by Carol Weston
Kiki and I used to spend hours playing with my dollhouse. Abuelo had carved it and given it to me when I turned five. The first time Kiki and I played with it, we smooshed all the wooden tables, chairs, beds, cabinets, and people onto the top floor. Mom said we could “spread out,” but Kiki and I were used to apartments, not houses, and spreading out had felt unnatural. We couldn’t imagine a family taking up two floors.
“How is your grandfather anyway?” Kiki asked as she pulled on my skirt and studied herself in my mirror.
“Okay. He’s coming in March.”
“Cool.” She told me she was about to go meet Derek but had told her mom she was with me. “Not that she’s going to call you or anything.” Derek was Kiki’s latest boyfriend, and I said I’d cover for her if she did call. Then Kiki left, leaving her jeans and magazines behind.
I made some hot chocolate, found Pepper, looked at the Fifteens, and read the “Dear Kate” columns slowly, one after another. I liked the advice. And I liked that Dear Kate never said, “Talk to your mom.” She seemed to know that “parents” in plural was not a given.
February
“I’m obsessed with her earrings,” Kiki said. “And seriously, how cool are those boots?”
Kiki had saved fourth-row seats for Natalie, Madison, and me and was clutching her battered copy of Girls’ Guide. Principal Milliman was introducing Dear Kate.
The advice columnist’s eyes were blue-jean blue and her hair was strawberry blond and shoulder length. I wondered if she was going to tell us to “believe in ourselves” and “find our passions” and “follow our dreams.”
She didn’t. She began, “I visit a lot of schools, but I’ll be honest: I like all-girls’ schools best. Why? Because I can dive right in and talk about bras, periods, cliques, and crushes.”
Kiki elbowed me as if to say, See?
“I know your plates are full of academics, but this is also the time when you’re getting comfortable with your bodies. Me, I wasn’t just a late bloomer—I was a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee! I still am.” Dear Kate laughed and the audience did too. “It used to bother me, but now it doesn’t. I mean, we all bloom! And big boobs are fine but so are little boobs and medium boobs.”
Mr. Conklin, my Latin teacher, smiled, and I could feel myself starting to blush. Even though Mom had been a teacher, I’d never thought of the other female teachers at Halsey School for Girls as women with bodies. As for the male teachers, I wished Principal Milliman had told them to skip assembly.
“The average American girl gets her first period at about twelve and a half,” Dear Kate continued. “Many start sooner or later. I didn’t get mine until I was fifteen.”
Kiki and Natalie had both started the previous winter; I’d started that fall and still wasn’t regular. I knew I could ask my doctor dad about this, but it had been much easier when I could ask my mom.
Was thirteen the worst possible age to lose your mother? Maybe. Then again, there was no good age.
“Let’s talk about putting in a tampon,” Dear Kate was saying, her expression bright. “For some of you, it’s a no-brainer. For others, it’s like: never gonna happen.” I looked around. Girls were giggling, but everyone was riveted. “If you’re having trouble, you can buy the small, slender, plastic kind for first-timers. Apply a dab of Vaseline to the tip of the applicator. Then relax, take a deep breath, and give it a go but only during your time of the month—no practicing between periods!” Madison had been searching her long, blond hair for split ends but was now leaning forward. “Once you’re a pro, you can go green and buy tampons that aren’t plastic.” Natalie nodded.
“Some girls tell me they can’t figure out where the tampon goes.” Dear Kate continued, arching an eyebrow. “Ladies, there are three holes down there. Un, deux, trois. One’s for pee, one’s for poo, and in the middle is the vagina. If in doubt, check a mirror!”
Everyone started laughing, and the teachers started shushing us. I looked at Principal Milliman, half expecting her to jump up and haul Dear Kate off the stage. But she remained seated as if our speakers routinely said “pee” and “poo” and “vagina” into the microphone.
“I realize this is all superpersonal,” Dear Kate added. “But I get lots of female email, so I know what girls worry about. I’ll share some letters with you—no names of course. Oh, and if you ever want to write me, I’m at [email protected]. Keep it short, and I’ll answer.”
