“I’m obsessed with her earrings,” Kiki said. “And seriously, how cool are those boots?”
Kiki had saved fourth-row seats for Natalie, Madison, and me and was clutching her battered copy of Girls’ Guide. Principal Milliman was introducing Dear Kate.
The advice columnist’s eyes were blue-jean blue and her hair was strawberry blond and shoulder length. I wondered if she was going to tell us to “believe in ourselves” and “find our passions” and “follow our dreams.”
She didn’t. She began, “I visit a lot of schools, but I’ll be honest: I like all-girls’ schools best. Why? Because I can dive right in and talk about bras, periods, cliques, and crushes.”
Kiki elbowed me as if to say, See?
“I know your plates are full of academics, but this is also the time when you’re getting comfortable with your bodies. Me, I wasn’t just a late bloomer—I was a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee! I still am.” Dear Kate laughed and the audience did too. “It used to bother me, but now it doesn’t. I mean, we all bloom! And big boobs are fine but so are little boobs and medium boobs.”
Mr. Conklin, my Latin teacher, smiled, and I could feel myself starting to blush. Even though Mom had been a teacher, I’d never thought of the other female teachers at Halsey School for Girls as women with bodies. As for the male teachers, I wished Principal Milliman had told them to skip assembly.
“The average American girl gets her first period at about twelve and a half,” Dear Kate continued. “Many start sooner or later. I didn’t get mine until I was fifteen.”
Kiki and Natalie had both started the previous winter; I’d started that fall and still wasn’t regular. I knew I could ask my doctor dad about this, but it had been much easier when I could ask my mom.
Was thirteen the worst possible age to lose your mother? Maybe. Then again, there was no good age.
“Let’s talk about putting in a tampon,” Dear Kate was saying, her expression bright. “For some of you, it’s a no-brainer. For others, it’s like: never gonna happen.” I looked around. Girls were giggling, but everyone was riveted. “If you’re having trouble, you can buy the small, slender, plastic kind for first-timers. Apply a dab of Vaseline to the tip of the applicator. Then relax, take a deep breath, and give it a go but only during your time of the month—no practicing between periods!” Madison had been searching her long, blond hair for split ends but was now leaning forward. “Once you’re a pro, you can go green and buy tampons that aren’t plastic.” Natalie nodded.
“Some girls tell me they can’t figure out where the tampon goes.” Dear Kate continued, arching an eyebrow. “Ladies, there are three holes down there. Un, deux, trois. One’s for pee, one’s for poo, and in the middle is the vagina. If in doubt, check a mirror!”
Everyone started laughing, and the teachers started shushing us. I looked at Principal Milliman, half expecting her to jump up and haul Dear Kate off the stage. But she remained seated as if our speakers routinely said “pee” and “poo” and “vagina” into the microphone.
“I realize this is all superpersonal,” Dear Kate added. “But I get lots of female email, so I know what girls worry about. I’ll share some letters with you—no names of course. Oh, and if you ever want to write me, I’m at DearKate@fifteen.com. Keep it short, and I’ll answer.”
I wondered what kind of girl would actually write to her and then remembered: Kiki, for one.
Dear Kate read us letters about everything from school lockdowns to transgender teens. When she asked for questions, a sixth grader with glittery, green fingernails asked, “Is it okay to be boy crazy?”
Dear Kate said, “Crazy is never ideal.”
Madison asked how much email she gets each week. Dear Kate said, “A ton, and it doubles around Valentine’s Day. I can hardly keep up.”
A seventh grader asked where most of the mail comes from. “No clue,” Dear Kate answered. “Letters come with return addresses, but email is often anonymous. And while I’m good at guessing a girl’s age, I can’t usually guess where she’s from. Sexibabi, iluvcandy, lilditzy—emails can be from anywhere.” She smiled. “Speaking of, when you’re applying for jobs or college, change your screen names! RedHotChica won’t cut it with employers or deans of admissions.”
Natalie was twirling her hair and suddenly raised her hand. She asked Dear Kate if she had any general Valentine’s tips.
“I’ll give you four,” Dear Kate replied and started counting on her fingers. “One: don’t rush your crush. Two: a boyfriend should also be a friend. Three: your love life should not be your whole life. Four: Cupid can be stupid, so listen to your head not just your heart. How’s that?”
