class Christmas party. Vicki was the only girl in ballet—the only girl in the whole first grade—who didn’t have a mother.
Her eyes hurt, and her throat felt sore like the time she got so sick she could hardly swallow. “I’m not hungry.”
Vicki’s dad looked up from his plate. He hadn’t said much tonight, and Vicki thought he looked sad. He looked like that a lot lately, probably because he was lonely.
“You didn’t work up an appetite in dance class, Vicki-bug?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Can I be excused?”
Aunt Dee frowned at her, and Vicki thought she would say no. But sometimes grown-ups surprised you. “I guess you can go up to Bobby’s room while we finish our meal. Bobby, you got some new board games for Christmas. I’m sure your cousin would enjoy playing with you.”
Not really. The main thing in the house Vicki liked playing with was Butterscotch, her aunt’s poodle. But they always put the dog outside during meals.
“I’m eleven!” Bobby whined. For a big kid, he whined a lot. “The games I got aren’t for six-year-olds. Besides, I have homework. You said I could use your computer to do my report.”
Aunt Dee’s computer was in her office, with a door that shut. “Can we both go in your office?” Vicki asked. “Bobby can do his report, and I’ll bring Butterscotch in there with us. Then she couldn’t beg.”
After Aunt Dee agreed, Vicki followed her cousin into the office.
Bobby spoke to her in his usual mean tone. “This is important schoolwork, so don’t bother me, okay?”
“I won’t!” Why would she want to talk to Bobby? He was a jerk.
When she sat down, she patted her knees so Butterscotch would come to her. She put her arms around the dog and hugged the poodle, burying her face in the soft fur. Aunt Dee took Butterscotch to the groomer every week, so the dog smelled like fancy shampoo.
Vicki sniffed and sniffed again. She didn’t know when she’d started crying. But now she couldn’t stop.
“Hey!” Bobby sounded scared. “Stop that. They’re gonna think I did something to you. Knock it off.”
“I—I can’t.”
“What are you even crying for?”
“B-because I don’t have a m-mom.”
He shut up. Even Bobby wasn’t a big enough jerk to tease her about that. Instead, he sat down on the floor on the other side of Butterscotch to pet her, his fingers bumping against Vicki’s arm.
“Do you remember her?” he asked. “You were just a little kid when she died.”
That was funny because he called her a little kid now. She couldn’t answer him, though, because she was crying too hard.
“Aunt Jessica was pretty great,” Bobby said. “I told her once I wanted to be a scientist and thought she might laugh at me, but she gave me a microscope for my birthday.”
Vicki’s dad bought her birthday presents, but he didn’t wrap them. He just stuck them in a bag. Sometimes Aunt Dee used bags, too, but when she did, there were bows on the outside and colored paper tucked in with the gift.
“I need a mother.” She rubbed the snot off her nose. “Santa Claus was supposed to bring me one, but he didn’t.” Spring would be here in a few months—Vicki learned all about seasons back in kindergarten—so maybe she could ask the Easter Bunny for help.
Bobby opened his mouth and took a breath. He looked like he was about to start explaining stuff, like when he’d bored her that one time talking about different kinds of rocks. Then he shook his head. “You don’t need Santa, kid, you need Promises Dot Com.”
“Promises?” Vicki knew about “dot com.” Sometimes her dad let her use his computer to play games; plus her teacher, Mrs. Frost, sent them to different websites to practice phonics or math facts. But she hadn’t been able to work on her dad’s laptop much lately. He was too busy with stuff for the store to share.
“Haven’t you ever seen one of those sappy Promises commercials?” Bobby asked. “People meet each other on the computer, through email and messages, and start dating. Your dad would have to sign up.”
Vicki wasn’t sure he would do that. “If he meeted her on the computer, how would I know if I liked her?”
“Met, doofus. Maybe he’s already met someone,” Bobby said. “I mean, not on the computer, but in real life. He could date someone from church or our school. That way, you’d know immediately if you liked her.”
“But he doesn’t talk to any of those ladies from church or school.”
Bobby’s forehead got all squiggly, the way it did when he was thinking really hard. “Do you know what a Sadie Hawkins Dance is?”
“No.”
“They had one at the middle school. The girls ask the guys to be their dates. Maybe we can get a woman to ask out Uncle Mark.”
“How?” And who? Vicki’s Sunday school teacher, ballet teacher and first-grade teacher were all married.
Bobby stood up, looking at all of the stuff on his mom’s desk. He picked up a little yellow book that had the words Woodside PTA on the front. “If I helped you find a mom, you guys probably wouldn’t be over here so much.”
“You’ll help? Really?”
Nodding, he flipped open the book. “I have a plan.”
Vicki had stopped crying already. Now she smiled and hugged Bobby. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
It was a weird day when you could trust your jerky cousin more than you could trust Santa Claus.
Chapter One
“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey.” The ridiculous rhyme rolled off Mark Hathaway’s tongue from habit—it had been the way Jess used to cajole their daughter out of bed for preschool.
Although Vicki had more practice getting up early and getting ready for school, she was no more cheerful about it now than she had been at three. Muttering something that was no doubt a variation of “go away,” his first grader scooted farther beneath the pony-print comforter. Not even the curly top of her head was visible.
With a sigh, he flipped back the corner of her blanket. “Up and at ’em, Vicki-bug. You have school, and Daddy has an important meeting this morning. Tomorrow’s Saturday, we’ll both sleep late then, okay?” If today’s breakfast meeting went well maybe he’d finally be able to get a decent night’s sleep.
“Don’t feel good,” she muttered. It was her standard second line of defense, after hiding beneath the covers.
“What hurts?” When she didn’t answer, he placed a hand over her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Come on, hurry up so you can help me pick out your clothes. How about…your orange bathing
