“Yes!” she said. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” I knew Mom liked Sheila. She always gave her a real hug. Mom’s face is like mine, though. Her smile was not a hundred percent.

Miriam

Telling a story is harder than I thought it would be. This is mostly about fifth grade, the Year of Dad and Jesse Getting Married, when I was ten.

But certain things happened when I was eight, the Year of Dad Moving Out, which is why I have to keep going back to it. That was also the year I started worrying. It was the year of the three terrible third-grade parties. The year I met Miriam.

If you haven’t noticed, I can tell you that I have an excellent memory for things that are not spelling. For instance, I still remember the first conversation I ever had with Miriam. I bet even Miriam doesn’t remember that, and she takes notes.

We were on the matching couches near the window in her office, facing each other. I remember being glad that she didn’t try to share my couch with me. I wanted my parents to be on my couch, but they were in the waiting room.

She said, “Bea, I’m really glad we’re sitting down together. I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

I said, “Why?”

She said, “Because I hear you’re a pretty great kid. I like talking to kids. It’s part of my work.”

I said, “Why?”

She said, “A lot of kids feel good after they talk to me. It helps them sort through some of their feelings.”

I said, “Oh. Not me.”

She said, “I heard you have a dog, Bea. Your dad told me you went to the animal shelter together to pick him out.”

I shrugged. It was weird that she was talking about Rocco.

“Is he a big dog, or the little kind?”

I was pretty sure she knew the answer to that question because she seemed to know some things I hadn’t told her (I hadn’t told her anything), but I said, “Big.”

She nodded. “Big dogs are wonderful. I used to have a big dog, too. She was so strong. It wasn’t always easy to hold on to her leash. Sometimes I felt kind of pulled around, you know?”

I relaxed a little. “Yeah. Rocco yanks me all over the place when I walk him. And he’s still just a puppy. Dad says he might get twice as big.”

More nodding. “Want to know something? Feelings are sometimes like big dogs, Bea. Sometimes they drag you around a little.”

I didn’t say anything right away. Then I asked her what happened to her dog.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“You said you used to have a dog.”

“Oh, yes. Well, she got very old. She was my dog when I was a little girl.”

“So she died, right?”