Ten (21 page)

He sat me on the floor. “Honey, we filled in that gap with caulk.”

“Did you check first to see if anything was in there?”

“We did, and there wasn't.”

I turned to Elmo, whose expression confirmed it.

“But I put a letter in there! And also a candy bar!”

“A
candy
bar?” Dad said.

“They couldn't have disappeared,” I insisted. “And don't try to tell me roaches got it, or termites, because something would have been left.”

Dad scratched the back of his neck. “Huh. If what you're saying is true, then that's strange, I admit. Elmo?”

“The ceiling joists must have shifted, and the gap between the molding and the wall grew bigger,” Elmo said, as if it were all very simple. “Winnie, your letter and your candy bar must have slipped behind the wall. Then, when the weather turned cold, the gap contracted.”

“You're saying the
wall
ate my stuff? Not roaches or squirrels or termites, but the wall?”

“ ‘Ate' isn't the word I'd use, but yes,” Elmo said.

“And today you and Dad filled in the gap. For good.”

“We don't want drafts,” Dad said. “Our heating bill is high enough as it is.”

It was a lot to take in. I leaned against the wall—the very wall that ate my letter and candy bar—and slid down until my bottom reached the floor. “I need some alone time, if you don't mind.”

“Sure,” Dad said. He hesitated. “Are you all right? What did this letter say, if you don't mind my asking?”

“I wrote down all my hopes and dreams,” I said. “I wrote them down so I'd remember who I wanted to be.” I felt spacey and out of it, because try though I might, I couldn't call up much more than that.

What
had
I written???
Something about being awesome . . . ? Something about staying awesome no matter what . . . ?

“You know,” Elmo said, pulling me back to the moment, “a wall actually isn't a bad place to store a letter.”

I lifted my eyes.

“Think about it. Unless your folks tear the house down—”

“Which we won't,” Dad interrupted.

“Then you'll always know where it is. You can't lose a wall, you know what I mean?”

The ghost of a smile flitted through my mind.
You can't lose a wall.

“You also can't lose your dreams, pumpkin,” Dad said. He rumpled my hair so roughly that my whole head moved back and forth like a bell.

Dad and Elmo went downstairs.

I stayed put and thought about the situation.

Would I have chosen for the wall to eat my letter?

No.

Was I given a vote in the matter?

No again.

How
ever
. . .

It
was
pretty cool that the letter I wrote would always be part of our house, just as my hopes and dreams would always be a part of me. The more I got used to the idea, the more I realized what a shiny and sparkly twist of fate it was.

Anyway, so what if I couldn't remember exactly what I'd written down? Maybe people's dreams changed over time, just like people themselves changed. Because people
did
change. I knew that from personal experience. So maybe my dreams had changed, too?

But I was still Winnie. I would always be Winnie, and I would always keep hoping and dreaming, no matter what. And Dad was right that you didn't lose your dreams just because a hole in the wall was filled in with caulk. Maybe there were a few things I didn't yet know about this world of ours, and maybe—
occasionally
—there were things I even got wrong. Shocking, I know.

But dreams were forever. That I knew for sure.

T
HE THING ABOUT BIRTHDAYS is that everything should go just right, at least on that one day. And so far today has been perfect, even without cupcakes to pass out during lunch. Not in fifth grade, I told Mom. In fourth grade, sure, but not in fifth. The only kid who'd brought birthday cupcakes was Dinah Devine, and that was at the beginning of the year, so she didn't know better. That's one problem with early birthdays: no one knows what'll be cool and what'll be stupid.

March birthdays are better, like mine. And this birthday in particular, because today is March 11, and today I am eleven years old. It'll only happen like this once, which is why it's especially wonderful that everything's been going so well. Waffles for breakfast, crispy but not burned. At school, a heartfelt chorus of “Happy Birthday,” with me beaming at the front of the room. (Ignored Alex Plotkin's bit about monkeys and zoos.) And now, back home in our den, I get to hum and bounce on the sofa to my heart's content without Mom putting her hand on my shoulder and telling me to relax. Not that I
could
relax even if I wanted to. Because in ten minutes or possibly less, I'll have arrived at the best part of the entire day. My party!

During art, Amanda and I had planned out the whole evening, from activities to cake to presents. Ms. Straus had let us scoot our chairs together, and we talked while we drew. Lately I've been liking to draw girls hanging by their knees off tree branches, while Amanda tends to sketch cheerleaders doing daring, fantastic jumps.

“I think you should do presents before cake,” Amanda had suggested as she shaded in her cheerleader's skirt. “That way people can have time to digest their pizza.”

“Plus, that means I'll get to open the presents sooner,” I said. I knew that sounded rude, but with Amanda I could say anything.

“What's your top birthday present ever?” she asked. “Your very favorite thing you ever got.”

“From my parents or someone else?”

Amanda switched pencils. “I already know your best gift from your parents: your CD player. From someone else.”

I claimed the blue pencil and worked on my girl's shorts. “Well, I
love
the heart necklace you gave me last year.”

She rolled her eyes like,
go on.