“Helpful,” Natalie said.
Dear Kate ended her talk by saying, “If you don’t have a valentine, relax. Most girls don’t! And if you do, try to step into love instead of falling in. And don’t go racing around the bases. You’re in middle school. Keep your pants on!”
The auditorium exploded with laughter, and Principal Milliman bounded onto the stage. “I’m afraid we’re out of time! Thank you. You have certainly given us a lot to think about.”
Kiki jumped up, holding her dog-eared Girls’ Guide, and said, “Guys, come with me.”
“I have to finish my science homework,” Natalie said.
“I have to go get my history book,” Madison said.
Kiki looked straight at me. “Sofia, no excuses.”
“Go by yourself, Keeks. Since when are you shy?”
“Pleeeease! Before the line gets any longer!”
I followed Kiki onstage, mad at myself for being a tagalong shadow. Did I really used to belt out solos during recitals and musicals in this very auditorium?
The line moved slowly. When it was Kiki’s turn, she asked Dear Kate to sign her book, gushing, “It’s my bible. I have parts of it memorized!”
Dear Kate gave her a warm smile and asked how to spell her name.
“K-I-K-I,” she replied. “I love your column too!”
“Thank you.”
“And your earrings!” Kiki added, starstruck.
Dear Kate touched her earlobe. “These are my daughter’s. She basically dresses me.” She looked up at us. “I don’t know how mothers without daughters stay chic!”
“She’s so lucky!” Kiki said. “She must think you’re a cool mom.”
Dear Kate shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know about that. She says, ‘You don’t get it’ about as often as other girls.” She handed back Kiki’s book. “Are your parents coming tonight? I’m speaking at six. A different talk, of course.”
“My mom’s coming. Her dad might be,” Kiki said, answering for both of us.
I felt my cheeks growing flush and willed myself to say something—anything. Speak, Sofia, speak!
But no. Nothing. I just stood there, mute. Then again, what was I supposed to say? There were no quick ’n’ easy tips for what I was going through.
“Mind if I take a photo?” Kiki said.
“Not at all,” Dear Kate replied, and Kiki took selfies of the two of them.
Finally, Kiki said, “Thanks for coming to our school!” I wiggled my fingers as though I were a baby who could wave bye-bye but not yet articulate words. It was humiliating! Did Dear Kate have that effect on other girls? Did some babble while others stood speechless?
• • •
Pepper greeted me at the door and rubbed against my legs. Mom had called him Pepito. We’d rescued him from a shelter three years earlier, and when he wasn’t acting like a scaredy-cat, he acted like a dog, following me everywhere.
But at night, instead of sleeping in my room, Pepper preferred to curl up on the rug in front of the radiator in my parents’—my dad’s—bedroom. Which was a shame because at night, I could have used his warm, purring presence. My old stuffed animals, Panther, Tigger-Tiger, and Yertle, weren’t as comforting as they’d used to be.
I opened the refrigerator—milk, bread, juice, a take-out carton of sesame noodles, two plastic containers of hummus and baba ghanoush.
Was I still hoping to find leftover paella or tortilla española, the Spanish potato omelet Mom could make at a moment’s notice? When was the last time Dad and I had even tasted Manchego cheese with membrillo, that quince paste Mom and I both loved?
Pepper jumped onto the counter and padded to the faucet. I didn’t scold him, and he settled by the sink and looked at me, his green eyes round and hopeful. I twisted the handle and a thin stream of water trickled down. He tilted his head, lapping with his quick, pink tongue.
When Dad was home, Pepper behaved differently. He did not loiter by the sink or jump onto the counter or tables. But after school, when it was just girl and cat, all bets were off.
I called Dad.
“Hi, cupcake. How was school?”
“I got a ninety-eight on a Spanish quiz.”
“Why not one hundred?”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Way to go!’”
“Way to go! But where’d the two points go? You speak better than the new teacher.” The new teacher: the one hired to replace Mom.
I told him I’d left out a written accent, then asked when he was coming home. He said, “Around six.”
“You’re not going to go hear the talk ‘Raising Healthy, Happy Daughters’?”
“Don’t I know enough about female adolescents?”
“The lady spoke at assembly today. She was good.” I wondered what she’d talk to the parents about. Not the ins and outs of tampons.
