CHAPTER 1
CAMILLE
The permission slip for Simon’s field trip to the Montana Natural History Center is due today.
It's been sitting on my kitchen counter for eleven days, slowly migrating beneath a pile of junk mail, a calendar I haven’t hung yet (it’s April), and a coupon for forty cents off Greek yogurt that expired in October.
I found it this morning while excavating the counter in search of my sanity…or at least a pen that works.
I sign it with a purple marker because that's what's available, and Mrs. Porter can deal with it. If she wants blue or black ink, she can come to my house and find a functioning pen herself.
I'd love to watch her try.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and glance at the screen. It’s a text from Javi.
Hey, any chance we can swap weekends? Something came up with work.
Something came up with workis Javi-speak for anything from an actual emergency to a spontaneous camping trip with his buddies that he doesn't want to miss.
My ex-husband has a gift for being vague. It's impressive.
Which weekend are we talking about?
I pour my third cup of coffee into my "Held Together by Coffee and Spite" mug, which is less a cute kitchen accessory and more a mission statement. Two out of two ingredients accounted for this morning. We're on track.
Heavy footsteps descend the stairs—the signature stomp of a twelve-year-old boy who wants the whole house to know he's awake and not happy about it.
Simon rounds the corner into the kitchen looking like he personally lost a fight with his hair brush. His shirt is inside out. His shoes are untied (he says it’s how kids wear them). And he drops his backpack on the floor as if it weighs forty pounds and he’d rather launch it off the roof than carry it.
"Good morning, sunshine," I say. I am nothing if not optimistic in the face of pre-teen hostility.
He grunts.
"Hey, remember your science project is due Friday. Did you finish the?—"
"Ohmy god, Mom. You'resoannoying." He rolls his eyes as if I’m talking utter nonsense, and not a poster about the water cycle. He grabs a granola bar from the pantry, shoves it in his pocket, and yanks his backpack off the floor with the energy of someone who's been victimized by the concept of mornings.
I keep my voice light. "Just checking. You've got plenty of time."
"Iknow." He mutters something under his breath as he heads for the door.
"I wish I could just live at Dad's."
The words jab right between my ribs, in that soft spot I didn't know I'd left unguarded.
I take a breath, pretend I didn’t hear it, and pick up my coffee.
"Let's go," I say. "You're going to be late."
The drive to school is silent. Simon stares out the window like he's in a music video about his tragic life, and I’m gripping the steering wheel, telling myself it's just a phase. He's twelve. His brain is a construction zone. He doesn't mean it.
He gets out of the car without saying goodbye and doesn't look back.
I sit in the drop-off lane and watch him disappear through the front doors. I let myself feel it just for a second...the ache of loving someone so much it makes your teeth hurt, and knowing that right now, loving you back is the last thing on his list.
Then I shake it off and power through.
My third graders are pure anarchy today, which is actually my favorite version of them. It keeps my energy up.
