I walk home from Marci’s and think of all the ridiculous rules in town and try to number them in order of priority. For me, censorship, dress codes, and curfew are of the highest importance. Then junk food. Then Halloween.

Grandad and Mom are on the front porch when I get home, and I ask them, “Are we still going to get my bike ready?” Grandad nods and smiles. So I go to the garage.

I get my bike and turn it upside down, balancing it on its handlebars and seat. I spin the wheels. I have no idea how to fix a bike outside of pumping up the tires, but I know Grandad does and I know it’s not really broken, just a little run-down.

When I walk over to the bench to get the tire pump, that’s when I see Dad, sitting on an upturned five-gallon bucket—the same one I’d sit on when I helped him work on his “spacecraft.” He waves. As if that’s a normal thing to do.

I feel a sort of panic rise in me and then I remember what Marci just said about how I’m the coolest kid she knows. I take a deep breath like Grandad would.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“I had to stick up for myself, kid.”

I don’t even know what to say, so I keep breathing deep and I start to connect the pump to my bike tire.

“What?” he says. “What aren’t you saying?”

I let seconds run by. Then I say, “You had to stick up for yourself to who? Mom? All she ever did was go to work, help people, make us food to eat, clean up after us, and love us.”

“I had to stick up for—I had to make my voice heard,” he says.

“We all heard you just fine.”

“You’re listening to your grandfather now.”

“He has a lot of good stuff to say.” I start to pump the tire up. “And he doesn’t change stories around so he’s the hero. Or the victim. Not even the war stories. He’s honest. Even if it makes him look bad. I’m a lot like him.”

“I guess you are.” Dad says this like it’s not a good thing.

More seconds run by.

“Can I ask you a question?” I venture.

“Sure,” he says.

“What are you so ashamed of?”

“What?!”

“I said, what are you so ashamed of?”

“I’m not ashamed of anything!” he shouts.

I look at him. He looks at me.

“Listen,” I say. “I don’t think anyone likes me and I’m not smart enough to be Marci’s boyfriend or I didn’t think I was, and now I don’t know what I think. I sometimes think I’ll never be able to be happy with a girlfriend anyway. I’m scared of relationships and—”

“Stop, Mac,” Dad says.

“And I don’t know why you smashed Mom’s mug and I’m embarrassed that you did and that you took our stuff and left, and I’m tired of adults lying to kids and—”

“No!” Dad interrupts. Then he stands up, looks at me without understanding me at all, and says, “You gotta stop living in the past.”

I don’t let this stop me. “Also, I feel really bad about the way I treated Denis last weekend and I think it will take him a while to trust me again. I don’t blame him. I was a jerk to him.”

“What are you trying to prove?” Dad asks.

I don’t have an answer. I notice I’m shaking. I can’t tell if I’m scared or angry or cold but I think it might be all three. Dad doesn’t move. He looks past me to the garage door switch, then back at me. He’s trapped. I can’t move, so I’m trapped, too.

Grandad solves the problem by opening the garage door from the outside and then saying, “Mike. Fancy seeing you in my garage.”

“I was just leaving,” Dad says. “Wanted to stop by and see Mac.” He turns back to me. “Okay, bud. So I’ll be in touch about the camping trip and stuff.”

I have never been camping with my father. I’m not sure he’s ever been camping himself. And now he’s more like an alien than he ever was except, actually, he’s always been like this. Always acts half-caught, like what he’s doing is wrong. Always throws out weird lies like I’ll be in touch about camping! that make me feel like a disposable accomplice.

I’m glad Marci said those nice things about me earlier because those things are what’s holding me together right now. Between that and Grandad’s deep breaths, I feel like I’m pretty okay.

By the time I look up from my bike, still spinning the pedal so I can feel the tire running across my fingers, Dad is gone and Grandad stands, smiling at me. Or maybe it’s more of a grimace.

“I don’t even know what to say to you, Mac,” he says.

I nod and keep spinning the pedal.

“I’m going to keep trying to help him figure out—” He stops talking when I put my hand up.

I say, “Some battles we lose. Some battles we win. But some battles aren’t ours to fight.”

Grandad moves over to the bench and gets the oilcan. We grease the bike’s gears and chain, we check the tires again, we wipe it down and clean it until our hands are black.

Letters to the Editor—Snippets

Re: Junk Food—You may buy all the junk food you like and eat it whenever you like. If you don’t like living here anymore, move somewhere else!

I started thinking about how the person who censored these books is the same person who helped push the ordinance against pizza delivery. I would like to get pizza delivered sometimes and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

Last Saturday, I talked to the kids who complained about the book that was censored. They were kind, intelligent, well-spoken, and determined. I think without knowing it, our school system just created a bunch of kids who will care more about the real world than my generation ever did. Go, kids! We stand with you!

If they’re censoring fiction books in this district, how do we know if they’re censoring history books? Science? How do we know what’s really being taught?

I know it’s not holiday time yet, but I’d like to remind people in the district that it’s not right or legal for our school to put on a holiday show with religious music. If we’re so strict as to not allow junk food or certain words in books, then why are we allowing this religious show and forcing children who do not believe in this religion to sing about it?