best friend!”

That gets a real laugh out of me. One time when Oscar was spending the night, Cheese fell asleep on his face. Oscar woke up sneezing every five seconds. I explained to him that it was a sign of affection, but Oscar, who is just a little bit allergic to just about everything, swore that Cheese had a jealous vendetta against him.

Outside of Cheese, though, Oscar is my best friend and I’m his, but since my parents announced their divorce—or as my mom called it, their “mindful division”—he’s been there every step of the way, and somehow it’s brought us even closer.

We walk in silence past Miss Flora Mae’s house, where we can see her sitting in her sunroom on her typewriter, watching us over the top of her gold reading glasses. Her long silver hair is wrapped into a bun on the top of her head, and her white skin is soft with wrinkles that I used to always want to trace with my finger when I was little.