JUNE 8

Dear Dad,

I can’t believe we had to say good-bye. This is the second saddest day of my life. (I’m moving yesterday to the third saddest day of my life. Even though yesterday was bad, today was really, really bad, like rip-your-heart-out-and-stomp-on-it bad.) When we hugged I never wanted to let you go.

Do you still have Mom’s cell phone number? I know you had to write it on your hand when I gave it to you. I hope you didn’t accidentally wash it off. I know you’re not a phone person, but you should know how to reach us in case of an emergency. What about the malted milk balls I gave you? Are they all gone now? I’ll bet they are! And did you notice that I wrote our California address inside the card I made for you? I also wrote it on all those address labels to make it easy for you to write to me. Only if you want to, of course.

Did you cry when we said good-bye? I think I saw you cry. I know I was crying. After you drove off, I pulled up the for sale sign in the front yard and hid it behind the garage. It was a lot heavier than I thought it would be. When Mom found out, I got in big trouble.

“EMILY LAURA EBERS … how could you …?”

She never did finish her sentence.

As Mom backed out of the driveway and we took off, I turned around to watch our house get smaller and smaller. I said good-bye to Mrs. Metz’s lawn gnomes, and to the S. Cockroft Memorial Library, and to Twoheys. I said good-bye to the Town Clock, and to Crestwood Lake, and to the Celery Farm.

I said good-bye to Allendale, New Jersey.

After a while, I didn’t recognize where we were, so I stopped saying good-bye to everything and just zoned out.

“Shall we play the license-plate game?” Mom asked.

Huh? I had forgotten she was there. The sight of her gripping the steering wheel was so irritating I wanted to scream. Why can’t she be a more laid-back driver like you? I didn’t answer her stupid question about the stupid license-plate game, and she seemed to just forget she had asked. We didn’t talk at all. Not when we had lunch at McDonald’s, or when she went the wrong way on the turnpike, or when we checked into some motel in Pennsylvania at night. I didn’t even beg her to let me swim in the pool.

I can’t believe she’s doing this to us. Every mile we drive is a mile farther away from you. That’s why this letter journal is so important. It’s like I’m writing you letters that you’ll get all at once. I got the idea from Mrs. Buono when she told the class to keep a journal over the summer. I thought, instead of writing “Dear Diary,” why not write “Dear Dad”? I know you’re traveling and super-busy, but you can read it when summer’s over and you have more time. Then you’ll know what I’ve been up to and you won’t have to worry about me.

At our last stop, I bought a pack of gum, some peanut brittle, and a map of the United States. When we get to California, I’m going to put the map on my wall and mark all the places you will be visiting during your Talky Boys comeback tour. That way I can keep track of you. I wish, I wish, I wish I could be on the road with you instead of Mom. But I know. You told me, “Life on the road is tough when you’re in a band.” I totally believe it. It’s torture being here with Mom and we’re not even trying to sing or harmonize or anything. I hate her.

Love,

Emily