JOSH’S MOM GRABBED LAUREL from him, and her face went sour. “What did you do?”
Panic filled him. “Nothing! I told her not to chew the cards, okay?”
Laurel cried harder.
“Don’t back talk me, mister!” Grim, his mother turned to his father. “You see? This is what I’m talking about, Gary. I can’t control him.”
Josh felt his insides melt. “Mom, please.”
“Now it’s please?” She clutched Laurel like a pillow and spoke harshly. “No, sir. You’re going with your father. I don’t need you bullying your little sister, running off in the middle of the night. I’m sorry, Josh. You need a father. Even yours.”
“Get your things, Josh.” His father was impatient.
“No.” Josh shook his head, fighting back tears. “I don’t want to just go. I can’t just go. I have to . . .”
“Get your things, Josh!” His father slammed a palm against the wall. Knickknacks on the shelf danced and rattled. A porcelain mother duck with six chicks in tow tumbled to the floor along with a framed wedding picture of Josh’s grandparents.
“You!” His mother scrambled for the pieces.
“Now!” His father yelled.
Josh took off up the stairs. He yanked another big duffel bag from his closet and emptied his drawers, cursing under his breath. He stuffed his best sneakers and the only pair of shoes he had into the pile of underwear, shorts, T-shirts, sweat pants, sweatshirts, and jeans. The bag was nearly full by the time he stopped to survey his bookcase. There were so many books, and he couldn’t pick just one. He thought of the boxed set Jaden had given him, grateful for something to read. They had to have libraries in Florida, didn’t they? He decided they did.
On top of his bookcase stood his trophies. There were many. They gleamed, golden and proud. He looked at the bag. He couldn’t bring them all. Maybe just one? He selected the MVP from the national championship in Cooperstown, tucked it into the middle of his clothes for protection, and zipped the duffel bag shut. Throwing his comb and a few toiletries into his backpack, he slung it over his shoulder, then hoisted the duffel bag with both hands. He thumped his way out the bedroom door, turning around in the hall for one last look.
Heroes like Derek Jeter, Robinson Cano, and Jason Giambi graced the posters and team photos randomly covering the walls of his tiny room. The single bed in the corner was unmade, and Josh wondered if he’d ever bump his head on the low, sloping ceiling again. He tried to feed his anger, hoping it could overcome the hysterical desire to start crying, throw himself facedown on the bed in a tantrum, and refuse to go.
“Stupid bed,” he said. “For a baby.”
Then he turned his back on the best part of his childhood and marched down the stairs, right past his mother in the living room, and out the kitchen doorway. He didn’t stop until everything was shoved into the backseat of the Camaro. He slipped into the front seat and slammed the passenger door. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, aware that his father was coming out of the house now.
His dad opened the driver’s door and leaned in. “You better say good-bye.”
“She wants me to leave?” The words even tasted bitter. “Fine, I’m leaving.”
Josh’s dad sighed and looked at the door leading into the kitchen. He stood there for several minutes, waiting, but Josh didn’t move and his mother didn’t appear. Somewhere inside, Josh could still hear his little sister howling. She got that way sometimes. She was sensitive. Deep down, she probably knew Josh was leaving and, more important, her daddy was leaving too.
Josh nearly choked as his father started the engine. They backed out into the street and then took off. At the last instant Josh looked up at his house. There in the window stood his mother, Laurel clinging to her neck. Even through the window and from the street, Josh could see she was crying. And as his father stepped on the gas, his mother slowly raised her hand in what might have been a wave before the neighbors’ bushes stole the sight of her from him.