March 28

Dear Tara*Starr,

I’ve been thinking for a long time about what to say in this letter. And I feel I have to start by being FRANK and HONEST and telling you what I am really thinking, without holding anything back. I am thinking that I am sorry we had a letter-fight, but I am not sorry about any of the things I said because I meant them all. (This is just me, saying things out loud, even if they’re on paper.) I am sorry, though, for telling you to have a nice life. That was kind of mean, and I know it.

You admitted that you can be judgmental and that you’re not perfect. So I’ll admit that I don’t always say things out loud. That’s true. What’s also true is that I’m changing. And I’m saying way more things than I used to say. I just wish you could see that, instead of thinking I’m not changing. It feels a little like you don’t want me to change, and so you see me the way I used to be. (And you see my mother the way she used to be.) Is that true? Or maybe it’s just really hard being friends on paper. I think our friendship would be different if we could still see each other every day.

Anyway, I’m sorry we had a fight, and I do miss you and I love you and I’m glad you want to be my friend. I’ve really missed catching you up on all my news. I do tell my news to Mrs. Jackson, though. I talk to her all the time now. And I’m writing more and more poetry and showing it to her. She says it’s very good. I like talking to Mrs. Jackson, but there’s nothing like talking to a friend who’s your own age. A friend you’ve known a long time. A friend who knows almost everything about you that there is to know. That’s you, Tara.

So … here’s what’s been happening. It’s really an awful lot. I think you’ll have a hard time believing me, but every bit of it is true.

First of all, take a good look at the address on the envelope. It’s one of the last times you’ll see it. We’re going to be moving soon. And get this. We’re moving to a one-bedroom apartment. That one bedroom is for Emma and me, so I guess Mom and Dad are going to sleep in the living room, which, I might add, is the only other room, apart from the kitchen and the bathroom. How are we going to fit sixteen rooms of stuff into our apartment, you might ask? We’re not (duh). We’re going to sell most of it. On Saturday. Don’t I sound calm about everything? Well, the truth is (and I know this seems weird), I feel relieved. VERY relieved. Because this is what we have to do to get ourselves out of our $$ problems. And when you consider that I was afraid we’d be living on the streets, this isn’t bad at all. An apartment. With a bedroom and a kitchen.

Emma and I have already decided how we’re going to set up our room. We’re going to get bunk beds (cheapo ones from Value Town). They’re going to go at one end of the room. (Bunk beds save space.) Then all of Emma’s stuff will go on one side of the room, and all of mine will go on the other. We can each decorate our own wall however we want. That’s our deal. Even if Emma wants to put up that hideous clown poster.

Anyway, I’m way off track. I have to back up to the middle of February. That was when Mom came into my room one night for a talk. I was already in bed, but I hadn’t turned the light out yet. She sat on the edge of the bed and just started talking about all this financial stuff. She said she’d been to see an accountant and a lawyer. Dad had gotten us in Really Big Trouble. (Did you notice that he got us into it, but Mom is getting us out of it? She’s doing this all on her own. Dad just sits around now, watching that home shopping show — but he can’t order anything because he doesn’t have any more credit cards.) The accountant and the lawyer both told Mom that the only way to save ourselves is to sell our house and almost everything in it, and use the money to pay off our debts. Well, most of them. (I think Mom’s parents are going to help pay off what isn’t covered.) Then we can pretty much start over.

Okay, Tara, now hold on to your sequined hat. Guess how we’re going to pay the rent on our apartment. Mom got a job. A paying one. At Kate’s Kitchen. Isn’t that great? Their Director of Development (whatever that is) left, so Kate (she’s the head of it all, like you couldn’t guess) hired Mom to replace her. Mom has already started, even though we haven’t sold the house. Well, technically we have. It’s just that it isn’t final, plus our apartment isn’t vacant yet, so we’re still in our house. (Jeannemarie and Martha are gone, though. Mom asked them to leave the very afternoon she came back from seeing the accountant. Martha cried when she left, and Jeannemarie told me to call her anytime, which I might do.)

The way we sold the house so fast is this: Do you remember that day two summers ago when we were sitting in my front yard, painting each other’s nails, and a car pulled up and a woman got out? She asked if my parents were home, and when Mom came outside the woman told her we had the most beautiful house she’d ever seen. Then she gave Mom her card and said if we ever decided to sell the house to call her first.

Do you remember? You and I were laughing. We thought this was so weird. Like driving up to someone and saying, “You have an incredibly handsome husband. Let me know if you ever get tired of him.” I don’t know how weird Mom thought it was, but she saved the woman’s card and, well, guess who’s buying our house. That woman and her husband. The Franklins. They were thrilled. They didn’t even question the price. They’re going to give Mom what she asked for, as soon as the papers are signed. This should be any day now. Then, like I said, the big sale will take place on Saturday. The Saturday after that, we’re supposed to move into the apartment. I guess my next letter will be about the sale.

That’s the news. Well, actually, it’s just sort of an outline of the news. The main Roman numeral parts. I could fill in lots more details in the smaller categories under the Roman numerals, but I’d wind up writing, like, a whole book. So I’ll stop here.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE write really soon, Tara. I can’t wait to hear from you.

What are the things that are happening that you want to tell me about? Do you have any more pierced body parts? How are Barb and Luke? Is Barb p _ _ _ _ _ _ _yet? (I know I promised I wouldn’t ask again, but I didn’t really ask, since I left out most of the word.)

I miss you.

Love,

P.S. You’ll see that I’ve taken the * out of my name. No offense, Tara, really. It’s just that the * never felt like me.

P.P.S. PLEASE let me know what’s happening with you. I keep asking, and you keep saying you can’t tell me all the good stuff, that you have to hold back, but I am asking you to tell me! So tell!!!