When I get home after school,
my father is on the phone with my mother. He’s smiling,
and it feels normal,
like sunlight through fog.
Grown-ups
say what they mean
by the way they say it.
It’s not the words,
it’s the noises in between
that tell the truth.
He hangs up
before he sees me.
Etan! Look at this.
He goes to the counter
and lifts an uncreased envelope
like it’s made of gold.
This, Etan—my boss came through.
He opens the envelope, and inside
I see the long rectangular tickets,
golden edges, and the words
WORLD SERIES
GAME 3
OCTOBER 17TH, 1989
We are going to the game!
He lifts me up, spins me around.
But my insides are crumpling,
because of all the dates,
why does it have to be this one?
The date,
the same date
as the talent show.
I can’t tell him.
Not yet.
What do I do?