Afterward, in the waiting room, which had Blue’s Clues and this giant baby with a bottle that couldn’t walk but just sat there looking, looking, the Outside Girl extended her hand and received a piece of paper from the pancake counselor. I saw it all happen. And we stopped at the CVS on the way back to Grandma Barlow’s. And that night when Altemonte took his blue nail polish pill I got to take one, too, and then we had pancakes for dinner. Which were good. Eating pancakes was like eating my pillow which I had always wanted to do, but knew wouldn’t be as good as it looked. And that was funny, because two days after I took the pill I noticed that the pancakes tasted like that. Like my pillow. Like nothing. Like a cardboard person eating a cardboard cake on the PlayStation. And anyway, my stomach started hurting and I didn’t want any more pancakes.

After dinner that night, Grandma Barlow said, Altemonte, it is time to write a letter to your mama, and his face went wrong. Why should I write her when she went off like that, what’s she got to do with me? he asked. You watch your mouth, Grandma Barlow said. It’s to make money to feed you that she went. She’s working a job and sending the money home and someday you’ll do it, too. I’ll never do it never, said Altemonte. You’ll do it and you’ll consider yourself lucky when you do, said Grandma Barlow. What about my dad? asked Altemonte. Your dad ain’t no better and he might be worse, Grandma Barlow said. Now do you want to find out quick about the misery of life or will you write the letter? What should I write? said Altemonte. Write her about your day about school about the pie I fed you about the arithmetic you’re learning, said Grandma Barlow. Altemonte wouldn’t show me what he wrote but worked at it with furrowed brow. What about me, I asked, should I write a letter to my mama? You’re going to see your mama real soon, my son, said Grandma Barlow. You’ve got visitation with her next week. With Mama K or with Mama L? I asked. With Lily Marshall, Grandma said, which sounded like a movie star or like someone I didn’t know. Grandma Barlow said, Your mama must be Delia Marshall’s granddaughter. That woman always did do things her own way. She was my mother’s great friend, and you should have heard those two telling the world what to do. Some things haven’t changed, women are still doing the talking, and still no one bothers to heed what we say.