Mornings in my house were a natural disaster. My mom raced back into the kitchen, still shrugging into her sweater. Seconds later, she yelped as the toaster spat out a piece of singed bread. Meanwhile, she kept trying to talk to me, but I was focused on untangling my headphones and thinking about Neha. How yesterday she hadn’t waited at her locker for me after last period like she always does. How I had worried that she’d gotten sick and had to go home or something. Eventually, I’d walked outside without her. Right before the bus pulled away, she came running through the double doors—arm in arm with Marley.
“Why the frown?” Mom peered at me from across the table, where she was shoving a mess of papers into her bag with one hand while shoving peanut butter toast into her mouth with the other.
“Nothing,” I said, looking down at the still-knotted earbuds. I didn’t want to get into the Neha stuff. Mom would stop getting ready and come sit next to me to talk it out, because she was a good mom like that. Even at the busiest times she would stop, sit down, and listen. But we were already running very late, and I felt like just ignoring it instead.
The phone rang, and Mom pirouetted to answer it. “Hello?” Her face brightened as she pulled away from the handset to tell me, “It’s Dad.”
“Let me talk!” I scooted over, making grabby hands for the phone.
“Here, Hannah wants to say hi.” She zipped her bulging bag shut, signaling me to pull on my backpack.
I pressed the phone to my ear while I worked my arms through the straps of my backpack. “Hi, Dad. How’s the trip?” He was in Seabrook, this cute town nestled on the Pacific Ocean, where he’d been working on a new project.
“It’s gorgeous here today. When the hotel is finally finished, we’re taking a family beach vacation. Well, if they’ll give the architect a special room rate.” Dad laughed. “Listen, I was telling your mom that I’m going to be stuck here an extra night because we’re having a problem with the irrigation system. But I’ll be home tomorrow, okay?”
“That’s cool,” I said. Then I heard the double-honk of the bus—the warning sign that it was leaving. I glanced at the microwave clock. So late. “Dad, I gotta go. I hear the bus.”
“Oh, the honk tolls for thee. Have a great day, kiddo! I’ll try to bring back some saltwater taffy for you.”
“Yum, thanks,” I said, passing the phone back to my mom.
I grabbed my cell phone and notebook from the table before I bolted down the hallway. I flung the front door open just in time to see the yellow back of the bus driving away. Mr. Fisk was ruthless about keeping to the morning pickup schedule.
My heart sank. I had really wanted a chance to talk to Neha. Marley got a ride to school from her parents, so the bus had become one of my only chances to be alone with my best friend. Now I wouldn’t see Neha until lunch, when she’d probably already be sitting next to Marley and laughing about something from yesterday’s soccer practice or the team group text, a joke that would be hilarious to them but unintelligible to me.
I stomped back into the kitchen. Mornings were generally less disastrous when my dad was home. I only ever missed the bus when it was just Mom and me.
She saw me glowering in the kitchen doorway. “Missed it?” I nodded. “I’m sorry, Hannah. Time management: you know it’s not my forte. Let’s hope that’s not genetic. Don’t worry—I’ll give you a ride.” I slumped into a chair to wait for her to finish gathering the rest of her stuff, turn off the coffee maker, shrug on her purple coat, grab her library work badge, and then find her always-misplaced keys.
We finally got in the car and started down the road toward the bridge. Technically I live in a suburb of Seattle, but it doesn’t feel like a suburb. At least not the kind you see on television or that my California cousins live in. Pelling Island has wild berry bushes growing along the main highway and a hint of salt water in the air. It has a real downtown, too, with shops and yoga studios and cafés, but the rest of the island is covered in a patchwork of dense woods. It feels like the country, but it only takes thirty minutes on the ferry to get to downtown Seattle (or you can go the long way via car, circling the island and then driving across the two-lane Elliott Bay Bridge—but the traffic is often a nightmare). We’ve got everything on Pelling: the water, the forests, even a view of the Cascade Range off in the distance.
“Whoa, the mountain is out!” Mom said, pointing.
There are a few special spots on Pelling where you can see Mount Rainier, although its snowy peaks are usually hidden by drizzly clouds. Catching a glimpse of the mountain is kind of a special thing—a good omen, like seeing a rainbow. Sometimes when that happens, my mom will pull over so she can stare at it, and I can take a photo. Not when we’re running late, though. My mom glanced away from our street, Forestview Drive, to catch it again. “So imposing,” she murmured. I shifted in my seat. Something that big and powerful makes me feel like a little ant. I went back to staring at my phone.
We were crossing the bridge over the inlet that separates our mini neighborhood—a smattering of houses before the forest preserve—from the rest of Pelling Island. Between us and the bridge lives Mr. Aranita. He’s retired and usually is either visiting his grandkids in Portland or on another bucket-list trip, though, so most of the time our only neighbors are the Matlocks. They’re “next door,” but I once measured the walking distance between our front doors with the fitness tracker on my phone, and it’s nearly three-quarters of a mile. I guess if you cut through our yards instead of going along our driveways and the road, it would be less, but the bramble bushes don’t really allow for a shortcut unless you’re wearing pants, a long sleeve, and some protective eyewear.
