Sean Griswold's Head by Lindsey Leavitt Page A

is not being friendly. This makes Mom sympathetic, Dad uneasy, and Trent completely disgusted. It’s enough that they leave me alone for the night.
    As part of the show, I walk down my hallway to say good night a little before nine. I contemplate holding a warm water bottle against my side, but sometimes less is more. Although I might want to pack one for the ride—my butt is already shuddering at the inevitable.
    I knock softly on my parents’ door but no one responds. Cracking the door a bit, I peer inside.
    Dad’s sitting on the edge of the bed buttoning up his flannel pajama top. Correction— trying to button his flannel pajama top. His fingers aren’t cooperating and his lips press together in frustration. It’s like watching a four-year-old tie his shoelaces.
    â€œNeed help?” Mom asks as she appears from the bathroom. She’s wearing one of her long, satin nightgowns, the kind I used to sneak into her closet to rub against my cheek.
    Dad smiles. “I’ve performed oral reconstructive surgery. I think I can button a shirt.”
    Mom watches him for another moment before whispering, “Is it getting bad again, Wayne?”
    â€œJust tired.” Dad finishes the last button and kisses my mom on the cheek. “Nothing to worry about.”
    Mom nods, but her look proves she doesn’t believe him and neither do I. I push the door open and try my best to pretend I didn’t witness the scene. “Just wanted to say good night.”
    â€œFeeling better, sunshine?”
    I should be asking him this. Even while dealing with his own pain, he thinks about someone else. Why can’t he be mean? Why can’t he have a woeful, self-involved, I’m-sick-screw-it phase where he eats Chinese food while watching game shows all day?
    â€œFeeling great. Well, night.” I’m about to close the door behind me but poke my head through the crack.
    â€œOh, and about spring break.”
    Mom and Dad exchange a loaded look.
    â€œFlorida’s not bad.”
    I shut the door quickly and plod to my room. I slip Dad’s Sixers shirt onto my pillow like a pillowcase and clutch it, pretending that I’m hugging my dad, like I can squeeze all his pain away.
    I’m glad I didn’t stay to see their reaction to my Florida comment. Mom’s probably gaping or even worse, tearing up. That I can handle. But what I don’t want to see is the look of hope that would be in my dad’s eyes. Because it’ll ache that much more when I hurt him again.

    â€œWho are you trying to be? Catwoman?” I ask Jac when I bike up to the corner of Pawlings Road. She’s in black gloves and head-to-toe black spandex, with her hair freed from its braids and flowing under her helmet.
    â€œMeow.”
    â€œYou’re going to freeze. It’s forty-something degrees out.”
    â€œThis spandex is fully lined.”
    I pull out the extra sweatshirt I’ve stuffed into my backpack along with some water, hand warmers, and safety flares. Just in case. “Take this.”
    She grabs the sweatshirt but ties it around her waist.
    â€œAnd you’re supposed to wear bright colors when night riding,” I say.
    â€œDuh.” She whisks some glow-in-the-dark necklaces out of her pocket and starts fastening them around various parts of her body. “Doesn’t mean I can’t do it in style.”
    â€œLet’s go,” I say before I decide she is too much of a hazard and call the whole thing off.
    The park we’re meeting Sean at is only a few blocks away, and we’re there in less than five minutes. The park closes at dusk and, luckily, there isn’t a ranger in sight. For a moment, I think we’ve been stood up. Then a maroon Honda Civic with three bikes on a rack swerves into the parking lot and parks in a spot behind the restrooms.
    â€œIs that them?” I ask Jac.
    â€œLet’s find out.”
    â€œBut what if it