display on my clock read a little after six. I never woke up this early on weekends. Rolling over, I tried to go back to sleep, but seconds later Darcy, sensing someone was awake, arrived at the side of the bed and nosed my hand.
“Yeah, yeah. Good morning to you, too.” His tail thumped on the floor when I acknowledged his presence. I yawned. “All right. I’m getting up.”
Almost every Saturday since we had moved, my dad and I went to the bakery in town for breakfast. It was the same routine each time. I got decaf Earl Grey tea with a healthy dose of cream and sugar, and my dad always drank a straight shot of espresso. I had made the mistake of taking a sip of his once. Bleh. It tasted like rocket fuel. My dad had laughed and said, “It’ll put hair on your chest.” I had responded with a quick, “Thank you, no.” Usually on these mornings when I managed to wake up early enough, I tried to summon the motivation to take a jog before we left. I smirked. Six o’clock was certainly early enough by my standards.
My goal was to stay in reasonable shape now that I wasn’t running cross country. I had never been fast, but I still enjoyed running. There were a couple of girls on the team back in Irvine who I had hung out with pretty regularly, but after a few e-mails and texts over the summer, none of us had much to say. For me, that part of my life had stopped evolving.
Dressing in my sweats, I drifted downstairs and peeled a banana while Darcy crunched on a bowl of dog food. The house was so still that my ears began to ring. My dad would be asleep for at least another hour and a half, giving me ample time to run and shower before we left. I decided not to text him so his phone wouldn’t wake him up. Instead, I left a note on the counter reminding myself to tell him about the party with Sean.
I figured most kids my age had better things to do on Saturday mornings than go to breakfast with their dads. Then again, most of them had licenses, social lives, and places to go. Still, it didn’t feel like I had the luxury of skipping out on the little things—because there wasn’t always time to go back and change things later.
At five years old, I had asked my mom what happened after we died. Her ancient gray cat, Popcorn, who had been named for his habit of eating popcorn straight out of the bowl, had died in his sleep that summer while sunning himself on the back porch of our house. More philosophical than religious, my parents had struggled to provide me with the answers about death that I had craved so badly at the time.
Years later, when I had asked my mom again, she had said that death was an inevitable part of life. Then she had admitted that she couldn’t say definitively what happened after we died. Her answer had caused me quite a bit of frustration, causing me to envy anyone whose parents subscribed to one religion or another. Eventually I had settled on my mom’s answer: I was just never going to know for sure what happened after we died.
After losing her, thinking about my own mortality became both an obsession and a punishment. I dreamt of seeing her again, but on nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would stare up at the ceiling, feeling my breath come in and out. In those moments, all I ever felt was a sense of panic, a desperate need to hold onto that single moment, before it was gone.
By the time I stepped outside, quietly closing the front door behind me, I could see just enough light behind the clouds to indicate that it was morning. A thick layer of fog crept down our street as I stretched, and I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt to ward off the cold. I had just gotten to the street when I noticed Darcy was still on the front steps. I waited for him to join me, which he did, after a moment’s hesitation. Suddenly I remembered that I had agreed to go to Jason Everett’s party, and my stomach clenched. Chances were good that I wouldn’t know anyone, except for Sean, and what were parties
“Yeah, yeah. Good morning to you, too.” His tail thumped on the floor when I acknowledged his presence. I yawned. “All right. I’m getting up.”
Almost every Saturday since we had moved, my dad and I went to the bakery in town for breakfast. It was the same routine each time. I got decaf Earl Grey tea with a healthy dose of cream and sugar, and my dad always drank a straight shot of espresso. I had made the mistake of taking a sip of his once. Bleh. It tasted like rocket fuel. My dad had laughed and said, “It’ll put hair on your chest.” I had responded with a quick, “Thank you, no.” Usually on these mornings when I managed to wake up early enough, I tried to summon the motivation to take a jog before we left. I smirked. Six o’clock was certainly early enough by my standards.
My goal was to stay in reasonable shape now that I wasn’t running cross country. I had never been fast, but I still enjoyed running. There were a couple of girls on the team back in Irvine who I had hung out with pretty regularly, but after a few e-mails and texts over the summer, none of us had much to say. For me, that part of my life had stopped evolving.
Dressing in my sweats, I drifted downstairs and peeled a banana while Darcy crunched on a bowl of dog food. The house was so still that my ears began to ring. My dad would be asleep for at least another hour and a half, giving me ample time to run and shower before we left. I decided not to text him so his phone wouldn’t wake him up. Instead, I left a note on the counter reminding myself to tell him about the party with Sean.
I figured most kids my age had better things to do on Saturday mornings than go to breakfast with their dads. Then again, most of them had licenses, social lives, and places to go. Still, it didn’t feel like I had the luxury of skipping out on the little things—because there wasn’t always time to go back and change things later.
At five years old, I had asked my mom what happened after we died. Her ancient gray cat, Popcorn, who had been named for his habit of eating popcorn straight out of the bowl, had died in his sleep that summer while sunning himself on the back porch of our house. More philosophical than religious, my parents had struggled to provide me with the answers about death that I had craved so badly at the time.
Years later, when I had asked my mom again, she had said that death was an inevitable part of life. Then she had admitted that she couldn’t say definitively what happened after we died. Her answer had caused me quite a bit of frustration, causing me to envy anyone whose parents subscribed to one religion or another. Eventually I had settled on my mom’s answer: I was just never going to know for sure what happened after we died.
After losing her, thinking about my own mortality became both an obsession and a punishment. I dreamt of seeing her again, but on nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would stare up at the ceiling, feeling my breath come in and out. In those moments, all I ever felt was a sense of panic, a desperate need to hold onto that single moment, before it was gone.
By the time I stepped outside, quietly closing the front door behind me, I could see just enough light behind the clouds to indicate that it was morning. A thick layer of fog crept down our street as I stretched, and I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt to ward off the cold. I had just gotten to the street when I noticed Darcy was still on the front steps. I waited for him to join me, which he did, after a moment’s hesitation. Suddenly I remembered that I had agreed to go to Jason Everett’s party, and my stomach clenched. Chances were good that I wouldn’t know anyone, except for Sean, and what were parties
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