From the Desk of Zoe Washington(2)

“Sounds great.” I cleared my throat. “I’m gonna go to my room, and, um . . . put my gifts away.”

It was a total lie, but that’s not what Mom noticed. “You’re not going to take your jacket off?” she asked.

Marcus’s envelope was still in my pocket, right over my heart, which was beating fast.

“I’ll take it off in my room.” I walked away before Mom could say anything else.

What could Marcus have to say to me?

I had to know.





Chapter Two


I shut my bedroom door and opened the envelope. The paper inside was a piece of loose-leaf, like what Mom would buy to put into my school binders. The words filling the page were written in the same blue handwriting from the front of the envelope, except the print wasn’t as neat. I stood in the middle of my bedroom and read the letter from start to finish. And then I read it again. Everything was quiet except for my heartbeat echoing in my eardrums.

To my Little Tomato,

Happy Birthday. I can’t believe you’re twelve years old. Wow. Do I sound like a broken record when I say that you’re growing up so fast? Do you even know what a broken record is? Everybody used to listen to CDs when I was growing up, but my dad—your grandpa—kept a record player in the corner of the living room. He always says that music sounds better coming from a record player. He might be right. His favorite singer is Stevie Wonder. Have you ever heard any of his songs? He has a pretty great voice. There’s this one song called “Isn’t She Lovely.” You should look it up sometime. Stevie’s saying exactly how I feel about you, my baby girl. Well, you’re not a baby anymore, but I know you’ve gotta be pretty lovely at this age.

I wish I could give you a hug and see your smiling face on your big day. I’m sorry I can’t be there to celebrate with you. I know your mom is doing something special. She was always good at knowing how to celebrate birthdays when we were together.

Even if you never reply to these letters, I’ll keep writing them. Though I hope you’ll write me back one day. In the meantime, I want you to know that I think about you every day.

Love,

Daddy

All I could do was stand there staring at the paper in my hands. I was like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz when he needed to be oiled. My arms and legs felt stiff, like they’d weigh a million pounds if I tried to move them.

Why did Marcus sound so . . . nice? Mom always made it seem like he was a bad person. He didn’t seem like he was writing from prison. I wasn’t sure how someone in prison would sound, exactly, but I guessed they wouldn’t be so smart.

He seemed normal. He liked music, like any other dad. Like my stepdad, who was into classical and jazz music. I’d heard of Stevie Wonder, and I thought I knew a couple of his songs. I’d look up “Isn’t She Lovely” later.

I read the letter again. Why had he called me Little Tomato? It was kind of weird. I liked tomatoes, especially the little ones, but I didn’t want to be called one.

What did Marcus mean when he wrote “these letters”? This was the first one I’d ever gotten from him. It didn’t make any sense.

None of this did.

I stared at my striped rug as a million thoughts swirled around my head like cake batter in a mixer.

Should I write him back? What will happen if I do?

I had no idea Marcus thought about me. But what if he was pretending to be nice to me because he wanted something from me? What, though?

Maybe I should throw the letter away.

There was a knock on my bedroom door, which made me jump two feet and almost drop the letter. I clutched the loose-leaf paper in my now-sweating hands.

“Hey, Zoe?” It was Mom.

I tensed up. “One second!” I stuffed the letter back into the envelope and tucked it underneath my purple comforter. I remembered I was still wearing my jacket, so I took it off and threw it over the back of my desk chair.

Then I cracked my bedroom door open.

“Trevor’s here,” Mom said.

Trevor? What’s he doing here?

As if she could hear my thoughts, Mom said, “He wants to give you his birthday present, since he wasn’t at your party.”

There was a reason for that: he wasn’t invited.

“Can you tell him I’m busy?” I whispered.

Mom’s glare made it clear she was not about to do that.

“Please? It’s my birthday, and . . . he’s not my friend anymore.” Not after he made our friendship out to be a total joke.

Mom’s expression softened a little. “When are you going to tell me what happened?”

I shook my head. No way was I telling her anything. She’d probably force me to forgive Trevor, and that was not going to happen.

“You know, as a brand-new twelve-year-old,” Mom said, “you’re old enough to understand how rude it’ll be if you don’t come out and thank him for the gift in person.” She forced my door open wider. “C’mon.”

All I wanted to do was read Marcus’s letter again and figure out what it all meant, and what I should do next.

But first I had to deal with my ex–best friend.





Chapter Three


I trudged behind Mom to the living room, where Dad was talking with Trevor’s mom, Patricia.