She says I should eat chocolate cake for breakfast. Just once. It won’t kill me.
My mother says different things. She says sugar is evil. Toxic. Rots your brain.
Mozzie says my mother rots my brain. When Mother puts steamed carrots and broccoli on my plate, Mozzie sneers. She doesn’t think Mother has any fun. She thinks a big black tornado swept Mother and carried away all the fun. When I asked Mother if this was true, she looked at me funny.
“Where did you get that silly thought?”
“Mozzie told me.”
“Your friend? I don’t recall a girl named Mozzie in your class. Is she new?”
“No. She’s been my friend since I was three.”
“Hmmph.” Mother gave me a curious look when she grunted like that.
Mozzie tells me not to talk about her in front of Mother. She says Mother will try to separate us. I don’t want Mozzie to go away. We’re going to be friends forever. We’ll grow old together and sit in rocking chairs at the special home where my grandma lives with her friends. Mother says she’s much happier there than she was living with us. I liked it when Grandma was waiting to hear about my day when I got home from school. She listened to Mozzie talk about her day, too. Now we only get to tell her about our days on Sunday afternoons when we visit her after church.
Grandma thinks Mozzie is a special friend. She tells me to hold onto her for as long as I can. And I do. I hold Mozzie’s hand every night when we fall asleep and every day when we walk to school. I’m going to hold onto Mozzie for the rest of my life.