I ignore her question and change the subject by stating the obvious. “I take it you guys are going out?”
“We realized that we haven’t been to a nice dinner together in weeks,” Dad says. He stands behind my mom, rubbing her arms lightly.
“Do you want to join us?” Mom asks. “With all your homework, we’ve barely seen you since school started.” Her expression is sincere, but Dad’s standing there, looking at her like he can’t imagine why she’d invite me to join them on their “nice dinner.” From behind her shoulder, he stares at me wide-eyed and gives me a small shake of his head, just in case I didn’t know how to answer.
I look at the two of them, maybe for the first time, through a different lens. I think about Maggie’s comments last night, and how Dad was always more intense than Mom but she loved him. How their worlds revolved around Brooke and me. More than anything, I wish I could talk to Mom about Maggie. Every time I’ve tried to tell her about those three months I spent living there, Mom stopped me short and said she didn’t want to hear it. I’m guessing that it’s not because she doesn’t want to know; it’s because she can’t handle the guilt.
“Want to come?” Mom repeats.
“No, thanks,” I say, and Dad gives me a grateful nod. “You two have a nice date.”
As Dad grabs my mom’s hand and leads her outside onto the front porch, he says something under his breath. She’s laughing as the door closes behind them.
After they’re gone, I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a long time, looking across the room at the huge picture window that overlooks the bay and wondering what to do with myself. I drum my fingers against the banister and think about the week ahead of me. There’s a physics test tomorrow and I have an interview with the tutoring organization Sam works for on Tuesday. I should start studying.
I make it back to my room, but just as I’m about to turn on the music and hit the books, I have a different idea. I open the largest drawer of my desk and dig down to the bottom. When I find the photo album, I return it to my backpack and head downstairs for my board.
The sun is just starting to set when I arrive at the park, and I’m relieved to find it relatively empty. It’s still warm outside, and I look over the horizon at the San Francisco Bay, bright blue and full of sailboats. I sit down on the bench, remove the photo album from my backpack, and flip through the pages. This time, Anna’s here with me.
October 2012
21
San Francisco, California
I scroll through the calendar on my phone, looking at all the days that have passed since my last trip. I picture Anna doing something similar, adding one more X in today’s square on her wall calendar before she heads off to school. We’re getting closer and closer to the one marked with the word “homecoming.” Three more open squares. Three more days to go.
I’m supposed to be writing an essay on the Zhou Dynasty for AP World Civ, but instead I’m staring at the tabs at the top of the browser: ZHOU DYNASTY—WIKIPEDIA, WORLD CIVILIZATION/ONLINE STUDENT RESOURCES, PANDORA
I click on Pandora and change the station a few times before I settle on “90s Alternative.” Without even thinking about it, I open a new browser window and a news page pops open. I scan the stories about the upcoming presidential election and watch today’s most popular YouTube video.
I click on the Local News button and scroll through, reading the headlines: VICTIMS OF A SMALL PLANE CRASH IDENTIFIED. MAN ARRESTED FOR ARSON. WOMAN SHOT OUTSIDE MARKET. SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD RUNAWAY FOUND DEAD ON LOCAL BEACH. The list of tragedies and near-tragedies that occurred in the greater Bay Area over the past twenty-four hours goes on and on.
I’m just about to close the window and return to my essay when a story farther down the page catches my attention: FATHER AND DAUGHTER KILLED BY TEEN DRIVER.
I click on the link and it opens to a picture of a light-blue bike, twisted and lying in the gutter. I read the story:
I tell myself to close the window, but instead, I scroll down and continue reading.
Identities have not yet been released, but according to police, the cyclists were a man, his nine-year-old daughter, and her twelve-year-old sister. Both the man and nine-year-old girl were pronounced dead at the scene. The twelve-year-old was taken to the hospital with minor injuries. The father met his two daughters at school every day to ride home with them, to make sure they got home safely.
The words make me sick, but it’s the pictures that do me in. In addition to the one of the light-blue bike, there’s a photo of the building that eventually stopped the car. Its stucco is scattered and stacked in piles on the ground, its framing exposed.
I stare at the screen, thinking about the driver, and how such a small mistake—something that happened in a fraction of a second—just changed his entire life. He’s only seventeen, but his whole future came to a screeching halt today. Even if the jail time is minimal, how could he ever be the same knowing that a girl and her mother are now without a sister and daughter, and a father and husband. I picture him, sitting in an orange jumpsuit down at county, wishing he could do it all over again, wishing for a second chance. And two keystrokes later, the printer whirs to life. I grab the paper while it’s still warm and head downstairs.
Dad’s office door is ajar, but I knock before I push it open anyway. He’s behind his desk, working at his computer, and he looks up and watches me with a curious expression as I cross the room. I don’t say a word as I set the news story on the desk in front of him.
“What is this?”
“Read it.”
He scans it quickly and looks up at me.
“Tell me it’s a really bad idea,” I say.
He’s quiet for a long time, reading the article, then he grins. “It’s a really bad idea.”
“I know, right?”
He stares at me.
“Want to come along?”
I find Dad’s old backpack on the shelf in the garage reserved for our family’s neglected camping gear, and I shake off the thin layer of dust that’s collected over the years. When I was little, I saw this pack nearly every weekend. I remember how big it used to look as I trailed behind Dad on Cub Scout hikes through the wilderness.
Now I work quickly to ready it for a completely different kind of adventure, filling it with two room- temperature bottles of water from a flat lying on the floor next to the refrigerator. I’m about to head back inside when I spot my skateboard leaning up against the far wall, and it gives me an idea. I jam it into my pack, one end sticking out through the gap in the zipper.
Back in my room, I add the rest of the essentials—large wads of cash stuffed into the front pockets of both packs and a clean T-shirt balled up in the main pocket of mine, just in case. As I pass the bathroom, I grab a big handful of Kleenex from the box on the counter.
Dad’s pacing his office and cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. I hand him his backpack and shut
