My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie We didn't have much in common in fifth grade, but one thing we always bonded over was cheese puffs. I think it started after I finished up a soccer game, and since her parents and my parents were mutual friends, they dragged me over to her piano recital on the same night. I remember sitting in the front row with grass stained knees and dirty cleats and a fraying jersey, wishing I could be anywhere else. And I'm sure she played well - I mean, I know she's a brilliant musician now - but I wasn't exactly paying attention. Anyway, after the recital, we were waiting by our parents' cars as they talked about grown-up things and what not, and I remember her ripping open a huge bag of cheese puffs. Just a ginormous bag - not a personal helping, but a feast. I felt my ten-year-old mouth salivate; after all, I hadn't eaten anything since that stale granola bar during halftime of my game. She noticed and smiled. "My dad always lets me have chee

Dear Madison, Please disregard that last message I sent you. Truth be told, I wasn't in my office when I wrote it. I was, in fact, at the Teddy Bear Tavern downtown, and I had drunk one too many Moscow mules, and quite frankly, I'm embarrassed by the entire thing. You deserve better than to have a lovesick, inebriated moron spill her guts out to you like in such a horrific, unprofessional way that causes discomfort or confusion. Sincerely, the Village Idiot