My mom awkwardly twists her arm to reach me in the seat behind her. Her fingers lightly tap my knee, a little pat of gratitude for my fluctuating sympathy.
The guilt of my frustration causes me to lay my hand on top of hers, a silent apology for my outburst. The truth is, I do feel bad. It’s not like she decided to move down to sunny Southern California for a year of sunshine and the easy life. And if it weren’t for my grandfather passing away two months ago, we wouldn’t even be in this predicament.
“How close is it to the beach?” I ask as my mom pulls away.
“About six miles. No more than a five-minute drive.”
“You’re going to love it,” my dad says. “And whoever decides to buy it is going to love it too.” He exits the freeway, finally feeling like we’re seeing the finish line after our last restroom break in Irvine.
“Eddie, we’ll wait to see what the realtor says,” my mom warns. “You said give it a year, and I am going to fully enjoy the house for a year before we have to sell it.”
My dad reaches for my mom’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, exchanging secret glances and polite smiles, both reassuring themselves that this year-long separation is a good thing. While it isn’t ideal, it’s the best option considering the current circumstances.
When my mom was handed the deed to my grandparents’ house, she didn’t want to sell it right away. In fact, she wanted to move back home, finally plant roots back where she grew up. But with my dad’s work and the unpredictability of it, it wasn’t possible. So they compromised. He’d stay up in Sacramento while he completed his first year as the head coach for the Sacramento Kings, and me and my mom would move down to San Diego to finish out my senior year before I head off to college. If I looked up the word “compromise” in the dictionary, I’d probably find an image of my parents amicably shaking hands with firm, agreeable smiles.
The car slows as we turn the corner into a short cul-de-sac. My mom leans forward, peering through the windshield while watching the rows of houses pass by. “Ah,” she exclaims softly. “Here we are.”
My dad slows to stop in front of a two-story house that looks so much bigger than the memory of my four-year-old self. The driveway alone can probably fit four cars, five if the person driving knows how to parallel park. The tan paint looks freshly coated and the dark brown shutters siding each window make the house look homey and rich at the same time. My dad parks the car in the driveway, and we exit.
“Why does it look so much bigger than I remember?” I ask when the three of us meet at the hood of the car. We’re peering up at the house, our necks strained to the sky as we take it all in.
“Probably because the last time you were here, you were still using a little training potty,” my mom comments, gently patting my back.
“Come on, Everett,” my dad calls. “Let’s get the luggage down.”
My mom continues her way into the house while my dad and I walk to the back of the U-Haul. Just as we’re wheeling the first of our luggage up the driveway, we’re interrupted by a high-pitched squeal followed by the urgent pitter-patter of feet.
“James!” I hear a loud shrill screech call from the house next to ours. My dad and I both look toward the sound of the noise at the same time.
A girl, who looks to be about my age, runs out of the two-story home that’s a lot smaller than my grandparents—or, ours now, I guess. There’s a basketball hoop in the driveway, mounted high above the garage, and a few loose basketballs sitting in the grass off to the side. A Pathfinder sits in the driveway with a glossy CD dangling from the rearview mirror right next to a pearly white SUV.
“James!” the girl calls again over her shoulder. “Don’t hog all the Sour Patch Kids!”
More footsteps follow. “I want some too!” calls another voice, this one more playful and innocent coming from a boy about seven or eight. They race each other to the SUV, two more guys following behind them, and I suddenly feel out of place in my loose basketball shorts and plain gray T-shirt as I watch them walk out of the house in buttoned-up shirts and ironed khakis.
“Shotgun!” the girl announces with a smug grin. Her hair picks up with the breeze, and I see the glint of her smile shine against the late afternoon sun. The dress she’s wearing follows, the hem fluttering around her knees. Jesus, she’s pretty. Even from the distance across a driveway and a patch of grass separating our two homes, I notice the freckles lining her cheeks and nose and the way her dark eyes peer innocently at who she’s silently taunting with her hand on her hip and a cheeky grin.
One of the guys, already at the door to the front passenger seat, groans. “Oh, come on!” he complains.
“You can get shotgun in mom’s car.” She flicks a hand in his direction like she’s shooing away a bug, her wrist thickly adorned with bracelets and her nails painted a dark sparkly shade. A quick glance in my direction and we meet eyes, her smile disappearing behind the curve of bare skin where a single strap cuts across her shoulder.
“Hello!” a man calls, just as he approaches the SUV and joins his brood, noticing me and my dad awkwardly standing in our driveway. “You must be the new neighbors. I’m Jasper.”
“Eddie,” my dad answers as the two meet at the property line dividing the two homes. “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood.” Jasper turns to face the car where all the doors are open and the chitter chatter fills the air with chaos. “Those are my kids. James, Josh, Christine, and Andrew.”
My dad chuckles. “You got your hands full.”
Jasper smiles warmly in response. “You have no idea.” There’s a small pause and it’s interrupted by one of the kids approaching his side.
“Dad,” he calls. “Mom just called James. She asked us to pick up the cake before we head to the restaurant.” He has a full bag of Sour Patch Kids held loosely in his hand, the top ripped open and a dust of sugar smeared over his thumb and index finger.
“Uh, Josh,” he says, facing him. “This is Eddie and…”
“Everett,” my dad answers. “This is my son, Everett.”
Josh shakes my hand. His hands feel equally confident and shy through the small pause of hesitance and the lack of eye contact. He’s about as tall as me, hovering at around six feet, with the light, almost reddish-blonde hair his dad has. They have the same eyes too, blue with hints of copper, the complete opposite to his sister sitting in the front seat of their SUV.
