We pull ourselves out
of the what-will-be, return
to the what-is-right-now.
Which basically tosses
me smack back into
the what-happened-today.
“Just so you know,
Gabe is picking me up in
the morning and taking me
to work. I’m supposed to
be at the barn by eight.”
Pretty good friend to get up
so early for you on a Sunday.
“I guess, and I’m grateful.
I need to make some money.
Dad’s on the run. . . .” I fill
her in on the evening’s ugliness.
Anxiety creases her forehead.
What are you going to do?
“I don’t know, but I’ll
figure out something.
For sure I’m not leaving
Sonora. I’ve got an actual
life here, which includes you.
It’s a year before I turn eighteen,
but maybe I can emancipate.”
You haven’t talked to your mom?
I gave her your number.
It was Monica? “Why did
you do that? I figured it must
have been Syrah, not you.
And, no, I haven’t talked
to her. I’ve got nothing to say.”
She crosses her arms. Snorts.
Maybe not. But she’s got plenty
to say to you. I don’t get why
you won’t listen. Don’t you
want to know who you are?
Stamp “pissed” across
my face. “I know who I am,
Monica. I don’t need Maya
McCabe to explain it to me.”
You only know what your dad’s
told you, Air. You don’t even
know what your birthday is.
“What are you talking about?
My birthday’s October ninth.”
She shakes her head. That’s
Ariel Pearson’s birthday.