shadows, behind my old red bike with the sparkly blue banana seat, her eyes glittering.
Be careful,
she mouths, the sound of blood dripping on the concrete floor masking her words.
We wouldnât want anything to happen to you . . .
My father raises one hand in a wave as I pull out of the driveway, dipping his head slightly as he retreats back into the house. I step on the gas hard, too hard, moving backward into the night.
NINE
I drive through the winding roads. Every block I pass a land mine of memories, the tree-lined streets at once so familiar and alien. The parking lot near the dry cleanerâs where Luke first learned to skateboard when he was twelve, the hill we all sledded down whenever there was a snow day, cheeks flushed from the cold winter air stabbing our lungs. Everyone always says that Plainewood resembles a postcard of what a small, Midwestern town is supposed to look likeâthe tall, leafy oaks, their branches curving protectively over the streets, the stately pastel Victorians, the town squareâitâs right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. You almost expect to see an old-fashioned soda fountain at the back of Rayâs Drugs, its blue neon sign and fifties façade still intact, the wrought-iron, old-fashioned streetlights peering down from every corner. This is a town where kids play outside well past dark in the summertime, their sweet, thin voices echoing in the air. Where you can walk your dog late at night without fear, where people sit out on porch swings in the early evening in the warmer months as dusk begins to fall, suffusing the day in muted blue light. A place where kids still make their own lemonade stands, charging fifty cents a cup, loudly proclaiming that they squeezed the lemons THEMSELVES, and where not contributing a dish to the local bake sale or potluck is considered not only downright un-neighborly but borderline treasonous. Basically, weâre a total cliché, but I canât imagine living anywhere else. All of the things that my mom seems to find abhorrent about Plainewood are what lull me to sleep at night, make me glad to wake up each morning and walk out into the calm streets, pavement still wet from sprinkler overspray.
Tonight, the streets are mostly deserted, everyone inside after dinner. My hands are cold against the wheel, and it feels strange to have nowhere to go, no one to talk to, the feeling lonely but liberating all at the same time. I think about getting on the interstate and just driving, the miles ticking by on the odometer, wind whipping by the windows as the scenery gradually alters before my eyes, brown bare branches giving way to flat rocks and endless warm desert skies as I drive farther west. The urge to flee is so tempting that I have to force myself to point the car away from the interstate entrance and back toward town.
After driving around in circles for a while, I find myself drifting in the direction of school, yellow caution tape wound around the fence that surrounds the school like a birthday present gone wrong, the redbrick façade looming just beyond. Letters and posters are tacked to the fence, rows of candles in glass jars, religious and otherwise, burning at the foot of the makeshift memorial. Flowers are stuck at random angles into the holes of the chain link, blossoms of red, purple, and white, cool green leaves decorating the sharp metal. WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU , one hand-drawn placard proclaims in shaky blue marker, and I feel my eyes begin to mist over. A group of teddy bears have been arranged on the sidewalk, heaps of stuffed toys. A baby lamb catches my eye, its white, woolly fur matted and stained. I pull over to the curb, my fingers scrabbling on the seat belt, yanking it from across my body. There are a few adults milling around, their faces drawn with sadness. One woman I donât recognize gets down on her knees next to the fence, her lips moving in soundless prayer, eyes closed.
I touch the
Be careful,
she mouths, the sound of blood dripping on the concrete floor masking her words.
We wouldnât want anything to happen to you . . .
My father raises one hand in a wave as I pull out of the driveway, dipping his head slightly as he retreats back into the house. I step on the gas hard, too hard, moving backward into the night.
NINE
I drive through the winding roads. Every block I pass a land mine of memories, the tree-lined streets at once so familiar and alien. The parking lot near the dry cleanerâs where Luke first learned to skateboard when he was twelve, the hill we all sledded down whenever there was a snow day, cheeks flushed from the cold winter air stabbing our lungs. Everyone always says that Plainewood resembles a postcard of what a small, Midwestern town is supposed to look likeâthe tall, leafy oaks, their branches curving protectively over the streets, the stately pastel Victorians, the town squareâitâs right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. You almost expect to see an old-fashioned soda fountain at the back of Rayâs Drugs, its blue neon sign and fifties façade still intact, the wrought-iron, old-fashioned streetlights peering down from every corner. This is a town where kids play outside well past dark in the summertime, their sweet, thin voices echoing in the air. Where you can walk your dog late at night without fear, where people sit out on porch swings in the early evening in the warmer months as dusk begins to fall, suffusing the day in muted blue light. A place where kids still make their own lemonade stands, charging fifty cents a cup, loudly proclaiming that they squeezed the lemons THEMSELVES, and where not contributing a dish to the local bake sale or potluck is considered not only downright un-neighborly but borderline treasonous. Basically, weâre a total cliché, but I canât imagine living anywhere else. All of the things that my mom seems to find abhorrent about Plainewood are what lull me to sleep at night, make me glad to wake up each morning and walk out into the calm streets, pavement still wet from sprinkler overspray.
Tonight, the streets are mostly deserted, everyone inside after dinner. My hands are cold against the wheel, and it feels strange to have nowhere to go, no one to talk to, the feeling lonely but liberating all at the same time. I think about getting on the interstate and just driving, the miles ticking by on the odometer, wind whipping by the windows as the scenery gradually alters before my eyes, brown bare branches giving way to flat rocks and endless warm desert skies as I drive farther west. The urge to flee is so tempting that I have to force myself to point the car away from the interstate entrance and back toward town.
After driving around in circles for a while, I find myself drifting in the direction of school, yellow caution tape wound around the fence that surrounds the school like a birthday present gone wrong, the redbrick façade looming just beyond. Letters and posters are tacked to the fence, rows of candles in glass jars, religious and otherwise, burning at the foot of the makeshift memorial. Flowers are stuck at random angles into the holes of the chain link, blossoms of red, purple, and white, cool green leaves decorating the sharp metal. WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU , one hand-drawn placard proclaims in shaky blue marker, and I feel my eyes begin to mist over. A group of teddy bears have been arranged on the sidewalk, heaps of stuffed toys. A baby lamb catches my eye, its white, woolly fur matted and stained. I pull over to the curb, my fingers scrabbling on the seat belt, yanking it from across my body. There are a few adults milling around, their faces drawn with sadness. One woman I donât recognize gets down on her knees next to the fence, her lips moving in soundless prayer, eyes closed.
I touch the
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