When I get to the kitchen, I can see my parents through the window above the sink. They’re underneath the pergola in the corner of our backyard. My mom is talking with her hands, which means she’s trying really hard to make a point.
I put off getting Poppy’s lemonade and head out to see what’s going on.
“—but what if they find out?” my mom says, her tone worried. “What if they sue?”
“For god’s sake, Melinda, it’s not our fault.”
“I doubt the mother of that baby would think June wasn’t responsible if she knew.”
“Excuse me, what?” I say, and my parents whirl around to look at me. “So you really do think I killed that baby. Just like I told you.”
“I do not,” my dad says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. He looks at my mom. “See? Is this what you want? Really?”
My mom reaches out for my hand, eager to soothe. “June, honey, do you want to talk? Can we?”
“How can we help?” my dad says. The sun shoots through the slats of the pergola, crisscrossing us with light.
“You can’t. Nobody can bring Baby Kat back.”
My dad puts his hand on my shoulder to anchor me. “We’ve been over this. You did nothing wrong.”
“Right. Maybe it’s your fault, not mine. Maybe you should feel guilty. Maybe you should be crying yourself to sleep every night.”
“You don’t know that I’m not.”
“I’d never know because you don’t talk about the baby at all. You don’t say anything.”
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Looks at me seriously. “It’s my job as your parent to be strong for you. I understand that you hurt. I hurt, too. But if I’m breaking down over that baby every time you see me, how am I helping you? What happened is awful, but I didn’t meet her. I didn’t know her. I know you. I love you. Your pain is my pain, and that is my priority.”
“It’s selfish not to care about anyone’s kids but your own. But I guess that’s exactly why you can validate how you feel about vaccinations.”
“That is patently false,” my dad says.
My mom fidgets her fingers around each other. “Let’s sit down. Please.” She motions to the picnic table in the middle of the yard.
I shake my head. “No. I need to go. Now.”
I’m like Poppy, my feet itching to be outside. Away. Free. I pull out from underneath my dad’s anchor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says.
My mom reaches out to me but only gets a handful of shirt. She calls my name behind me as I grab my skateboard and bolt through the back gate.
“Juniper Jade, you get back here right now!” my dad shouts.
“Russ. Let her go. Let her clear her head,” my mom says. “She needs it.”
I slam my board down and take off down the sidewalk, angrily pumping my leg to go faster. Too fast. I skid at the bottom of the hill at the end of our block and the deck wobbles under my feet, threatening to throw me. If I hit a pebble, it’ll be game over. Juniper Jade: survived the measles, died on a skateboard. I slow down and continue rolling through suburbia. I’m literally shaking with frustration over my parents. I want to scream. I want to punch something. I hate that I have no say. Like no matter how much I talk, they won’t listen. They think they’re right and I’m wrong, and that’ll never change.
I breathe steadily. Try to conjure some calm as the oxygen settles in my lungs. Tomorrow is the first day of autumn, but the warm air feels more like summer than it does in early July. Tendrils of backyard barbecue smoke creep into the sky. Over the fence. Into my nostrils. Smelling like meat fat.
I don’t like it.
It reminds me of death.
I have to go.
I push away, turn the corner, and fly over the curb into the wide-open street. I pump faster, off and away, toward somewhere I can make my own choices.