“Don’t forget, I’m watching Zoe and Oscar after school,” I reminded my mom. I’d only babysat for the Matlocks—for anyone, actually—once before. It’s kind of funny that parents let a kid watch younger kids. I mean, my parents still barely let me stay home alone and won’t allow me to bake cookies if they’re not around, to make sure I don’t explode the oven or something. But the Matlock kids are pretty fun. Zoe is a fifth grader and Oscar is in third—babysitting them must not be nearly as hard as taking care of preschoolers or babies.
“What time do you think you’ll be home?” Mom slowed down for a stop sign and let the doppelgänger Subaru opposite us make its turn.
“Ms. Matlock wasn’t sure. She’s going to a gallery opening in the city, but she said she’d try to be home by nine.”
“Oh wow, so you’re really sitting this time.” The first time, I babysat while Ms. Matlock ran errands on island, and she was only gone for an hour and a half. “I’ll be right next door if you need anything. Don’t hesitate to call.”
I hugged my arms across my chest. I was a teensy bit nervous, and she wasn’t helping. My mom doesn’t exactly have a ton of confidence in me. When Ms. Matlock had first asked me to sit, Mom kept saying, “I just don’t think you’re ready to be alone and in charge. I didn’t babysit until I was fourteen.”
“It’s not a big deal, Mom.” I could totally handle two kids for a few hours without needing my mom as backup. Right? After all, Neha and I had taken the official childcare course over winter break at the community center. She was too busy now with soccer to take on any babysitting gigs, though.
“Text me whenever you’re done. I’ll pick you up—that way she doesn’t have to load the kids in the car.”
“I can walk home.” I mean, it’s kind of ridiculous for your mom to pick you up, by car, from your next-door neighbors’ house.
“I don’t like you walking alone in the dark, okay?”
“Fine,” I said. But it seemed like overkill. Nothing bad ever happened in our neighborhood, and if a person was old enough to take care of younger kids, wasn’t she also old enough to walk home by herself? “You’re being kind of overprotective, Mom.”
“Hey, it’s in my job description!” She laughed. I fought back a smile.
We inched along the driveway leading to my school, slowly because the bus ahead had its stop sign out while kids streamed off. I watched for Neha to step onto the curb. Maybe I could still catch her going inside.
“Do you have gym today?” Mom asked.
I saw a flash of turquoise: Neha’s puffy coat, as she hurried down the bus steps. Neha was always in constant motion—probably why she was such a good athlete. “Yup, it’s a gym day.” I started to unbuckle my seat belt.
“So you have your inhaler, right?”
I stopped putting my backpack back on, mid–arm slide. I pictured my inhaler, sitting on top of my nightstand. Shoot. “Um…”
“Hannah Kate.” Using my middle name always means disappointment. My mom sighed, glancing at the clock. She drummed her fingers on the wheel. “I think we should go back and get it.”
Then I would miss homeroom altogether. “No way, Mom. I haven’t even used it since I got over that cold.”
“You’re not supposed to use it all the time. It’s a rescue inhaler. You never know when you might need it.”
“We’re not even going to be running around in gym. Ms. Whalen is starting a yoga unit. We’ll be stretching and relaxing, listening to her wind-chimes music.”
My mom sighed again. “But you forgot it last week too. I need you to be more responsible about this. You’re thirteen years old now, and—”
“I know how old I am!” And I was plenty responsible. I was on the honor roll, I always recycled, and I had that babysitting certificate. The only thing wrong with me was my lungs. I reached for the door handle. Neha was getting farther and farther away, and I saw a grinning girl standing by the double doors, waving at my best friend. Marley. She was wearing a matching puffy coat. I glanced down at my old windbreaker. “Maybe, if we weren’t always running late in the morning, I would remember…”
“Fair enough. Just promise me you’ll take it easy today. Why don’t you text me while you’re at the Matlocks’ so I know how the babysitting is going, okay?”
“Sure, whatever.” I pushed the door open. My mom unbuckled her seat belt and reached over to give me a hug. I could smell her lavender body lotion, mixed with the cinnamon she always sprinkles into her thermos. Whether at home or in the car, she always hugged me goodbye; it was as essential a part of her morning routine as pouring the coffee. I knew it would bug her if she didn’t get one in.
But I had to catch up with the puffy coats.
I swung my feet onto the pavement and hopped out of the car. I turned back to my mom, who leaned over the seat with her arms outstretched. “Loveyoubye,” I said, giving her nothing more than a brisk wave before I shut the door and—even though she’d just asked me to take it easy—ran down the walkway. I don’t like thinking about how my mom’s face probably looked, crestfallen and worried, before she settled back in her seat and drove to the ferry terminal, on her way off the island and far from me.