finally working out for you,” my dad said, his eyes shining. “I’m really proud of you.”
I stared at him as he rounded the car, fishing his keys out of his pocket. My chest radiated warmth.
“What?” my dad asked, popping open the driver’s-side door.
“Nothing,” I replied.
But as I got in beside him, I had to bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. He was proud of me. My dad was proud of me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Katrina
I stood on the sidewalk outside our small split-level house and stared at the numbers next to the door, 777. My father had hand-screwed those numbers to the siding, smiling down at me from the top of the stepladder.
“It’s lucky, mija ,” he’d told me, concentrating to make sure the screws went in straight. “Seven, seven, seven. As long as we live here, we’ll have good luck.”
A rock formed between my throat and my heart, threatening to suffocate me. I missed him until it hurt. I missed everything about him—the scratch of his five o’clock shadow atop my head when he hugged me, the musky-dusty scent of his clothes after a long day in the reporter’s room at the paper, the way his face lit up whenever he saw me.
Lenny Crisco, the guy who lived next door, zipped up to the gate in front of his house, dropped his bike against the fence, and bounded inside, letting the door slam behind him like it was nothing. And that was it. Right there. That was what I missed more than anything—being able to walk into my house without even thinkingabout it. Without knowing I would have to tiptoe around. Without being scared a screaming fight waited around every corner.
My mother and I had never fought before my dad died. Not once. She had always been kind of a tense person, but my dad always knew how to chill her out, how to make her smile—talents I was not blessed with. Now it was like I never knew when she might explode.
I could always go over to Ty’s and wait for him to get out of work, but the thought made me tired. Now that I was here, I realized that I wanted to be in my own room, in my own space. I wanted to sleep in my own bed and not listen to Ty and his friends playing World of Warcraft for hours on end. I wanted to be home. And besides, I was out of clean clothes.
I trudged up the brick steps, avoiding the one crumbling corner, and gathered up the pile of newspapers that had been collecting atop the worn welcome mat. As always, the door was unlocked. I pushed it open as quietly as possible, but it stuck when I closed it and I had to give it a shove. I flinched at the resounding bang. The air inside was stifling and stale. I heard my mother’s shuffling footsteps at the top of the stairs.
“You’re home.”
I turned around slowly. She was wearing her gray sweatpants and my dad’s Seton Hall sweatshirt, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. A sleep crease zigzagged across one cheek.
“Hey,” I said, trying for a smile. “How was work?”
“Fine. Busy,” she said. “Two new babies in the NICU. I’m starving. What do we have to eat?”
She plodded down the steps to the kitchen. There was a time when my mother would kiss me on my forehead whenever I camehome. When she’d hug me. When she’d ask to see my homework and ooh and aah over my poems.
I could hardly remember it anymore, but I knew it had happened. I dropped my backpack at the top of the stairs leading to the basement and followed her. She slammed the refrigerator and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I thought you were going to the supermarket,” she snapped.
My throat was tight. Should have seen that coming. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time.”
“Why? Because you were too busy sleeping around?” she demanded, walking to the cabinet and taking out a box of Ritz crackers. She banged the door shut and went rummaging in the pantry.
“Mom! I’m not sleeping around!” I protested. This was what she was like now. I did one thing wrong and suddenly she was on me like a pit bull about
I stared at him as he rounded the car, fishing his keys out of his pocket. My chest radiated warmth.
“What?” my dad asked, popping open the driver’s-side door.
“Nothing,” I replied.
But as I got in beside him, I had to bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. He was proud of me. My dad was proud of me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Katrina
I stood on the sidewalk outside our small split-level house and stared at the numbers next to the door, 777. My father had hand-screwed those numbers to the siding, smiling down at me from the top of the stepladder.
“It’s lucky, mija ,” he’d told me, concentrating to make sure the screws went in straight. “Seven, seven, seven. As long as we live here, we’ll have good luck.”
A rock formed between my throat and my heart, threatening to suffocate me. I missed him until it hurt. I missed everything about him—the scratch of his five o’clock shadow atop my head when he hugged me, the musky-dusty scent of his clothes after a long day in the reporter’s room at the paper, the way his face lit up whenever he saw me.
Lenny Crisco, the guy who lived next door, zipped up to the gate in front of his house, dropped his bike against the fence, and bounded inside, letting the door slam behind him like it was nothing. And that was it. Right there. That was what I missed more than anything—being able to walk into my house without even thinkingabout it. Without knowing I would have to tiptoe around. Without being scared a screaming fight waited around every corner.
My mother and I had never fought before my dad died. Not once. She had always been kind of a tense person, but my dad always knew how to chill her out, how to make her smile—talents I was not blessed with. Now it was like I never knew when she might explode.
I could always go over to Ty’s and wait for him to get out of work, but the thought made me tired. Now that I was here, I realized that I wanted to be in my own room, in my own space. I wanted to sleep in my own bed and not listen to Ty and his friends playing World of Warcraft for hours on end. I wanted to be home. And besides, I was out of clean clothes.
I trudged up the brick steps, avoiding the one crumbling corner, and gathered up the pile of newspapers that had been collecting atop the worn welcome mat. As always, the door was unlocked. I pushed it open as quietly as possible, but it stuck when I closed it and I had to give it a shove. I flinched at the resounding bang. The air inside was stifling and stale. I heard my mother’s shuffling footsteps at the top of the stairs.
“You’re home.”
I turned around slowly. She was wearing her gray sweatpants and my dad’s Seton Hall sweatshirt, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. A sleep crease zigzagged across one cheek.
“Hey,” I said, trying for a smile. “How was work?”
“Fine. Busy,” she said. “Two new babies in the NICU. I’m starving. What do we have to eat?”
She plodded down the steps to the kitchen. There was a time when my mother would kiss me on my forehead whenever I camehome. When she’d hug me. When she’d ask to see my homework and ooh and aah over my poems.
I could hardly remember it anymore, but I knew it had happened. I dropped my backpack at the top of the stairs leading to the basement and followed her. She slammed the refrigerator and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I thought you were going to the supermarket,” she snapped.
My throat was tight. Should have seen that coming. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time.”
“Why? Because you were too busy sleeping around?” she demanded, walking to the cabinet and taking out a box of Ritz crackers. She banged the door shut and went rummaging in the pantry.
“Mom! I’m not sleeping around!” I protested. This was what she was like now. I did one thing wrong and suddenly she was on me like a pit bull about
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