Miss Flora Mae’s house is the only two-story house on the block. A long time ago it was a pure white with black shutters, but now it’s a little dingy, with graying edges and chipping paint. The big wraparound porch and the second-floor balcony are still a pretty incredible sight. But I guess people figured out that scientists weren’t lying when they say heat rises, because out here in Valentine, Texas, where it looks like someone just plopped our town down in the middle of a desert, no one really messes around with tall buildings unless they have to. So Miss Flora Mae owns one of the few two-story houses on this side of town, which was mostly built up in the last fifty or sixty years.

Oscar looks away quickly, careful not to make eye contact with my neighbor.

“She’s not gonna put a curse on you,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “That lady knows everyone’s dirt. She’s like your mom, except your mom actually has to keep everyone’s secrets. It’s her job. But people just write Miss Flora Mae and dump out all their feelings for her advice column. She’s bound to know something awful about everyone in this town.”

He’s right. Mom’s obligated to keep secrets in a way Miss Flora Mae isn’t. Mom calls it “doctor-patient confidentiality.” Heck, even when someone says hi to her at the grocery store and I try to nose around to find out if they’re even a client of hers, she winks and says something about everyone knowing everyone in this town.

“Well, you’ve never written to Miss Flora Mae,” I tell him, “so you’ve got nothing to worry about—unless there’s something you’re not telling me . . .”

He rolls his eyes. “Trust me. I’m not that desperate.”

His reaction makes me clam up. I’ve written Miss Flora Mae three times in my life, and not once has she ever written back. It’s the kind of thing I try to push to the furthest corner of my brain along with every other unanswered question I have.

Dutifully, Oscar opens the gate to the house just on the other side of Miss Flora Mae’s, and I trudge up the steps to my dad standing in the doorway.

This house was only empty for two weeks after the Cordova family moved out before Mom came up with her “genius” idea for Dad to live on the same street as us. For the last four months, Dad lived in the El Cosmico Hotel in a room with two double beds so that I could come over and stay with him. During the day the El Cosmico is a pretty run-down place, but at night, when it was harder to see the dust and dead roly-polies in the windowsill, I actually sort of liked sitting out by the pool with Dad under the glow of the flashing hot-pink letters and neon-green cactus of the sign. But I know Dad was getting pretty down with motel life and not having a real kitchen to cook in.