“If I go,” Dad said, “what will you do for dinner?”
I considered saying, Throw a wild party, but said, “Order in.”
“Fine. I’ll see you after it’s over.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Ever since April, we’d been saying that at the end of every phone call. I wasn’t sure who started it—probably Dad. At first, I felt self-conscious mumbling “love you” into my cell in front of friends. But when I didn’t say it, I felt worse.
Mom and I used to say, “Te quiero,” to each other, but not after phone calls. We’d said it mostly at bedtime, when she tucked me in every night.
• • •
I ordered dumplings and a dragon roll from Miyako, and Pepper kept me company as I ate. Back when our family dinners for three turned into dinners for two, Pepper would sometimes jump into Mom’s chair, his furry, black ears and owl eyes peering out above the table. At first, even Dad didn’t have the heart to shoo him down. He knew Pepper was as needy and confused as we were.
Kiki called. “Your dad’s definitely going, right?”
“Right.”
“Good, because my mom’s putting on perfume.” She laughed, excited. “And I’m going too! I want to hear her again.”
“Keeks, we just heard her! And it’s Antarctica out there!”
“I want to hear what she tells parents. I want to be her, remember? I’m picking you up in five.”
“No way! We’re not allowed.”
“Yes way. We’ll hide in the balcony.”
“I have homework,” I protested. And I don’t want to get in trouble—or watch your mom hit on my dad.
“So bring your precious homework!”
I could feel myself caving. “You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”
“Yep,” she said proudly.
I scribbled a note in case Dad got home before I did: “At school. Back soon.” I put on my coat and scarf and took the elevator down. Kiki met me in my lobby, and we hurried across the street and into Halsey.
Inez, the security guard, said, “It’s a little late, girls.” She pointed at the wall clock, and her gold bangles slid toward her elbow. I tried not to stare at her new nose ring.
“I need to grab my English book from my locker,” Kiki lied. “We have a huuuge test tomorrow.”
Was I imagining it, or did Inez’s expression when she saw me switch to the one I saw so often at Halsey? Was she thinking, Oh, that’s Señora Wolfe’s daughter, poor thing? Before Mom died, everyone used to say, “You look just like your mother!” After, it felt as if everyone was still thinking it.
“Inez, we’re desperate!” Kiki said.
“All right, make it quick.”
We hurried around a corner, passed some posters (“Be a winner, not a whiner!” “Even Einstein Asked Questions!”), and dashed up the back stairs to the empty balcony.
Kiki and I sat on the floor and peeked over the railing. There was Dad, sixth row on the left. And there was Lan right next to him, slipping off her soft fur coat and making herself right at home.
• • •
Principal Milliman tapped the microphone. “Good evening, parents. Our guest this evening is an advice columnist and the author of the bestselling Girls’ Guide, which has been published in many languages—from Chinese to Czech. She was a hit this afternoon with your daughters, and I know you’ll love her too. Please give a warm welcome to Katherine Baird.”
I crouched behind Kiki as Dear Kate strode to center stage. Kiki whispered, “Funny to hear her real name, isn’t it?”
Dear Kate thanked everyone for coming and said, “It’s always the good parents who attend these evenings. Raise your hand if you have a daughter who is eleven. Twelve? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen?” She raised her own hand at sixteen.
Kiki’s eyes were on her mom and my dad. “If they got married,” she whispered, “we’d be sisters.”
“Kiki, shhh!” I said and tried not to feel mad at my best friend. Yes, I understood her point of view, but didn’t she understand mine?
“I’ve been writing for teens since I was a teen,” Dear Kate said. “I started when hotties were hunks, middle school was junior high, flip-flops were thongs, and thongs were G-strings. Remember those days?” There was a rustle of laughter. “A lot has changed but a lot hasn’t, and the best way to know what’s going on in your home is to talk and to listen. So don’t just have the Talk; have an ongoing conversation.”
A mother raised her hand. “But what exactly do we say about sex?”
“Whose mother asked that?” Kiki whispered, eyes wide.
