Elizabeth brought me into her office. It looked more like a plant store than an office. There were plants on the windowsills, on the shelves, on the floor, and quite a few hanging from the ceiling. Some were flowering and other ones were climbing up strings attached to tacks in the walls. They all looked very healthy. Her job must be very stressful for her to need so many plants.

We both know how hard plants can be to take care of, although you were better at it than me. Remember in third grade when we all got a little spider plant to look after? And we kept them on this special shelf, and if we wanted, we could bring our plant to sit on our desks during reading time. We had to water them and take off their dead leaves and give them plant food. I worked hard on my plant, but it turned yellow and died after a few months. Our teacher said I had loved it to death by overwatering it and putting too much compost on it. Later, I heard her tell the custodian that she’d never seen anyone kill a spider plant before. Everyone else’s plants lived. Some of them even had baby spider plants. Is yours still all huge and healthy?

“Rodney?” said Elizabeth.

“Yes?” I tried to act like I had heard everything she said before I started thinking about my dead little spider plant, even though I hadn’t.

“How have you been?” she said. “Since you were last here?”

It’s hard to believe it had already been three weeks since our last visit.

“Good,” I said, which was obviously a total lie.

“I’m glad.” She smiled. I smiled back.

“I understand you haven’t wanted to go to school. Because of the situation with your father.”

I thought of Timoci from Fiji and how he was probably going to put me in detention prison.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll go.”

“Your parents tell me you don’t like conflict,” said Elizabeth. She wasn’t being as relaxing as I hoped. Now I was sort of wishing I got the rutabaga guy instead of her.

I didn’t answer.

“Have you spoken to anyone about what’s going on in your family?”

I stared at her happy plants. Wished I was eating a pot pie. I didn’t tell her I was writing to you because it seems like a weird thing to do, especially since you’re never going to read this.

“I know you haven’t spoken to either of your parents about what’s happened. Have you spoken to any of your friends?”

“We moved,” I said.

“That must have been hard. Your parents said you really liked your old school and you had good friends there. Are you keeping in touch with your friends from home?”

“No.”

“Have you tried to contact them?”