but the wooden floor squeaks,

rats me out.

“Can’t avoid me forever.”

At the sound of Dad’s voice,

Gigi hops onto his lap

and rolls over for a tummy rub.

She forgives him.

My dog’s a better person than me.

SOMEONE TO TALK TO

Dad talks first.

“Still mad at me, I see.”

“Just tell me why

you let Mom talk you into

making me go to a therapist.”

“Dr. Wood was my idea.”

“What? Are you kidding me, Dad?

I thought you were on my side!

I thought I could trust you!

I thought you loved me!”

“Sit down and hear me out.”

“But—”

He points to the cushion.

“I’m not askin’.”

I flop down.

Gigi senses something’s wrong and

snorts at Dad before she comes over

and snuggles next to me.

At least my dog is still loyal.

“For a while your mom’s pushed for

you to have surgery,

but I think you’re way too young.

I’ve pushed for therapy because

I see the hurt in your eyes

from what people say and do to you.”

Tears well up in my eyes.

Dad’s noticed.

He cares.

Why hasn’t Mom?

“It breaks my heart, Ellie.

I just think it’d be good for you

to have someone to talk to

about it all.”

“But if therapy doesn’t help me

lose the weight, then—”

“No surgery.

I promise.

If I’m lyin’, may Oklahoma beat Texas

in every Red River Showdown until I die.”

Ever since the first time

Mom said the word surgery,

it’s as if fear-filled balloons

have been lodged in my lungs,

keeping me from taking a full breath.

With Dad’s promise, they pop.

I can breathe again.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH HER?

I’m trying to fall asleep,

but my mind is a frozen computer.

It won’t shut down.

I think of Nana Montgomery’s story

about the night I was born.

While Mom was pregnant with me,

she had a premonition that

something was wrong.

So when they nestled me in her arms,

instead of cuddling me

and welcoming me into the world,

she just kept saying,

“What’s wrong with her?

I know there’s something wrong!

What is it?

Just tell me!”

Nothing has really changed

since then.

As an editor who prefers

to copyedit with red pen on paper,

Mom makes articles crisper, tighter, leaner.

And when she’s unhappy with an article—

when she can’t fix it and

it’s beyond hope—

she puts a giant X on it.

If I were an article,

she’d put a giant X on me.

HARD TO FIT IN

“How was school today?”

Catalina asks as she climbs over the fence

with her guitar slung over her shoulder.

I let out a heavy sigh,

the kind where your lips

flutter like a motorboat.

“That good, huh?”

“Yours?”

“It’s hard to fit in when

you’re the new kid.”