“Dinner” to my friends was somewhere between six and six-thirty, whereas to me, it pushed nine o’clock. Well, eight if we timed a take-out order to Mamá’s arrival home. Every restaurant in town knew the Cruz family.
Getting my parents’ car back before dinner wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, we could probably stop for gas on the way home from wherever and still be fine.
Nevertheless, my dear friend Anxiety told me to tighten my ponytail again. “I’ll need to crack my parents’ passcode to shut off the alarm system and disable the cameras,” I said. “We have one aimed at the garage.”
“Okay.” Grace nodded.
I gave her my famous stone-faced stare. “And we cannot damage it,” I told her. “Not a scratch, not a bruise, not a dent, nothing. Promise?”
She held out her pinkie finger. “Promise.”
I left her hanging for a moment, remembering a comment Papá had made about him and Mamá memorizing the mileage. Either it was a point of pride for them, so few miles, or they didn’t trust me.He was kidding,I told myself as I locked pinkies with Grace and squeezed tightly.There’s no way they know how many miles are on that car.
At least, I really hoped not.
Because thirty minutes later, there was no going back. After correctly guessing my parents’ password and disabling our security system from my phone, Grace and I’d zipped over the river (the local creek) and through the woods (my long, winding, tree-lined driveway) and now stood in front of the garage. The one Papá had designed for our holy trinity of vintage cars. Its door rose to reveal two of the three: the 1956 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud and the adorable powder blue VW Beetle that my grandmother—who was very muchstill alive—had bequeathed to Mamá. She’d bought it after immigrating to the US from Buenos Aires in the seventies.
I didn’t want either car to leave the garage. “Grace,” I whispered, watching her walk over to admire the sleek Silver Cloud. “My parents know its mileage. I really don’t think…” I swallowed hard. “Even if we get it back on time, they’ll notice the gauge.”
Grace looked up and over at me with wide eyes. “Oh my god,” she said. “Isa, no—no, no, no.I would never evendaydreamabout it.” She patted the Cloud’s hood affectionately, then pointed past the Beetle. “I thought we’d sneak up on school inthat.”
My shoulders sagged in relief. Our red Tesla was on the far side of the garage. Luis and Pilar Cruz loved it, but it wasn’t on a pedestal like their classic cars. It barely ever needed to be plugged in to charge. “Let’s do it,” I agreed before Grace changed her mind; she was now definitely imagining us rolling up in the Rolls-Royce. I could tell from the faraway look on her face. “Would you like to drive the Musk-mobile?”
Chapter 4
Everett
Did I respond when Mr.Goldberg called my name in homeroom? Only because declaring my presence during attendance was Pavlovian at this point. My history teacher’s gloomy voice somehow cut through the white noise that had enshrouded me since walking into school today. “Adler?”
Here, but I very much wished I wasn’t.
Before I’d even finished toasting three of Abigail’s Eggos for breakfast this morning, Mom had suggested I take a mental health day. It was just the two of us in the kitchen; my sisters were still asleep, perhaps the ultimate perk of being in elementary and middle school. They weren’t forced to wakeup to watch the sun rise every morning. Abigail was going to hate me for stealing her waffles, but Margot had finished off my Golden Grahams, and Mom’s strawberry-banana Chobani didn’t really do it for me. If I hadn’t snoozed my alarm twice, I’d be making pancakes.
“You look worn-out, Everett,” Mom commented as I waited for the toaster to pop. She was wearing one of my dad’s old rugby shirts and sitting at the table with a bowl-sized mug of coffee and her sketch pad. Mara Adler, acclaimed children’s book illustrator. “Why not go back to bed? I’ll call school.”
I shook my head. If I went back to bed, I would have nothing to do but think. Yes, I would also most definitely fall asleep, but in between sleeping and not sleeping, I would dwell.
I would dwell on the fact that anniversaries were the absolute worst. Hallmark and the marketing industry painted them as height-of-happiness occasions that needed to be celebrated, but I had yet to feel the urge to buy a metaphorical confetti cannon.
“No thanks, Mom.” I shook my head. “I’ve gotta go to school.”
Because at least if I was at school, I’d have no choice but to focus on classes. We might’ve already put down my deposit at Vanderbilt, but final exams still mattered. My own personal shit would have no choice but to move to my brain’s back burner.
“Take the Bronco,” Mom told me after I shrugged on mybackpack, grabbed my keys and left the house, and then promptly returned to the house. My car’s battery was dead, and the jumper cables were in Mom’s Suburban, which was of course being inspected. “I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do,” I cut her off, a little too abruptly. “Youdoneed a car today.” I gestured to the family calendar on the fridge, covered in blue ink. “Abigail’s science fair is this afternoon, and you promised Margot you’d go dress shopping together after school. It’s Nolan Greenberg’s bar mitzvah next weekend.”
And on a selfish note,I thought,I donotwant to drive Dad’s car.
I was fine with it sitting dormant in the garage, but my hand always started trembling whenever I climbed in and tried to stick the keys in the ignition. The car somehow still smelled like his Old Spice and earthy tobacco. An ancient tin of chew sat in the glove compartment, and a couple of Margot’s colorful handmade friendship bracelets hung from the rearview mirror. I had no idea how my mother had the strength to drive it.
“You need a car, Mom,” I said, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. “I’ll text Grace.”
She smiled softly; neither of us had mentioned it, but we both knew what day it was. “Thank you, hon….” She trailed off, and I saw her eyes wander over to the kitchen cabinet that she kept stocked with Airborne, Tylenol, Zyrtec, multivitamins, and Abigail’s ADHD medication. There was also an orange bottle with my name on it—and still full.
Don’t ask.I gritted my teeth.Please don’t ask.
My prescription had been filled three months ago, and no, today was not the day I’d decide to pop open that bottle. I didn’t want to go down that road again. I didn’t want to feel worse than I already felt.
