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“Fine. I promise.” Tripp smiles, his small shoulders no longer hunched.
My brother is three years younger than me, but he’s half my size. Both his height and his easygoing personality favor our calm, short mom. I’m more like our unpredictable, towering dad.
“Can we get Popsicles?”
We’re about to pass the small convenience store two buildings down from our house. The owner, Mr. Henry, used to babysit us the evenings our mom had to work and our dad wasn’t around. Now that I’m ten, I watch Tripp on my own.
“Sure.” There’s a five-dollar bill in my pocket leftover from weeding our neighbors’ flower beds last week.
Mr. Henry only charges us a dollar each. I choose grape, Tripp gets orange, and then we continue toward our house. The front yard is small enough to cut with scissors, just a couple square feet of grass. And the back of our house looks out at an alley, where lots of stray cats live. I can hear them meowing at night sometimes.
Our dad is in the garage with the door wide open, working on the old muscle car that’s been sitting in there for as long as I can remember. My parents argue about it a lot. They argue about a lot of things a lot.
When I was younger, I’d sit in the front seat, pretending to drive it. I haven’t done that in a long time. Now, I prefer to play with my friends. Or play soccer. Not spend time around my father, who’s usually in a bad mood.
He emerges from beneath the raised hood when he hears our approaching footsteps, some sort of wrench in one hand. I don’t know what he spends so much time doing out here. He’s never gotten the engine running, not once. Seems like a lost cause to me.
“Where you been, boys?”
Tripp stays silent, so I answer, “We were at the park.”
“It’s nearly dark. Get inside.”
Tripp scrambles toward the front door, and I follow at a slower pace.
“Will.”
I stop. Glance back at my father. “What?”
His eyebrows rise at my sharp tone, but he doesn’t tell me off. “Your mother is at work. I have to head out for a bit. Look after Tripp.”
“You’re leaving?”
“You want new soccer cleats, don’t you?”
Hesitantly, I nod. Mine were secondhand when I got them. Now, they’re so small that they pinch my toes, in addition to being so worn that the rubber sole is falling apart.
My dad nods too. “Then I gotta go do some stuff.” He closes the hood of the useless Pontiac and wipes his oily hands on a dirty rag. “Don’t cause any trouble.”
“I won’t,” I say.
I might.
I often do when I’m bored.
“Get inside, son.”
I listen without saying anything else.
Without glancing back.
Had I known that was the last time I’d ever see my dad, I would have at least looked back.
ONE
SOPHIA
There’s something inspiring about sunshine.