I wondered what kind of girl would actually write to her and then remembered: Kiki, for one.
Dear Kate read us letters about everything from school lockdowns to transgender teens. When she asked for questions, a sixth grader with glittery, green fingernails asked, “Is it okay to be boy crazy?”
Dear Kate said, “Crazy is never ideal.”
Madison asked how much email she gets each week. Dear Kate said, “A ton, and it doubles around Valentine’s Day. I can hardly keep up.”
A seventh grader asked where most of the mail comes from. “No clue,” Dear Kate answered. “Letters come with return addresses, but email is often anonymous. And while I’m good at guessing a girl’s age, I can’t usually guess where she’s from. Sexibabi, iluvcandy, lilditzy—emails can be from anywhere.” She smiled. “Speaking of, when you’re applying for jobs or college, change your screen names! RedHotChica won’t cut it with employers or deans of admissions.”
Natalie was twirling her hair and suddenly raised her hand. She asked Dear Kate if she had any general Valentine’s tips.
“I’ll give you four,” Dear Kate replied and started counting on her fingers. “One: don’t rush your crush. Two: a boyfriend should also be a friend. Three: your love life should not be your whole life. Four: Cupid can be stupid, so listen to your head not just your heart. How’s that?”
“Helpful,” Natalie said.
Dear Kate ended her talk by saying, “If you don’t have a valentine, relax. Most girls don’t! And if you do, try to step into love instead of falling in. And don’t go racing around the bases. You’re in middle school. Keep your pants on!”
The auditorium exploded with laughter, and Principal Milliman bounded onto the stage. “I’m afraid we’re out of time! Thank you. You have certainly given us a lot to think about.”
Kiki jumped up, holding her dog-eared Girls’ Guide, and said, “Guys, come with me.”
“I have to finish my science homework,” Natalie said.
“I have to go get my history book,” Madison said.
Kiki looked straight at me. “Sofia, no excuses.”
“Go by yourself, Keeks. Since when are you shy?”
“Pleeeease! Before the line gets any longer!”
I followed Kiki onstage, mad at myself for being a tagalong shadow. Did I really used to belt out solos during recitals and musicals in this very auditorium?
The line moved slowly. When it was Kiki’s turn, she asked Dear Kate to sign her book, gushing, “It’s my bible. I have parts of it memorized!”
Dear Kate gave her a warm smile and asked how to spell her name.
“K-I-K-I,” she replied. “I love your column too!”
“Thank you.”
“And your earrings!” Kiki added, starstruck.
Dear Kate touched her earlobe. “These are my daughter’s. She basically dresses me.” She looked up at us. “I don’t know how mothers without daughters stay chic!”
“She’s so lucky!” Kiki said. “She must think you’re a cool mom.”
Dear Kate shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know about that. She says, ‘You don’t get it’ about as often as other girls.” She handed back Kiki’s book. “Are your parents coming tonight? I’m speaking at six. A different talk, of course.”
“My mom’s coming. Her dad might be,” Kiki said, answering for both of us.
I felt my cheeks growing flush and willed myself to say som
ething—anything. Speak, Sofia, speak!
But no. Nothing. I just stood there, mute. Then again, what was I supposed to say? There were no quick ’n’ easy tips for what I was going through.
“Mind if I take a photo?” Kiki said.
“Not at all,” Dear Kate replied, and Kiki took selfies of the two of them.
Finally, Kiki said, “Thanks for coming to our school!” I wiggled my fingers as though I were a baby who could wave bye-bye but not yet articulate words. It was humiliating! Did Dear Kate have that effect on other girls? Did some babble while others stood speechless?
• • •
Pepper greeted me at the door and rubbed against my legs. Mom had called him Pepito. We’d rescued him from a shelter three years earlier, and when he wasn’t acting like a scaredy-cat, he acted like a dog, following me everywhere.
