Grandad is a fast runner for a man his age. Plus, tourists don’t tend to use the dedicated crosswalks in town on Saturdays, so traffic can be slow. By the time Marci, Mom, and I get outside, Grandad has already caught up with the car and is yelling something at my dad, who is in the driver’s seat.

From what it looks like, Dad is ignoring Grandad and pretending it’s his car. That’s an educated guess on my part—I’m too far away to see or hear what’s really going on.

“I’m calling about a physical altercation on Main Street,” Mom says into her phone. “If they just walk out of the office, they’ll hear it.”

It’s true. If the police step out their door, they’ll have front-row seats to whatever is about to happen.

As I get closer, I can hear what Grandad is saying. “Block the car!” he’s saying to anyone who’ll listen. “This is my car!”

Two older guys step in front of the car so Dad can’t drive forward. Grandad stands with his arms crossed and says something quietly to Dad. Dad keeps looking forward as if Grandad isn’t standing there.

“You okay?” Marci asks.

I nod. “My dad is in the long grass,” I tell her. I don’t even care if she understands. I know what I’m talking about.

“But you’re okay?” she asks.

“I’m embarrassed,” I say.

We start to walk toward the car. The police arrive at the same time and ask my dad to pull the car into the nearby bank’s drive-through lane. Mom is now standing next to Grandad.

Dad gets out of the car and says something I can’t hear. Then he … walks away. The police go to stop him but Grandad puts his hand out and says something while he shakes his head. Dad takes off running up Broad Street. Running.

I walk over to Mom. She ruffles my hair. I say, “I worry about him.”

She says, “Me too. But he’s his own man and he can’t seem to see what he’s doing to us or himself. And it’s not our problem to solve.”

I look into the car. On the floor of the back seat is my old baseball glove.

The police go back to what they were doing and the four of us pile into the car and drive the four blocks home. Grandad leaves the Karmann Ghia in the driveway so he can wash it. He opens the trunk, which is in front, where the engine usually is, and finds a bunch of our stuff. My baseball bag is there, and he tosses it to me. I find my lucky rock and put it in my pocket.

I walk Marci home.

“That was … confusing,” she says.

“Yeah. My dad is confusing.”

A lot of silence goes by. Too much.

“Let’s focus on the board meeting,” she says. She holds my hand and squeezes it. “It’s better to think about things you can control instead of things you can’t control. And all that adult stuff is up to the adults.”

“I’m not looking forward to the board meeting,” I say. “I have a bad feeling that they aren’t going to do the right thing.”

“All we can do is give them a good fight.”

“That’s what Jane Yolen said when she wrote back to me,” I say. But then I remember. “Oh shoot. I never told you that story.”

“Wrote back? Does this mean you wrote to her?”

So I tell Marci that I sent a letter and that, yes, Jane Yolen wrote back. “I’ll show it to you,” I say. Then I realize I have to tell Marci the mug story. And when I tell her, she looks sad. “Anyway,” I conclude, “even if we lose this fight, we just keep fighting.”

The way Marci talks for the rest of the walk is all grace. She’s not mad at me for not sharing my letter with her and Denis, and when we arrive at her house, she gives me a hug that has all kinds of grace in it. She says, “Don’t worry. Your dad will figure himself out one day. And if he doesn’t, he’s missing out on the coolest kid I ever met.”