I close the door on the mailbox with the two envelopes of letters inside, and I jog back over to Dad’s house with the one stray envelope burning a hole in my pocket.

Before I go inside, I glance over to Mom’s house. From her bedroom window, I can see Cheese’s silhouette in a glowing blue light. I guess Mom left her TV on too.

Chapter Ten

100% Duck

I can barely contain my excitement as I wiggle my way back into my bedroom, where Oscar is still sound asleep. I definitely have no business reading someone else’s mail, but one little peek can’t hurt.

Just as I’m about to be home free, my mattress squeaks as I lie down.

“Sweet Pea?” asks Oscar, his voice slow and sleepy.

“I just went to get some water,” I tell him.

“Mmmm. I’m thirsty.”

“I left my cup in the kitchen.”

“Root beer floats,” he says, his voice higher than normal, like he’s caught somewhere between a dream and reality. “Strawberry milkshakes.” He smacks his lips together and promptly falls back into a deep sleep.

I reach for the mini flashlight in my nightstand, then wait a few moments until his breathing hits a rhythm and I know for sure he’s out.

I pull the covers up over my head and even throw my pillow over myself to dim the glow of the flashlight. I’m careful to open the letter along the seal without ripping the envelope or sticker. I unfold a piece of paper taken out of a spiral notebook, but with the loose edges torn neatly off.

Dear Miss Flora Mae,

I’m not a big fan of asking for help. Honestly, I didn’t even buy into the whole Santa thing, so writing letters to some random person I’ve only heard of and never met really isn’t my style, if you get what I mean.

But I’m stuck in a big way. My parents are pretty good at being parents. Sometimes my mom is annoying and asks too many questions, and sometimes my dad doesn’t ask enough and works too much, but lately they’ve been fighting. And my dad is starting to care about things he never cared about before, like how often my mom gets her nails done and how much money my summer camp costs.

You probably think I’m a spoiled brat. I know I’m really lucky, okay? I don’t need a lecture about that. But the other night when I was supposed to be asleep, I heard my mom talking about taking a break. Like, from each other. I don’t know what to think. It feels like they’re lying to me. And that makes me angry, but more than anything, I want things to go back to how they used to be. I’m not asking for the perfect parents or anything. Just for things to go back to normal.

Sincerely,

Not a Spoiled Brat

Under the covers my breath is hot and muggy. I look over the letter once more. Not to read it, but to look at it. I would know those little curls at the end of each letter anywhere. Even if we hadn’t spent all of first, second, third, and most of fourth grade swapping notes back and forth, I’d know this handwriting just from seeing it every day at school or from the piles of handwritten notes I’ve seen passed around the classroom.