“I’ll take questions at the end,” Dear Kate said, “but my message to girls is: ‘Slow down! Sex too soon is a train wreck.’ When addressing older teens, I always add: ‘No glove, no love. No balloon, no party.’” Kiki smirked, though it took me a moment to figure out what Dear Kate was talking about. “Teens need info,” she said. “It’s not ‘Just Say No.’ It’s Just Say K-N-O-W.” A few parents nodded. “And girls need to be clear about boundaries because while society is changing, sex is still a very big deal. It comes with consequences, and girls and guys of all ages need to take that seriously.”
I looked down at my dad and Kiki’s mom and wished I hadn’t let Kiki drag me up here. Sex? I had trouble getting boys to text me back. Kiki was a virgin too, but she and several guys, including her current boyfriend Derek, had, as she put it, “done more than just kiss.”
Thirty minutes later, Dear Kate was wrapping up. “Blink and your daughters will be grown. My own nest is almost empty,” she said wistfully. “I encourage you to relish the privilege of parenthood and to remember that while your job is to give your kids a nest, their job is to spread their wings. I’ll leave you with this quote from Christopher Morley: ‘We’ve had bad luck with our kids. They’ve all grown up.’”
A man laughed. Dad? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t heard him laugh in a while.
The parents applauded and Principal Milliman announced, “If you’d like a copy of Girls’ Guide, please form a line here onstage. Exact change is appreciated.”
“Let’s go!” Kiki said. “I have to get back before my mom does.”
“Right behind you,” I said, wishing we had Harry Potter invisibility cloaks. We snuck down the balcony stairs, raced past Inez, who gave Kiki a long look, and stood outside my lobby. Kiki giggled and my fingertips started tingling from the cold. “You still want to be Dear Kate?” I asked.
“Totally! In high school, I’m starting my own column: ‘Ask Kiki.’”
“Great idea!”
“So should I give my mom any advice about your dad?”
Tell her to stay away, I thought, but said, “Kiki, it hasn’t even been a year!”
Kiki nodded and hurried off to Amsterdam and 101st.
• • •
Back home, I tore up the note I’d left for Dad. Twenty minutes later, I started wondering what was taking him so long. Mom was the one who had liked to linger at Halsey events, not Dad.
She especially loved singing in the parent-teacher choir, then going out with everyone afterward. Mom had a beautiful voice. Everyone said so.
People said I did too—though no one had heard it lately. Not only had I not performed at last year’s Spring Sing, but I’d also dropped out of chorus. In the fall, instead of auditioning for a lead in The Pajama Game, I’d volunteered to paint backdrops. I also hadn’t sung at the Holiday Cabaret or Christmas Chapel, which I’d been doing since lower school.
Dad’s keys finally jingled outside the door, and Pepper raced to greet him. “How was it?” I asked from the kitchen, trying to sound casual.
“Excellent.”
Excellent? “Did you see Kiki’s mom?”
“She sat next to me.”
I was tempted to say, Practically in your lap!
“She wears a lot of perfume,” he said. “And she told me Lan means ‘orchid’ in Vietnamese.”
“She is pretty,” I said to see what he’d say.
“That she is,” he agreed. “Hey, I bought you Girls’ Guide. Even got it signed. That’s what took a while. And there was a car with a dead battery, so I stopped to help—”
I was afraid he might say something else about Lovely Lan, so I interrupted. “I ordered dinner,” I said.
“Good. What’d you order? I’m starving.”
“Sushi.”
“Sushi? On this freezing night, you ordered sushi?”
“Sorry. I—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he said, backing down. I could tell he didn’t want to make me feel bad. We were still being extra gentle with each other, as if we were afraid the other was breakable. “Sushi is fine. And you got gyoza, right? And negimaki?”
I nodded. “Check, check.”
“Then we’re good to go.”
“Except I already ate. Mind if I keep doing my homework?” I wasn’t up for a quiet dad-daughter meal, let alone an “ongoing conversation.” And it would be awkward if he wanted to discuss Dear Kate’s talk, since I’d just heard every word.
“The speaker was big on family dinner—”
“Dad, I have a ton of reading.”
He shrugged, defeated.
Mom would never have given up so easily. She also would have noticed my guilty expression and grilled me: “Hija, ¿qué te pasa?”
