Dear Bump,
I dreamed about you last night, but I don’t remember what we were doing, only that you were in your crib, the one the pumpkin girl took, and there was a snowstorm outside.
I was in the hospital yesterday. On account of Boone, you know.
None of it is my fault. It was all his idea. I just did what he asked.
Here’s what happened.
So yesterday, I was in my bedroom playing my records, (most of them are scratched, but the Michael Jackson one Aunt Frannie got me last year is still good) practicing my moonwalk dance, going from my dresser all the way to the mirror, when Boone knocked on my window.
I climbed on my bed and slid open the window. “Aren’t you—ou grounded?”
He shrugged. “Dunno.”
Lene told me Boone gets into so much trouble, Mrs. Lund has a special calendar so she can
