I wanted Stacey to stay longer,
but she has to be home for supper.
“You can take me back to school, Mr. Oliver,” she says in the car.
“It’s no trouble to take you home,” Papa says,
and asks for her address.
“It’s hard to find . . . lots of twists and turns.
My mother is picking me up at school.
She’ll be coming from the dentist’s, anyway.”
I don’t know why Papa doesn’t insist on taking her home,
but he says no more.
When we get to school,
the sky and the snow are coral with dusk.
There are two cars in the parking lot,
but neither one belongs to Stacey’s mother.
“Thank you very much,” Stacey says, and opens her door.
“We’ll wait for your mom,” Papa says.
Stacey steps out. “No, don’t. She’ll be here soon.”
“But it’s getting dark.”
“I’m fine, Mr. Oliver,” she says, her voice a note higher,
her smile brittle.
Papa drums the steering wheel.
“I’ll drive over there and wait until she comes.
Would that be all right?”
Stacey’s face softens into a smile that looks like a cry.
“Yes. Thank you. I’m . . . sorr—”
Papa raises his hand, cutting her off. “It’s okay.
You’re welcome to visit us anytime, Stacey.”
She shuts the door and waits at the top of the steps.
Papa parks near the track and turns off the lights and engine,
and we wait. The sky grows fuchsia.
Stacey’s mother comes soon, and Stacey gets in.
Her mother turns around to look at our car,
and they drive away,
two black silhouettes against the purple sunset.