Sincerely,

Miss Flora Mae

And for the first time, it really hurts me to type her name and not my own, because this is one I want to take credit for.

When I get home to Mom’s, she and Dad are sitting on the couch, laughing at some awful pun the weatherman just made about our chances of rain this week.

“What are y’all doing?” I ask. It takes a whole lot of self-control to not remind them that they’re divorced.

They both turn around and Mom says, “We thought we could use a family night out.”

“Huh?” I drop my backpack on the kitchen table. “Like, all three of us? On a school night?”

Dad half smiles. “We’re still a family, Sweet Pea. We just are—”

“We’ve taken a new shape,” finishes Mom.

Dad nods. “Exactly. And tonight we thought we’d take the shape of a bowling league. What do you say?”

Dad’s always been the bowler in the family, and I’m no good without bumpers. The last time they made a big effort for all three of us to be together, they told me they were getting a divorce, so it’s hard not to wonder what bad news awaits me. That’s not enough to stop me from saying, “Winner buys me a few rounds on the crane machines!”

That night, Dad goes easy on us, but he can’t stop himself from scoring a few strikes. We order nachos and burgers and share a slushy that’s bigger than my head.

After a few failed attempts at the crane machines, the three of us file out to Dad’s truck. We all slide in with me in the middle, and I’m so wiped I can barely keep my head up. I slouch against Mom’s shoulder and declare, “I must be French, because I’m fried!”

On the way home, I fall in and out of sleep and both Mom and Dad help me into bed and tuck me in. I wait and wait for the bad news to come, but it never does.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Back on the Market

When the paper comes again on Thursday, I play it cool. But I am totally dying to see my second response published.

After I get dressed for school, I check the front porch for the paper.

“Looking for this?” asks Mom, grinning as she waves the paper around like she’s trying to tempt me.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s read this thing over breakfast. But first I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.” I’m automatically suspicious.

I sit down to scrambled eggs and s’mores Pop-Tarts. Dad was definitely the breakfast chef.

She waits for me to dig in. Probably so that my mouth is too full to fight back when she drops whatever news she’s sitting on.

“Do you remember a few weeks ago when I met up with someone for drinks after book club?” She speaks slowly, like she’s nervous.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I’ve been talking to that person a lot recently.”