Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle Read Free Page B

guts to do that, and he’s in college.
    â€œTamara, I’m talking to you. Are you trying to make my life difficult?” my father asks again.
    I think of Kebsie, and I mouth the words “You betcha, Marshall.” But my out-loud words are, “No, Daddy.”
    â€œThen for Pete’s sake, get to sleep!” His footsteps fade back toward his bedroom.
    I grab the BF charm and tuck it under my pillow. I lie in my bed with my head where my feet should be so I can get a good look at the moon. And I wonder if Kebsie is howling, wherever she is.

Chapter Five
An In-Person Friend
    T HE NEXT MORNING, as soon as I see my face in the mirror, I notice it. The initials BF are indented into my cheek. Stupid pillow. It must have slid away from me in the middle of the night so there was nothing separating me from Kebsie’s necklace.
    I try scrubbing it with a washcloth, but it’s no use. The red BF outline stares back at me. The last thing I need is for MaryBeth Grabowsky to see me like this.
    Even though morning is slipping away, I’m not leaving my room until the marks are gone. If Kebsie were here, she’d know what to do. She was an expert at stuff like this. I remember how she used some of Shirley’s makeup to disguise a bruise I got last year when I fell from the oak tree my parents told me not to climb.
    I rummage through the things on my dresser, searching for something to make the redness go away, but all I have is a mess of papers and some colored pencils. Instead of staring at my blotchy face, I decide to write Kebsie a letter.
    My nana gave me fancy writing paper for my birthday. I was supposed to write letters to my Great-Aunt Lil, who moved to a nursing home in Holbrook. Since I never have much to say to Aunt Lil, I have a ton of it left over. Kebsie is worth the special paper.
    I pull out a pale yellow sheet from the middle of the pile and begin to write.
    Dear Kebsie,
    Guess what? MaryBeth Grabowski got another Barbie doll. It could be one of those talking ones. I’m not sure. If it is, I suspect I ’ ll find out soon enough. You know MaryBeth. She ’ s probably strutting around Ramble Street showing off her stupid dolls this very second. I hope she drops all 13 of them in the mud.
    I got through the end of 5th grade without you. But on the last day of school, Mrs. Webber glared down at me and said that even without my partner in crime, I was still trouble. I think she meant you. I always thought I should be your partner in crime, since you had all the great ideas.
    Remember that charm that you made me get the day we rode our bicycles to the candy store? Not the Beatles one you bought with your own money, but the BF charms that we both got. Well, you forgot yours when you moved.
    I wouldn ’ t have gotten one, especially if I ’ d known that you ’ d leave yours at the bottom of a closet. I told you it was corny anyway.
    From your bf,
Tamara
    To tell the truth, I feel silly writing a letter. Kebsie was an in-person friend and not a pen pal friend. Instead of scribbling messages on paper, I should be able to march down the street and talk to her face-to-face.
    I read my note again and add a quick P.S.
    How come you didn ’ t even tell me you were moving? How come you didn ’ t call me or write?
    All those days I spent with Kebsie, she never mentioned her mother, even once. My mom, Shirley, was a favorite topic of conversation.
    Whenever I complained about Shirley’s soap opera obsessions and burned TV dinners, Kebsie would talk about her foster grandmother, Mrs. Kutchner.
    Personally, I never thought Kebsie had much to complain about. Mrs. Kutchner makes lemon drop cookies, has a pocketbook full of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, and knows as much about baseball as Mr. Grabowsky.
    I stick the letter and the BF charm in the envelope. I scribble on the back.
    Â 
    I still have mine. This one is yours. No sense in my having two of them.
    Â 
    By the time I