“Other than that, I'd guess I'd say my crutches.” They were old-fashioned wooden crutches with rubber tips, and they were awesome for acting out stories about brave crippled children or amputees. I'd found them when I was helping my aunt Lucy set up for a garage sale, and she let me keep them as a thank-you-slash-early-birthday-present.

“The crutches are great,” Amanda acknowledged, “but what I got you this year is even better.” She grinned at my expression. “I can't wait until you see!”

I couldn't wait either, which made me think of another terrific thing about March 11. This year it fell on a Friday, which meant I got to have my party on the exact day of my birthday. Last year it fell on a Wednesday, and the following weekend I had a haunted-house birthday even though it obviously wasn't Halloween. Mom made a cake shaped like a ghost, and my sister Sandra dressed up like a witch and stirred a pot of witch's brew down in the basement. It was really a pot of dry ice we got from Baskin-Robbins, but the steam made it look spooky, and Dinah Devine screamed and got the hiccups and had to be taken upstairs. Then my little brother Ty wet his pants and started to cry.

Another good thing: Mom's paying Sandra ten dollars to take Ty to Chuck E. Cheese, his favorite place in the world. He could spend eons there.

From the window, I saw a blue Honda pull into the driveway. I scrambled off the sofa and called, “Mom, get down here!” I opened the front door and ran to greet Amanda, who was carrying a medium-size box wrapped in bright green paper. “Amanda! Finally!”

Amanda twisted away with her present, which I was trying to wrest free. “Hands off,” she said.

“What is it?” I begged.

“Oh, like I'm going to tell you.” She poked my shoulder. “My mom wants to talk to your mom.”

“Why?”

“She just does.”

We went inside, and I leaned on the railing of the staircase while Amanda put her present in the den. “Mom!” I yelled. “Mrs. Wilson needs you!”

“Winnie, please,” Mom said. “I'm right here.” She clopped down the stairs in her low-heel shoes. “Hello, Amanda. I like that shirt you're wearing.”

I looked at Amanda's shirt—white with purple stripes—and for a second I wished I'd worn something other than my McDonald's shirt with a picture of a Big Mac on the front.
Oh, well
. Another car pulled into the drive, and Amanda and I dashed back out.

“It's Chantelle,” Amanda said. She waved. “Chantelle, hi!”

Chantelle is Amanda's and my second-best friend. We met her on the first day of third grade, when Mrs. Katcher tried to guess what everyone's name was. Mrs. Katcher kept frowning at Chantelle and trying new names, until finally she put down her roll book and said, “Sweetheart, I give up! There aren't any more boy's names left!”

Amanda and I found Chantelle during morning recess and told her Mrs. Katcher was crazy. Didn't she know girls cut their hair short, too? We told Chantelle she looked sophisticated, like a model, and Chantelle smiled and lifted her head from her arms.

Now Chantelle's hair reaches almost to her shoulders, and today she held it back with a big, silver barrette that matched her silver earrings. She handed me a small box wrapped in shiny red paper and said, “Here. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll put it inside with Amanda's.”

Chantelle bumped Amanda's hip. “Is it . . . you know?”

“Is it
what?
” I demanded.

“Yes, but shhh,” Amanda said. To me, she added, “And don't try to worm it out of her.”

“Hi, everyone!” called Dinah Devine as she struggled out of her dad's station wagon. She wore a bright pink party dress, and her hair was pushed back with a matching plastic headband. Her smile stretched too wide across her face.

“Here,” she said. “Happy birthday.” She held out her present, a lumpy package tied with yarn.

“Thanks,” I said. Dinah is somebody I try to be nice to at school, but I wouldn't have invited her to my party except Mom said I had to. Her dad works with my dad, which in Mom's mind meant Dinah should be included.

But along with her too-wide smile, Dinah is one of those people who laughed too late when someone makes a joke, or too loud, or too long, like, “Ha, ha! That was so hysterical!” even when the joke was really dumb. And if someone says something mean, like “We weren't talking to
you
,” or “You don't even get it, do you?” Dinah never says anything back. Although one time she told our teacher, which was a mistake. Then the kids called her a tattletale, too.

Dinah's mom died when Dinah was a baby, which was really sad. I try to remember that. But sometimes the whole mess of it wears me out.

A car horn honked, and Dinah jumped. We moved to the edge of the driveway, and Louise's mom pulled up with Louise and Karen in the backseat. Louise and Karen are best friends, the kind who wear matching outfits to school and loop identical friendship bracelets around their wrists. Today Louise had on blue overalls and a white shirt, while Karen was wearing white overalls with a blue shirt. Karen trailed Louise up the driveway and smiled as Louise said hello for both of them.

“What now?” Louise said after we went inside and deposited their presents with others.

“Well,” I announced, “we have very exciting plans.
Shockingly
exciting. Right, Amanda?”

“Shockingly,” agreed Amanda.

I glanced from face to face. “I am pleased to inform you that tonight we will be performing a play written by yours truly. It is a dreadful and chilling play. It's called
The True
Tale of Sophia-Maria
: A
Tragedy
.”