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team to move furniture. They work dirt cheap and don’t, Auntie Buzz says with a happy smile, belong to a union. Plus they work overtime for pizza and doughnuts and that’s the kind of payment Auntie Buzz can afford. “I’m not good with money, and my projects always go over budget,” she explained.
    Auntie Buzz was sitting at our table when I walked into the kitchen, tapping away on her laptop. Mom had a late meeting, Dad was on Generic BusinessTrip Number Infinity and Beyond, Daniel had practice and Sarah was working, so I had privacy to bring up the Tina thing with Buzz.
    “Hi, Buzz.”
    “Hiya, Kev.”
    “Whatcha doin’?”
    “Putting together a demo reel so that I can be hired as the host of a network television show. Or cable, I don’t really care. Just so long as it’s national and pays well. I’ll do any kind of show.”
    “Uh, why?” Even though I was dying to ask her about Tina, a person doesn’t just ignore this kind of information.
    “When you work for and by yourself on commission and the government is sending you registered letters, you need to get creative about your income stream.”
    “I didn’t know you were getting registered letters.”
    “It’s a recent development.”
    “So … how much trouble are you in?”
    She shrugged and then scowled in the direction of a canvas bag near her feet. It was filled with a ton of unopened envelopes. Some of them had green Registered Mail stickers on them and were from the Internal Revenue Service. I’m only fourteen, but thosepeople scare me. Tax time each year at our house is not pretty—Mom and Dad drag out shoe boxes full of receipts and take over the kitchen table for days on end, and there’s a lot of sighing and frowning and
clickety-click-click
ing of the calculator.
    Adults, I’ve noticed, are usually terrible with money. I thought about the sock full of cash I have hidden in my pajama drawer. I’m an excellent saver.
    “How much do you owe?”
    “I’m not going to open the bills until I have the money to pay everything.” She looked more jittery than normal.
    “Do you want me to find out for you?”
    “You’re only fourteen years old—exposure to that kind of stress might kill you or make you sterile, and I don’t want to be responsible for you not being able to have children someday.”
    “I don’t think that’s going to happen if I read a few—twenty-seven—letters.” I hunched down and thumbed through the stack of envelopes.
    “Can you put them in chronological order for me? I’ll find an accountant to deal with everything first thing on Monday.”
    Monday is always Auntie Buzz’s favorite time to handle a problem.
    “Do you have any plans for, uh, solving your financial … situation other than getting your own television show?”
    “Why should I? I’d be a natural on TV, and the network—or the cable companies—would be crazy not to hire me.”
    Buzz and I were more alike than I’d suspected; that was exactly the way I think. Self-confidence is everything for military geniuses, liars like me, and decorators in trouble with the government. All of a sudden, I felt warmly toward my aunt—a little parental, even.
    When Sarah and Daniel and I run through our allowances and ask to borrow money from our folks, we get a huge lecture, and then they make it a teachable moment. No one ever gets punished in this house, because Mom says we should “experience the consequences” of our actions so that we can “benefit from the learning opportunity.”
    I thought Buzz could get a lot out of a teachable moment. And I was just the person to teach her. I was the answer to her prayers—she just didn’t know it yet.
    She was in a lot more trouble than Sarah or Daniel or I ever were, so she’d need more help and abigger moment of teachabilityness, and if that isn’t a word, it should be.
    She didn’t even notice when I took the bag to my room. I sat on the floor and separated the invoices from the checks. Then I