After Kandi went her way and I went mine, I started losing my nerve. I wanted to hold up my end of the deal, but…how could I ever explain my Thanksgiving?

How could I write about my secret life?

I thought about it the whole rest of the way to Brookside.

I thought about it when Geri said, “Good afternoon, Lincoln! Isn’t it a lovely day?” as I signed in.

I thought about it when Suzie York asked me, “Do you know how to get out of here?” and Debbie Rucker called, “What is your name?” and Alice said, “Why, hello, sweet pea,” and grabbed for my backside.

I thought about it when Teddy C wolf-whistled at Gloria, and when Ma gave me one of her sweet smiles and asked if I was wantin’ a snack. I thought about it when I saw that there was a new oldie in Room 102 who had the window-side bed, instead of Wilhelmina.

I thought about it as I passed by Droolin’ Stu, and when June and Linda shouted for somebody to make Paula quit tapping.

But how could folks understand if I didn’t find a way to explain? How could they understand why living in a place with no heat and a sagging floor or sitting up all night with a dying stranger were things to be thankful for, if I didn’t explain?

I sat at my table and pulled out my notebook and thought about it for a long time. There was so much stewin’ around in my brain. So many ingredients in the story. Some sour, some sweet, some salty, some spicy…I wasn’t sure what to put in.

Or, especially, what to leave out.

And where in the world should I start? I couldn’t explain Thanksgiving without explaining stuff that happened before. It wouldn’t make any sense! But how far back did I have to go? A week? Two? Back to zombie chicken? Back to the first time the Psychic Vampire struck? Back to when we moved? Back to why we moved? It all tied together, and none of it made sense standin’ alone.

So…where to start?

I was deep into stirring my mental stew when a sound came out of one of the oldies’ rooms.

A warbly sound.

Singing.

I snapped to attention and turned away quick, knowin’ what was comin’ next.

Everyone knew what was comin’ next.

Even the oldies who couldn’t seem to remember anything else knew what was comin’ next.

“Stop her!” Teddy C cried.

“Not again!” Pom-Pom Pam wailed.

But there she was.

Ms. Miller’s voice popped into my head—Start anywhere! In the middle. At the end. It doesn’t matter—and just like that, my pencil took off writing.

Ruby Hobbs came out of her room, dancing and singing, buck naked, again….