“Wait. What’s that?” She points to the last item. “Bizarre? Like . . . strange?”
“No, no,” I insist. “It’s bizarre like a flea market. “You know. Bizarre.”
“Oh, Taryn!” Mom’s eyes glisten and she smiles. “You mean the word ‘bazaar,’ don’t you? With three A’s.”
“Oh, yeah. Whoops.”
I quickly scratch off the misspelled word and rewrite it the way Mom says to.
As I do, Mom laughs and tousles my hair. Sometimes when she does that I feel like a baby all over again. And right now, for some reason, I don’t mind so much. I inhale a whiff of her perfume, and everything seems just right in the world.
“Bazaar,” I say the word slowly, a little embarrassed, trying to emphasize the A’s so I don’t get it wrong ever again.
I may be starting off sixth grade with a bang, but my spelling still needs some serious help.
Maybe I should spend the weekend locked in my bedroom with a dictionary?
Like that’s ever going to happen.”