But at night, instead of sleeping in my room, Pepper preferred to curl up on the rug in front of the radiator in my parents’—my dad’s—bedroom. Which was a shame because at night, I could have used his warm, purring presence. My old stuffed animals, Panther, Tigger-Tiger, and Yertle, weren’t as comforting as they’d used to be.
I opened the refrigerator—milk, bread, juice, a take-out carton of sesame noodles, two plastic containers of hummus and baba ghanoush.
Was I still hoping to find leftover paella or tortilla española, the Spanish potato omelet Mom could make at a moment’s notice? When was the last time Dad and I had even tasted Manchego cheese with membrillo, that quince paste Mom and I both loved?
Pepper jumped onto the counter and padded to the faucet. I didn’t scold him, and he settled by the sink and looked at me, his green eyes round and hopeful. I twisted the handle and a thin stream of water trickled down. He tilted his head, lapping with his quick, pink tongue.
When Dad was home, Pepper behaved differently. He did not loiter by the sink or jump onto the counter or tables. But after school, when it was just girl and cat, all bets were off.
I called Dad.
“Hi, cupcake. How was school?”
“I got a ninety-eight on a Spanish quiz.”
“Why not one hundred?”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Way to go!’”
“Way to go! But where’d the two points go? You speak better than the new teacher.” The new teacher: the one hired to replace Mom.
I told him I’d left out a written accent, then asked when he was coming home. He said, “Around six.”
“You’re not going to go hear the talk ‘Raising Healthy, Happy Daughters’?”
“Don’t I know enough about female adolescents?”
“The lady spoke at assembly today. She was good.” I wondered what she’d talk to the parents about. Not the ins and outs of tampons.
“If I go,” Dad said, “what will you do for dinner?”
I considered saying, Throw a wild party, but said, “Order in.”
“Fine. I’ll see you after it’s over.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Ever since April, we’d been saying that at the end of every phone call. I wasn’t sure who started it—probably Dad. At first, I felt self-conscious mumbling “love you” into my cell in front of friends. But when I didn’t say it, I felt worse.
Mom and I used to say, “Te quiero,” to each other, but not after phone calls. We’d said it mostly at bedtime, when she tucked me in every night.
• • •
I ordered dumplings and a dragon roll from Miyako, and Pepper kept me company as I ate. Back when our family dinners for three turned into dinners for two, Pepper would sometimes jump into Mom’s chair, his furry, black ears and owl eyes peering out above the table. At first, even Dad didn’t have the heart to shoo him down. He knew Pepper was as needy and confused as we were.
Kiki called. “Your dad’s definitely going, right?”
“Right.”
“Good, because my mom’s putting on perfume.” She laughed, excited. “And I’m going too! I want to hear her again.”
“Keeks, we just heard her! And it’s Antarctica out there!”
“I want to hear what she tells parents. I want to be her, remember? I’m picking you up in five.”
“No way! We’re not allowed.”
“Yes way. We’ll hide in the balcony.”
“I have homework,” I protested. And I don’t want to get in trouble—or watch your mom hit on my dad.
“So bring your precious homework!”
I could feel myself caving. “You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”
“Yep,” she said proudly.
I scribbled a note in case Dad got home before I did: “At school. Back soon.” I put on my coat and scarf and took the elevator down. Kiki met me in my lobby, and we hurried across the street and into Halsey.
Inez, the security guard, said, “It’s a little late, girls.” She pointed at the wall clock, and her gold bangles slid toward her elbow. I tried not to stare at her new nose ring.
“I need to grab my English book from my locker,” Kiki lied. “We have a huuuge test tomorrow.”
Was I imagining it, or did Inez’s expression when she saw me switch to the one I saw so often at Halsey? Was she thinking, Oh, that’s Señora Wolfe’s daughter, poor thing? Before Mom died, everyone used to say, “You look just like your mother!” After, it felt as if everyone was still thinking it.
“Inez, we’re desperate!” Kiki said.
“All right, make it quick.”
