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too.
    I pause only a second before ripping open the envelope.
    “What was the name of the person you lived with in Rangeley?” Mr. Moody asks, behind me.
    “Mrs. Armstrong,” Aaron says.
    Hands shaking, I reach in the envelope for the letter. But I’m surprised to find a smaller envelope inside: a lemon yellow one, addressed to Aaron.
    For Aaron? My whole body slumps with disappointment. I suppose I ought to have guessed the State could be sending my parents mail about Aaron now, too. But I thought for sure it was about the school.
    I should’ve wished for a letter for me. Up in the left-hand corner of the yellow envelope, it says “C. Spinney” with an address in Connecticut. A purple Post-it note stuck to the front says: Hi, Mrs. Brooks, This letter is from Aaron’s mom. I checked his file, and it says he can receive mail from her. So when you think he’s ready for it, go ahead and give it to him. Sincerely, Emily (Natalie’s assistant)
    Today feels like one giant snowball of bad luck, getting fatter with every turn. First, Aaron doesn’t like anything about being here. Then I didn’t get a letter from Amy or an answer about the school. NowAaron’s mom writes to him — like she’s claiming him, before we even get to know him! And when I get home, I’m gonna have to admit I opened Dad and Mom’s mail, and —
    “Will you tell her, Tess?” Mr. Moody asks.
    I startle. Aaron has come up beside me — I didn’t even hear him coming! Mr. Moody looks at me from behind the counter, but Aaron gasps, staring at the envelope in my hands.
    Oh, glory. “What?”
    Mr. Moody smiles. “I asked you to tell your mother I delivered some packages to the school this morning. I left them inside the door. Looked to me like school supplies or maybe books.”
    “Oh, um, yeah. I’ll tell her.” I slam our tiny mailbox shut and spin the combination lock. “Come on, Aaron.”
    When we’re outside, he makes a grab for the yellow envelope. I let him take it — it’s his letter. As he’s ripping open the envelope, I take a step closer.
    … miss you so much. They took you from me — I never wanted it to happen. I think about you all the time and some nights I can’t stop crying, wondering where you are and if those people are being good to you.
    What does she mean, “those people”? I move a little more. Aaron’s thumb’s in the way. His fingers aregraceful-looking, long and smooth. Not like mine, roughed by salt water and calloused from handling rope and gear.
    I bet you’ve grown so much I’d hardly recognize you. I’m doing better now. I’m trying to —
    “Do you mind?” Aaron shields the letter with his hand.
    I pretend I was looking around me, not reading over his arm. “I’m sorry. Is your mom okay?”
    “She only just found out my grandma died,” he says, turning the page to read the back. “I tried to tell her when it happened, but no one knew where she was.”
    I sigh. “My best friend, Amy, promised she’d write to me when she moved away last winter. I’ve sent her six letters and three e-mails, and she’s only sent me two letters back.”
    Why’d I tell him that? I blush. It sounds so small compared to his problems. But still, I don’t think I can stand him being mean about it.
    He nods, though. “Don’t tell anyone about my letter, okay? I don’t want my mom to get in trouble. Natalie probably won’t like some of the things Mom says in here.”
    I run my tongue over my bottom lip. I don’t like keeping things from my parents. But I also don’t want anyone to get in trouble (including me for opening mail that wasn’t mine).
    “Please?” he asks. “It’s been four years since I’ve heard from her. If Natalie gets mad at her, my mom might not write to me again.”
    “Won’t Natalie ask about it?”
    He shrugs. “Probably not. But if she does, your parents’ll say they never got a letter. That’ll be the truth.”
    I sigh. Natalie’s assistant did say he could have the