One True Friend Read Free Page A

it's so stuffed with 163rd Street news.
    The smallest event is that my baby brother, Gerald, is three years old now. I helped with his birthday party last Saturday. I had to teach ten little terror tots how to play musical chairs. Did you know that musical chairs turns kids into demons? But I kept those little crumb crushers in check. I did such a good job, my parents are trusting me to baby-sit Gerald all summer, and they're even paying me, so I guess you could say I have a summer job, too.
    I still go to the Beauty Hive on Saturdays to help Miss Bee and the other hairdressers—mostly I answer the telephone and run errands. I love working there. My mother tells me to pay attention to what I'm doing and don't listen to all the gossip and grownup talk.
    But my father calms her down—tells her that I know right from wrong and that they can't protect me from the world forever—which is the same thing I've been trying to tell my mother FOREVER!
    Getting back to more important things:
    I'm glad that the Smiths are nice to you. I don't think they will catch a bad attitude all of a sudden, do you? Three months is a long time. They would have changed by now. And just think, they took you out of the group home so that you and Ronald could live together, and they haven't stopped trying to help you, right? Just like you found Ronald, I bet you find the rest of your siblings. (New word I learned.)
    It makes me feel real proud that you want my advice. Remember, you used to be the one who always gave me good advice. So here's what I think you should do about the letter. Send it out. Sometimes adults don't understand. Who're you hurting? No one. What could happen? Nothing, except you might find your aunt. Don't worry about the telephone book. My father brought it home from his job so we'd have a Manhattan phone book. No one uses it. We don't even know anyone in Manhattan.
I looked for Z. Jones and Zachary Jones, but didn't see that name.
    After I read your letter, I thought about my own mother and father, and I was able to put myself in your sneakers and understand how you feel. I would feel the same way you do if I had to live with strangers—even nice ones. It would be like forcing my foot into a shoe that didn't fit. I know it would hurt.
    As much as my parents' stories about growing up and their "how to behave in public" lectures get on my nerves, I could never think of anyone but them as my mom and dad. It would be hard for me to put a smile on my face and feel happy living with strangers. I might even be rude, and I know you could never be rude, Amir. When I'm sad, I get mad and evil as a snake and take it out on everybody, which 1 know is wrong. But like my father always says, "I'll work on that." I'm sure you're still acting sweet and kind even though you're unhappy. I bet you're too shy to speak at Mr. Smith's family devotions. It's hard enough to tell your real parents what you really feel.
    Family devotions is an interesting idea, though. But if my family had such a thing, Gerald would be running around not paying attention. If I said something was bothering me, then my parents would tell some story to show me how lucky I am. So the what's-bothering-me part and the something-to-be-thankful-for part would be mushed together, and I'd
end up thinking I'm supposed to be thankful for what's bothering me.
    Then my mother would find the longest part of the Bible to read, and we'd all fall asleep and accidentally bang our heads on the floor before she said amen. Then we'd end up going to the emergency room. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm sure something weird would happen.
    I thought a lot about what you said about being happy and sad at the same time. Everything has two sides to it—a front and a back, a happy and a sad, a good and a bad. You get my drift? I can have a pity party one minute and a celebration the next. Some people, though, say that's a girl thing.
    Think upon this. Imagine that your mother and father