long as I can. It beats paying rent to Libby.”
A shadow falls on the board, and I look up. Dad is standing in the living room doorway, holding a yellow envelope in his hand. “This came for you, Tess.”
I hear Aaron catch his breath. I can barely move.
“When you write back, tell the Hamiltons I say hi, okay?” Dad says.
As I take it from him, I look quickly at the front of the envelope. There’s only my name and address — nothing else. Even without a return address, I know it’s not from Amy.
“Go, Tess!” Libby shoves the dice onto my leg. “It’s your turn.”
I throw the dice without even looking.
“You’re stuck in jail!” Libby laughs.
Across from me, Aaron stares at my hands as I unfold the letter. There are only two words written inside.
I’ll try.
A s the days pass, I make sure that I’m the one who gets the mail every day, just in case Aaron’s mother writes again to explain her “I’ll try.” I’m hoping she’ll tell us for sure if she can come to the talent show.
“Has everything been put out?” I ask Mr. Moody.
He smiles. “You must be expecting something important. A letter from Amy, perhaps?”
I nod. It’s not completely a lie, because I am expecting a letter from Amy — someday. I wish she’d write, because I have so much to tell her. But it takes two people to be best friends, and lately, I think I’m the only one who still cares.
“I’ve got a couple piles left to do. Let me see if I have anything for your family.” Mr. Moody looks through a stack of letters and bills. “There’s some school mail for your mother. And look. The stores are having back-to-school sales already. You’d think they’dlet you kids enjoy your summer first, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Moody sorts through more mail. I have my eyes peeled for anything yellow in his hands.
“I hear Aaron is playing in the talent show?” he continues. “Mrs. Coombs asked if I’d be Master of Ceremonies again this year.”
“Aaron is playing his trumpet. He’s playing piano for Libby and Grace’s act, too.”
Libby couldn’t convince me to do an act with her, so she talked Grace into performing a song and dance together. When Libby asked me for a suggestion, I told her bees are lucky (and they’re a sign of a visitor coming), so Libby made up a song called “Big, Fat Bees,” which is only a little singing and dancing and a whole lot of chasing and buzzing. Aaron’s piano accompaniment is the best part of their act.
“I’m glad Aaron is willing to play for us again. It was such a shame what happened at the Fourth of July,” Mr. Moody says. “And what about you, Tess? Are you going to perform?”
I shake my head. “I always did something with Amy.”
“Well, there’s no law against making a change, is there?” He turns over the stack of letters. “Nope, sorry. There’s nothing else here for your family, Tess.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say brightly. “See you later, Mr. Moody.”
I wish Aaron’s mother could’ve been a bit more definite. He’s excited that she might come to the talent show. I even caught him sliding across the kitchen floor in his socks one afternoon when he thought no one was watching.
But he’s short-tempered and prickly about other things. He didn’t use to complain to Mom and Dad about anything, but now he’s picking battles over the smallest things.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Mom says that night as she’s doing some paperwork to register Aaron for school, and he storms off like she asked him to donate his trumpet to Goodwill.
“Well, then, you fill this out!” Mom calls after him. She turns to Dad. “What is with him lately?”
Dad strokes his beard. “Remember what they said at training? We’d get a honeymoon period and then he’d feel safe enough to show us another side of him?”
I leave the dishes only half done and head for the attic to talk to him. As I climb the stairs to the second floor, Aaron begins his nightly trumpet
A shadow falls on the board, and I look up. Dad is standing in the living room doorway, holding a yellow envelope in his hand. “This came for you, Tess.”
I hear Aaron catch his breath. I can barely move.
“When you write back, tell the Hamiltons I say hi, okay?” Dad says.
As I take it from him, I look quickly at the front of the envelope. There’s only my name and address — nothing else. Even without a return address, I know it’s not from Amy.
“Go, Tess!” Libby shoves the dice onto my leg. “It’s your turn.”
I throw the dice without even looking.
“You’re stuck in jail!” Libby laughs.
Across from me, Aaron stares at my hands as I unfold the letter. There are only two words written inside.
I’ll try.
A s the days pass, I make sure that I’m the one who gets the mail every day, just in case Aaron’s mother writes again to explain her “I’ll try.” I’m hoping she’ll tell us for sure if she can come to the talent show.
“Has everything been put out?” I ask Mr. Moody.
He smiles. “You must be expecting something important. A letter from Amy, perhaps?”
I nod. It’s not completely a lie, because I am expecting a letter from Amy — someday. I wish she’d write, because I have so much to tell her. But it takes two people to be best friends, and lately, I think I’m the only one who still cares.
“I’ve got a couple piles left to do. Let me see if I have anything for your family.” Mr. Moody looks through a stack of letters and bills. “There’s some school mail for your mother. And look. The stores are having back-to-school sales already. You’d think they’dlet you kids enjoy your summer first, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Moody sorts through more mail. I have my eyes peeled for anything yellow in his hands.
“I hear Aaron is playing in the talent show?” he continues. “Mrs. Coombs asked if I’d be Master of Ceremonies again this year.”
“Aaron is playing his trumpet. He’s playing piano for Libby and Grace’s act, too.”
Libby couldn’t convince me to do an act with her, so she talked Grace into performing a song and dance together. When Libby asked me for a suggestion, I told her bees are lucky (and they’re a sign of a visitor coming), so Libby made up a song called “Big, Fat Bees,” which is only a little singing and dancing and a whole lot of chasing and buzzing. Aaron’s piano accompaniment is the best part of their act.
“I’m glad Aaron is willing to play for us again. It was such a shame what happened at the Fourth of July,” Mr. Moody says. “And what about you, Tess? Are you going to perform?”
I shake my head. “I always did something with Amy.”
“Well, there’s no law against making a change, is there?” He turns over the stack of letters. “Nope, sorry. There’s nothing else here for your family, Tess.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say brightly. “See you later, Mr. Moody.”
I wish Aaron’s mother could’ve been a bit more definite. He’s excited that she might come to the talent show. I even caught him sliding across the kitchen floor in his socks one afternoon when he thought no one was watching.
But he’s short-tempered and prickly about other things. He didn’t use to complain to Mom and Dad about anything, but now he’s picking battles over the smallest things.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Mom says that night as she’s doing some paperwork to register Aaron for school, and he storms off like she asked him to donate his trumpet to Goodwill.
“Well, then, you fill this out!” Mom calls after him. She turns to Dad. “What is with him lately?”
Dad strokes his beard. “Remember what they said at training? We’d get a honeymoon period and then he’d feel safe enough to show us another side of him?”
I leave the dishes only half done and head for the attic to talk to him. As I climb the stairs to the second floor, Aaron begins his nightly trumpet
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