• • •
“Deep down, are we shallow?” I asked Kiki as we studied ourselves in her bedroom mirror the following week. I was wearing my new pink sweater and skirt, and Kiki was wearing a purple crochet dress. We were getting ready for the Valentine’s Day dance. The point was to look effortlessly incredible—a challenge that required incredible effort. We’d done our nails, blow-dried our hair, and were applying lip gloss, blush, and eye makeup.
Kiki laughed. “No. Deep down, we are deep.”
“I used to love Valentine’s Day,” I said. “Remember my red headband?”
“How could I forget? You wore it every day in second grade.”
I considered taking offense but decided not to. “And remember those giant valentines Mrs. Jenkins stapled to the wall, the red hearts on white doilies? She wrote our names with magic marker in her perfect handwriting—”
“We sat on the floor, ‘crisscross applesauce,’” Kiki said, “and came up with words for each letter of everyone’s names.”
“My words were sweet, open, fun, interesting, and awesome. The awesome was because hablo español.”
“Mine were kind, imaginative, knowledgeable, and intelligent. The words barely fit. I was so proud.”
“Now teachers act like February 14 is just another day. At least there’s the dance tonight.”
“Exactly! So hurry up. It’s going to be fun!”
“For you. Every guy you like automatically likes you back.”
Kiki couldn’t even deny this. But I was hoping that for once, things might work out for me too. In December, I had hung out with a boy named Julian at a party that our girls’ school had with his boys’ school. We’d talked about graphic novels and had even exchanged numbers (his idea), and when I’d texted him afterward, he’d actually texted back. The first three times anyway.
“Who do you like besides Julian?” Kiki asked offhandedly.
“Why do I have to like anyone else?” I eyed her, my mouth open as I applied mascara. She didn’t answer, so I capped the mascara. “What? Did you talk to Julian about me?”
“Derek did.”
I took a breath. “What’d he say?”
“Derek said that Julian said that he likes you, but he’s afraid to go out with you.”
“Because I’m scary?”
“Because he doesn’t want to ruin your friendship—”
“Oh, please! I wouldn’t call us friends. And isn’t that usually the girl’s line?”
“He also said that if you went out, he’d never be able to break up with you because…”
“Seriously?” My stomach turned. “God, I am so sick of everyone feeling sorry for me! Isn’t it enough that I feel sorry for me?”
“I thought you should know. So you don’t take it personally.”
“Great. Thanks. Now I won’t feel bad when he avoids me tonight because, hey, I’ll understand.”
“C’mon, Sof.”
“No, Keeks. Why is he thinking about how hard it would be to dump me instead of how great it would be to go out with me?” I threw the mascara on the floor. “You know what? J is for Jerk.”
“U is for Ugly!” Kiki joined in.
“L is for Loser!” I felt bad turning on Julian—but he’d turned on me first.
“I is for Idiot!”
“A is for A-hole!” I said, surprising myself.
“And N is for Neanderthal!” Kiki concluded with a smile.
“It’s not like I wanted to get married,” I said. “Just hang out.”
“Hang out or hook up?”
“Maybe both.” I threw a pillow at her.
• • •
The dance sucked. Not for beautiful Kiki, Madison, and Natalie but for mediocre me. I danced only with girls, and when it was over, my Jerky Ugly Loser Idiot A-hole Neanderthal of an ex-crush took a taxi back to the Upper West Side with Britt, even though they’d just met.
On Monday, I saw a valentine peeking out of my locker. Inside the envelope, it said:
Happy Valentine’s Day to Sofia the Sweet from Kiki the Kind
That was Sweet. And Kiki was Kind. Yet maybe what S really stood for was Starved for love.
I never used to feel that way. According to Dad, I was the apple of my mother’s eye. But lately, I felt like moldy applesauce. It still seemed absurd that Dad and I were supposed to just get by without Mom, amble along without her as though her absence hadn’t drained the color out of everything.
After school, I went online and googled “Dear Kate.” A pale pink website popped up, and I clicked around, watched a Love 101 video, skimmed an interview, and took a quiz. Then I saw: Contact me.
My heart began pounding. I double clicked and there was a blank email with the address filled in.
Should I start typing?
What would I say?
Maybe that I wished I could be happy again? And that I didn’t like feeling jealous of my friends?
Everyone else had gotten her first kiss during summer camp or winter break or at last year’s bar and bat mitzvahs or even earlier playing spin the bottle. Kiki had already had three boyfriends. And while I didn’t want to kiss someone random just to get it over with, I also didn’t like feeling behind.
