The February Spelling Party

Dear Sonia,

Carolyn Shattuck is the worst. She keeps asking me “What’s on your neck?” even though I already told her it’s just eczema. I’m glad you don’t have it, but it would be nice to know one other person with eczema besides my uncle Frank.

My mom packed me a new word-find puzzle book, and Carolyn keeps looking over my shoulder and pointing out words. It’s like she has no memory of stabbing me with that pencil in second grade.

I handed in my colonial America research paper and Mr. Home wrote “Excellent” on it and drew one of his smiley faces. He has different ones. This one had a funny hat. Sometimes I can’t believe he’s the same person who thinks spelling parties are a great idea.

I got your postcard (thanks!) and Jesse showed me the picture you emailed him, of you at the beach. I can’t even imagine wearing a bathing suit in February! But don’t worry, when you come back for the wedding it definitely won’t be cold here anymore. I promise.

Your future sister,

Bea

Downright Fancy

Jesse was working behind the bar at Beatrice, setting things up for the dinner rush. Angus and I watched from our favorite bar stools, near the soda squirter. Angus had made us each a tall ginger ale, and now he was decorating them with fruit from the garnish tray.

We’re only allowed to sit on the bar stools when the restaurant is closed, and we’re only allowed to use the soda squirter when Jesse is there and Dad is somewhere else.

Sheila had picked us up from school and spent the whole subway ride worrying because Dad and Jesse didn’t have a wedding theme yet.

“Can you believe we still don’t have a theme?” She flopped back against her seat.

“Why’s it so important?” Angus said.

“Because it’s fun. Every fun wedding has a theme!”

“Like what?” I said.

“My cousin Anne had a beach-theme wedding. It wasn’t at the beach, but they had sand everywhere, and people took off their shoes.”

“Dad definitely wouldn’t want sand in the restaurant,” I said.

“No sand? Then how about Paris? The cake could look like the Eiffel Tower! No? Your face is saying no to Paris.”

I laughed. “Dad will never go for a theme.”

She waved at me with one hand. “Okay, maybe something low-key. Come on, think.”

Then Angus kept saying things like “Pie wedding!” and “Candy wedding!” until Sheila looked him right in the eye and said, “You have to stop. You’re blocking all of my good ideas.” But the truth was none of us could think of anything good.

“It’ll happen,” she said after we’d been quiet for a while. “You can’t force genius.” She left us in front of the restaurant and clomped off in her boots.

—