We hurried around a corner, passed some posters (“Be a winner, not a whiner!” “Even Einstein Asked Questions!”), and dashed up the back stairs to the empty balcony.
Kiki and I sat on the floor and peeked over the railing. There was Dad, sixth row on the left. And there was Lan right next to him, slipping off her soft fur coat and making herself right at home.
• • •
Principal Milliman tapped the microphone. “Good evening, parents. Our guest this evening is an advice columnist and the author of the bestselling Girls’ Guide, which has been published in many languages—from Chinese to Czech. She was a hit this afternoon with your daughters, and I know you’ll love her too. Please give a warm welcome to Katherine Baird.”
I crouched behind Kiki as Dear Kate strode to center stage. Kiki whispered, “Funny to hear her real name, isn’t it?”
Dear Kate thanked everyone for coming and said, “It’s always the good parents who attend these evenings. Raise your hand if you have a daughter who is eleven. Twelve? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen?” She raised her own hand at sixteen.
Kiki’s eyes were on her mom and my dad. “If they got married,” she whispered, “we’d be sisters.”
“Kiki, shhh!” I said and tried not to feel mad at my best friend. Yes, I understood her point of view, but didn’t she understand mine?
“I’ve been writing for teens since I was a teen,” Dear Kate said. “I started when hotties were hunks, middle school was junior high, flip-flops were thongs, and thongs were G-strings. Remember those days?” There was a rustle of laughter. “A lot has changed but a lot hasn’t, and the best way to know what’s going on in your home is to talk and to listen. So don’t just have the Talk; have an ongoing conversation.”
A mother raised her hand. “But what exactly do we say about sex?”
“Whose mother asked that?” Kiki whispered, eyes wide.
“I’ll take questions at the end,” Dear Kate said, “but my message to girls is: ‘Slow down! Sex too soon is a train wreck.’ When addressing older teens, I always add: ‘No glove, no love. No balloon, no party.’” Kiki smirked, though it took me a moment to figure out what Dear Kate was talking about. “Teens need info,” she said. “It’s not ‘Just Say No.’ It’s Just Say K-N-O-W.” A few parents nodded. “And girls need to be clear about b
oundaries because while society is changing, sex is still a very big deal. It comes with consequences, and girls and guys of all ages need to take that seriously.”
I looked down at my dad and Kiki’s mom and wished I hadn’t let Kiki drag me up here. Sex? I had trouble getting boys to text me back. Kiki was a virgin too, but she and several guys, including her current boyfriend Derek, had, as she put it, “done more than just kiss.”
Thirty minutes later, Dear Kate was wrapping up. “Blink and your daughters will be grown. My own nest is almost empty,” she said wistfully. “I encourage you to relish the privilege of parenthood and to remember that while your job is to give your kids a nest, their job is to spread their wings. I’ll leave you with this quote from Christopher Morley: ‘We’ve had bad luck with our kids. They’ve all grown up.’”
A man laughed. Dad? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t heard him laugh in a while.
The parents applauded and Principal Milliman announced, “If you’d like a copy of Girls’ Guide, please form a line here onstage. Exact change is appreciated.”
“Let’s go!” Kiki said. “I have to get back before my mom does.”
“Right behind you,” I said, wishing we had Harry Potter invisibility cloaks. We snuck down the balcony stairs, raced past Inez, who gave Kiki a long look, and stood outside my lobby. Kiki giggled and my fingertips started tingling from the cold. “You still want to be Dear Kate?” I asked.
“Totally! In high school, I’m starting my own column: ‘Ask Kiki.’”
“Great idea!”
“So should I give my mom any advice about your dad?”
Tell her to stay away, I thought, but said, “Kiki, it hasn’t even been a year!”
Kiki nodded and hurried off to Amsterdam and 101st.
• • •
Back home, I tore up the note I’d left for Dad. Twenty minutes later, I started wondering what was taking him so long. Mom was the one who had liked to linger at Halsey events, not Dad.