I clicked on a few more links. There were book reviews, a Facebook fan page, a photo of a white, fluffy cat, and a black-and-white photo of a girl with braces and pigtails. Was that Dear Kate at my age? If so, she was cute.
Cute? Now that was a word I could do without. My friends said I was cute—and cute was better than not cute. But cute was not hot or beautiful.
Pepper leaped onto my desk, stepping around two green ceramic turtles I’d made in third grade. He settled in beside me and revved up his purring motor. “Pepito,” I said, kissing him. “You are such a handsome boy.” Then I turned back to the computer, and my hands started typing.
Dear Kate,
My mother died ten months and one week ago, and I’m still not over it. I keep wishing things would go back to normal. I think some people, especially boys, are afraid to get close to me. (When it first happened, I sometimes cried when I shouldn’t have.) I’m still sad, but I don’t cry as much. (Maybe I don’t laugh as much either?) Anyway, I just really miss her. I’m also the only girl in my class who has never kissed a guy. I’m nervous about doing it right. I’m 14, so I’m way too old to be kissing my cat.
Signed,
Pathetic
PS It feels dumb to write you about death and kisses in the same email. Sorry.
I pressed Send and my insides tightened.
What had I done? I opened my Sent Mail and read what I’d written. I wanted to gag. “Signed, Pathetic”? I was beyond pathetic! I was an immature idiot. And for Subject, had I really written: “Life, Death, and Kisses”? Ugh! Why hadn’t I pressed Delete?
Too late.
At least I hadn’t used my real name or address—just my screen name: Catlover99.
I got up to make popcorn, and Pepper went with me, leaping onto the kitchen counter and peering at me from the sink. “Here,” I said, adjusting the faucet to a perfect trickle. He drank while the microwave made popping noises.
I turned off the water, poured the popcorn into a bowl, and was back at my desk and halfway through my math homework when an icon on my screen started jumping, indicating a new message. It was probably spam. An email from a Nigerian widow who wanted to give me a million dollars in exchange for my bank account numbers. Or a drug company asking if I was satisfied with my “manhood.” Or some “friend” demanding I write ten people in five minutes to avoid horrendous luck.
I read “Re: Life, Death and Kisses” and double clicked. An autoresponse, no doubt.
I opened it.
Oh. My. God.
Dear Not Pathetic,
I’m very sorry that your mom died and not at all surprised that you haven’t gotten “over” it. Losing your mother when you are young is so sad and so hard. At first, it feels like there’s a big hole in your life. But little by little, you learn how to step around the hole. Things will never go back to how they were, but you are finding a way to live with your loss. Be patient with yourself!
As for being too old to kiss your cat, I still kiss my cat, and I just turned 46! In fact, my old, white cat is with me now, napping on a pile of letters on my desk.
Trust me, you are not the only one in your class who has not kissed a guy. Please don’t worry about “doing it right.” You’ll figure it out, and there is no wrong way. Besides, boys don’t like girls who have perfected their technique; boys like girls who like them. What’s important isn’t doing it right anyway. It’s kissing the right boy at the right time.
Kate
PS I don’t always answer so fast, but my father died when I was young, so I know how difficult it is. While there is no shortcut through grief, here’s a strange parting thought: a mother dies only once, so you’ve already been through the very worst.
Wow. It didn’t sound like an autoresponse! I was tempted to call Kiki or Dad, but then they’d ask me what I had written her, so forget it. I stared at the screen and reread the email. My mom had been big on thank-yous, so I pressed Reply and changed the Subject to “Thank You.”
Dear Kate,
Thank you for the advice! I will defiantly take it into consideration.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Catlover
PS Is that your cat on your website? Was that you with braces?
I pressed Send, then reread my words. “Defiantly”?! I’d meant “definitely”! English teachers were always telling us to proofread, but I had a horrible habit of proofreading when it was too late.
The icon started bouncing.
You’re welcome. Happy V. Day to you too. Yes to both your questions.
I sat back. Cool. I considered sending another thank-you but didn’t want to bug her. Who knew? I might need Dear Kate again someday.
