He made it into a game for us. I don’t think he slept that entire week. We painted everything inside and out. He let me pick the color for their bathroom, a soft periwinkle because it was her favorite. There wasn’t any garden, but we built flower boxes for the windows and filled them with colorful blooms. Dad even hung a porch swing out front in an effort to dress up the rectangular slab of concrete that jutted several feet from the door before dropping off and connecting to the driveway. It wasn’t anything like our old house, but I remember thinking it was perfect when we finished.
It was Christmastime, so Dad dropped me off at Mom’s sister’s so we could drive around and see the lights while he added a few last details to our new little house without the overeager hands of an eight-year-old trying to help.
Mom took us to the “pretty houses” in the fancy neighborhood she liked. She pointed out her favorite, a two-story that had one of those little balconies on the front, a Juliet balcony, she called it. The owners had wrapped every inch of it in white twinkle lights. I’d smiled, pressing my face against the window, and told her that Dad could string lights like that for her at our new little house too. Instead of answering, she’d parked us in front of it and cried.
When we pulled up to our new house, she didn’t say a thing about the flower boxes or the porch swing. She didn’t smile at Dad when he came out, and I didn’t understand why he had to pry her fingers from the car door handle.
She kept silent as I towed her through each room and pointed out all the work Dad and I had done. And when we got to the bathroom, I remember smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, thinking finally she’d be happy.
She wouldn’t even come in. She just glanced around with an expressionless face and asked Dad if he expected her to like the hole he bought just because he’d painted it.
I’d started crying and Dad scooped me up and curtly told her we’d leave her to unpack. We went straight to the shop where he sat me directly on top of a creeper, lined up his own next to mine and said the phrase that I planned to get as a tattoo when I turned eighteen: “On your mark, get set, go!”
He’d engraved those words into the Creeper Race Cup that very night above my initials after I finally won (with a helpful push).
Over the years his name covered more space on the Cup than mine, but I was on there too. And we had plenty of room left.
“What do you say?” I asked, when Dad looked from his sandwich to the Cup. “I’ll even give you first creeper pick.” I rotated the Cup so he could read our initials. He always took care of me, found ways to make me smile when I couldn’t on my own. And I was going to be just like him.
“Aren’t you getting a little old for that?”
“You know the rules of Creeper Cup say if you refuse a challenge it’s considered a forfeit, and by my count…” I lifted the Cup for closer inspection. “Your lead is dwindling.” I had improved as our “courses” became more intricate over the years, but not that much. Yet. And based on the way Dad snatched the Cup for his own perusal, he knew it.
Still, I thought my appeal to his competitive nature had done the trick. His eyes passed over the chipped paint and his mouth lifted.
“Which one are you looking at?”
He pointed to a year that I’d never forget.
“The one when I accidentally set myself on fire. Awesome, Dad. Thanks.”
“Wasn’t my fault you went careening into the rag bin.”
“It was your idea to add sparklers to the creeper!”
“Your pants only got singed a little. And I thought you were more coordinated back then.” He patted my head. “We know better now.”
I had him. I knew it. “You grab the creepers and I’ll start blocking out—”
The door chimed up front. We had a customer.
And the Cup was returned to its dusty shelf.
* * *
When Dad shut his bedroom door later that night, I opened my window. I sat on the sill and twisted my legs out, feeling like I was escaping air that had grown too thin when I finally stood and peered over the edge of my roof.
Daniel was already there. Waiting for me.
“Sorry,” he said, seeing my surprise. “Figured you wouldn’t want me to knock.”
He meant with Dad in the house. Yeah, that wouldn’t have gone well.
“You figured right.” I rose up on my tiptoes and flattened my hands on the shingles that hit just under my chest. I would have preferredneveras a date for Daniel to watch me awkwardly climb onto my roof. I took a deep breath, preparing to get it over with, when Daniel crouched in front of me and extended his hand.
“Let me help you.” Daniel lifted my hand and smoothed my fingers open to grasp his. He lifted me easily too, which did all kinds of funny things to my stomach, then smiled when we both sat down.
“What?”
