and everyone in the camp knew that except for Zoey.

Well, so what? I want to say. Maybe some people get too scared

to ask to go to the bathroom and aren’t good at tap dancing.

Maybe they’re good at baking pies. And good at being friends.

When I Get Home

Mom has come out of her room.

Down deep I knew she would.

She’s still my mom.

Moms can’t leave their kids forever.

In the Kitchen

My mom has Indian butter chicken

simmering on the stove in its spicy deliciousness.

“Where did the pie come from?” she asks.

“I baked it. With Zoey.”

“I couldn’t resist having a slice,” she says.

“Honey, that Zoey is a fabulous baker.”

She looks so happy that I feel guilty

for thinking I didn’t want to tell her

about my deepening friendship with Zoey.

Because right now all I want—

all I want—

is to make my mother happy.

But Then That Evening

She doesn’t eat the butter chicken

and brown rice with me.

And when she talks to my dad

behind the closed door of her room,

I can hear what sounds like crying.

One Huge Thing My Mother and Lizard Have in Common

They both never cry.

The Biggest Cryer in Our Family

My dad cries at the end of movies, not just sad movies,

but all movies, especially old Christmas movies,

like Miracle on 34th Street and It’s a Wonderful Life.

He cries at the end of the final World Series game,

when the last out happens, and the crowd goes wild,

and the players practically knock each other down with hugs.

He cries during TV commercials, like the one

for some kind of batteries when the soldier dad comes home

and his little girl sees him and shouts, “Daddy!”

Most of all he cries for anything that has to do with me.

Piano recitals. Elementary school graduation.

The time I was in the third-grade spelling bee.

I know that when I sing the Alice in Wonderland

mean flower song, wearing my yellow rose costume,

there will be one person there blubbering his eyes out:

my dad.

Unlike My Dad

I don’t cry about happy things. I mean,

why would you cry about something happy?

And when I cry about sad things,

I try not to do it in front of my mom,

so she won’t say, “Oh, Betsy,”

the way she says, “Oh, James.”

This is why I’m glad

I have Pooh Bear.

Not a Disney Pooh Bear

because I told you my mom hates Disney,

but the Pooh from the Ernest H. Shepard illustrations

in the books by A. A. Milne.

I can hold him tight all alone in my bed,

and he lets me cry as much as I want.

The way I did, a little bit, on the day I found out

I was going to be an extra flower instead of Alice.