Dad came home with red tulips from the greengrocer on our corner, and I helped him make dinner. Neither of us was a Top Chef, but I could bake box cakes, and he could make steak and blueberry-banana smoothies. That evening, I boiled water, and Dad dropped in some heart-shaped ravioli he’d bought at Zabar’s.
It was kind of depressing actually. But we both knew we’d been overdoing it on ordering in. Deliverymen bicycled to our home with everything from moussaka to moo shu pork. And when we called Saigon Sun, Kiki’s mom always tucked in something extra: spring rolls in the summer, curry soup in the winter. Last time, she put in free chicken satay with a note that said, “Enjoy!! Lan.” Under the exclamation marks, instead of dots, she’d drawn little hearts. I was tempted to throw the note away before Dad even saw it.
After our home-cooked dinner, I read about Mesopotamia and wrote 150 words comparing two Shakespearean love sonnets. At ten, I went into the living room and announced, “I’m going to bed.”
Dad looked startled and closed his laptop halfway. Weird. That’s what I did when I didn’t want him to know what I was doing.
“Good night,” I said and looked at Pepper curled on the sofa, his paw over his head as though he’d had a hard day. I picked him up and slung him over my shoulder. “I’m taking my valentine with me.”
“You do that.” Dad smiled.
I thought about Kiki and Madison, who both had real valentines. According to Kiki, there were also two girls in our class, Steff and Terra, who were going out with each other and having lots of “sleepovers” while their parents had no clue. Steff told Kiki she was bi but that Terra was “just” gay. How could they even be so sure? And what did they do in the dark? It was more than I could think about.
I was glad I had Pepper—and that Dad wasn’t out on a hot date with Lan.
• • •
“What do you think of this shirt?” Dad asked in the kitchen the next Friday.
“I like it,” I said.
“Mom used to shop with me.”
“I know. You did okay.”
“Good, because I also bought it in blue.” Dad and I never talked about clothes. He wasn’t exactly a trendsetter, and at work, he wore a doctor’s smock.
“How’s school?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Who got the lead in Guys and Dolls?”
“Madison and Natalie both got big parts. You know Madison—she’s the ridiculously pretty blond.” In my mind, Kiki and Madison could both be models. Maybe even Natalie, with her freckles and cinnamon curls.
“Is that…hard for you?”
“I didn’t even audition. And I’m okay with being a stagehand.” Was I?
“Where’s Kiki these days?”
“She has a boyfriend.” It wasn’t the first time Kiki had been spending a lot of time with a guy—and a lot less with me.
“Does Natalie have a boyfriend?”
“Daaad!” I made a face. Why was he asking so many questions all of a sudden? “She has bigger news,” I said. “Remember when her dad lost his job? Well, she applied to public schools—and LaGuardia took her.”
“Impressive,” Dad said. “So she’s leaving HSG?”
“No one can believe it.”
“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Dad, this interview is over!” I went to my room and shut the door. I didn’t want to tell him I’d probably never have a boyfriend.
Alone in my room, I opened my laptop.
Dear Kate,
It’s me again, the one who’s never kissed a boy. My BFF has a new BF, and I guess I have a question that is totally confidential. I’ve been noticing how beautiful a lot of my friends are, and since no guys ever like me, I was wondering if there’s a chance I might be bi or lesbian. I know that’s okay and everything, but I don’t think I really want to be.
Wondering
I pressed Send—then felt instantly worse. Why in God’s name did I write that? I wasn’t conflicted about this! I just got a tiny bit confused sometimes because my friends always talked about this stuff. But why had I put it into words?
Maybe because writing Dear Kate was so easy. I could type anything. Dumb stuff. Deep stuff. Whatever was on my mind. It didn’t feel real. I shuddered to think what would happen if my email ever got forwarded or something.
It was too late to take back what I wrote, but to be safe, I opened the Sent file and pressed Delete, then went into Recently Deleted Mail and pressed Permanently Delete.
As I was finishing my homework, the icon started jumping.
Dear Wondering,
It’s normal to be curious and to notice how pretty your friends are, but don’t be in a hurry to define or label yourself. This is not something you need to struggle to figure out anyway. It’s something to discover naturally over time. It’s not a choice or a decision. It just is. And everyone should love who she is! For now, the fact that you find some of your friends beautiful doesn’t mean you’re gay or bi; it means you have eyes.
Kate
PS As for your busy BFF, invite her to do something—just the two of you. And someday when you’re the one with a BF, remember to make time for old friends.
When I’m the one with the BF? Yeah, right!
• • •
“Don’t forget to call Grandma Pat for her birthday,” Dad said. “I’m going out to dinner.” I wondered why he didn’t say more. If it was with Lan, would he say so? I wanted to ask Kiki, but she hadn’t returned my last few texts.
“I won’t,” I said. Hey, I was grateful for all the family I had left: one father at home, one grandfather in Spain, one grandmother in Florida. Sometimes, I envied Madison—she was always going to family reunions. And because of divorce, instead of four grandparents, she had six.
I speed-dialed Tandoori Take-Out, then Grandma Pat. “Grandma!” I said. “Happy birthday!”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Sofia. It must be nice in Florida now.”
“Yes, it’s nice of you to call.”
“Grandma, I’ll wait while you switch to your new phone.” Whenever she wasn’t on her special amplified-hearing phone, she had to do a lot of guessing and I had to do a lot of shouting.
“All right. Just a moment.” I waited a minute, not a moment, and then we talked about weather and classes and babysitting, and I told her that things were “going great.” I did not tell her how much I missed Mom or that Dad was out on a date or that my friends were all growing up while I was staying still.
We said good-bye when the deliveryman buzzed from the lobby, and I took the elevator down, paid him, then went back up and ate alone. Afterward, I walked two flights down the stairwell to the Russells’ to babysit their two-year-old, Mason. Mrs. Russell had been my math teacher in fifth grade as well as my emergency contact.
“We’ll be back at eleven,” she said. “There are ribs in the fridge.”
“Thanks, I just ate,” I said, though of course I intended to sample everything edible. Our building’s New Year’s party, the one I had skipped this year, was a potluck, and everyone always looked forward to Mrs. Russell’s ribs. Everyone had loved Mom’s Baked Alaska too.
Mason came running in and grabbed my leg. “Sofiiiiia!” He was barefoot and his yellow pajamas were sprinkled with airplanes.
“Mason!”
He high-fived me, and I hoisted him up. He wrapped his arms and legs around me, and his twisty hair smelled of baby shampoo.
Mrs. Russell looked at him and asked, “Who’s the best little boy in the whole wide world?”
“Mason!”
“And who loves Mason soooo soooo much?”
“Mommy!”
“Give Mommy a kiss,” she said, and I held him tight as he squirmed and leaned into her cheek. “Good night, darling boy!”
“G’ night, dowwing Mommy!” I watched their big hug, my throat tight.
When Mrs. Russell left, Mason looked anxious. “Mommy gone?”
“Your mommy is meeting your daddy for dinner,” I said. “You’ll be fast asleep when they come back.”
“Mommy come back?”
“Yes. Mommies go away and come back.”
I felt light-headed. Had my mommy really not come back? How was that possible? Was I really supposed to live the rest of my life without her?
“Mommy come back!” he confirmed, his dark eyes big and trusting. “We play cars and fire engines?”
“You got it!” I said. “Cars and fire engines.”
“You got it!” he repeated, beaming.
• • •
Hours later, after I tucked Mason in and made sure he was asleep, I got out my laptop and started typing.
Dear Kate,
It’s me. I’m babysitting. Sorry to bother you again, but is there a way I can get people to understand what I’m going through? Sometimes, the grief feels brand-new, but I can’t say that—even to people I love.
Alone a Lot
It helped that I could say it to Dear Kate. It felt like I could tell her anything.
No sooner had I sent the email, than I started looking for a reply. None came. It was Saturday night, and I realized that even advice columnists can’t be on call round the clock.
The next morning, however, an answer was waiting.
Dear Alone a Lot,
You’ll never be able to get everyone to understand what you’re going through. But that’s not your goal anyway. Your goal is to feel good and whole again. It helps if you have at least one or two people with whom you can think aloud. You’ll find them. Hang in there. Things will get easier, I promise.
Kate
I hoped she was right. I needed things to get easier.
I printed out all the Dear Kate emails and stuck them in the bottom drawer of my desk in a folder marked “Notes for History.” I wanted to be able to reread her promise: “Things will get easier.”
I also wanted to believe it.