scissors. Bob’s hand is a piece of paper.
“I win!” I yell.
I never win the shoot. I snip the air with my fingers and dance a ridiculous jig, a cross between the moves of Jonathan Papelbon and Elaine Benes. Bob laughs. But the thrill of my unexpected victory is short-lived, stolen by the sight of Charlie now standing in the kitchen without his backpack.
“The Wii won’t save my level.”
“Charlie,
what
did I tell you to do?” I ask.
He just looks at me. The strings of my vocal cords wind a little tighter.
“I
told
you to bring your backpack in here twenty minutes ago.”
“I had to get to the next level.”
I grind my teeth. I know if I open my mouth, I’m going to lose it. I’ll yell and scare him, or cry and scare Bob, or rant and throw the damn Wii in the trash. Before yesterday, Charlie’s inability to listen or follow the simplest instruction annoyed me but in the typical way that I think most kids annoy most parents. Now, a tidal wave of fear and frustration rises inside me, and I have to fight to contain it, to keep it from spilling out and drowning us all. In the few seconds that I struggle to stay silent, I watch Charlie’s eyes become wide and glassy. The fear and frustration must be leaking out of my pores. Bob puts his hands on my shoulders.
“I’ll take care of this. You go,” says Bob.
I check my watch. If I leave now, I can get to work early, calm, and sane. I can even make a few phone calls on the way. I open my mouth and exhale.
“Thanks,” I say and squeeze his piece of paper hand.
I grab my bag, kiss Bob and the kids good-bye, and leave the house alone. It’s raw and raining hard outside. Without a hood or an umbrella, I run like hell to the car, but just before I throw myself into the driver’s seat, I notice a penny on the ground. I can’t resist it. I stop, pick it up, and then duck into the car. Chilly and drenched, I smile as I start the engine. I won the shoot and found a penny.
Today must be my lucky day.
R AIN IS COMING DOWN IN sheets, splashing onto the fogged windshield almost faster than the wipers can keep pace. The headlights click on, its sensors tricked by the dark morning into thinking that it’s nighttime. It feels like nighttime to my senses, too. It’s the kind of stormy morning that would be perfect for crawling back into bed.
But I’m not about to let the gloomy weather dampen my good mood. I have no kids to shuttle, buckets of time, and traffic is moving despite the weather. I’m going to get to work early, organized, and ready to tackle the day, instead of late, frazzled, grape juice stained, and unable to kick some inane Wiggles song out of my head.
And I’m going to get some work done on the way. I fish in my bag for my phone. I want to make a call to Harvard business school. November is our biggest recruiting month, and we’re competing with all the other top consulting firms, like McKinsey and Boston Consulting Group, to pluck the best and the brightest from this year’s crop. We never lure in as many graduates as McKinsey does, but we usually beat out BCG. After our first round of a hundred and fifty interviews, there are ten particularly impressive candidates whom we plan to woo.
I find my phone and begin searching for the Harvard number in my contact list. I can’t find it under H. That’s odd. Maybe it’s under B for Business School. I glance up at the road, and my heart seizes. Red brake lights glow everywhere, blurry through the wet and foggy windshield, unmoving, like a watercolor painting. Everything on the highway is still. Everything but me. I’m going 70 mph.
I slam on the brakes. They catch the road, and then they don’t. I’m hydroplaning. I pump the brakes. I’m hydroplaning. I’m getting closer and closer to the red lights in the painting.
Oh my God.
I turn the wheel hard to the left. Too hard. I’m now outside the last lane of the eastbound highway, spinning between east and west. I’m sure the car’s
“I win!” I yell.
I never win the shoot. I snip the air with my fingers and dance a ridiculous jig, a cross between the moves of Jonathan Papelbon and Elaine Benes. Bob laughs. But the thrill of my unexpected victory is short-lived, stolen by the sight of Charlie now standing in the kitchen without his backpack.
“The Wii won’t save my level.”
“Charlie,
what
did I tell you to do?” I ask.
He just looks at me. The strings of my vocal cords wind a little tighter.
“I
told
you to bring your backpack in here twenty minutes ago.”
“I had to get to the next level.”
I grind my teeth. I know if I open my mouth, I’m going to lose it. I’ll yell and scare him, or cry and scare Bob, or rant and throw the damn Wii in the trash. Before yesterday, Charlie’s inability to listen or follow the simplest instruction annoyed me but in the typical way that I think most kids annoy most parents. Now, a tidal wave of fear and frustration rises inside me, and I have to fight to contain it, to keep it from spilling out and drowning us all. In the few seconds that I struggle to stay silent, I watch Charlie’s eyes become wide and glassy. The fear and frustration must be leaking out of my pores. Bob puts his hands on my shoulders.
“I’ll take care of this. You go,” says Bob.
I check my watch. If I leave now, I can get to work early, calm, and sane. I can even make a few phone calls on the way. I open my mouth and exhale.
“Thanks,” I say and squeeze his piece of paper hand.
I grab my bag, kiss Bob and the kids good-bye, and leave the house alone. It’s raw and raining hard outside. Without a hood or an umbrella, I run like hell to the car, but just before I throw myself into the driver’s seat, I notice a penny on the ground. I can’t resist it. I stop, pick it up, and then duck into the car. Chilly and drenched, I smile as I start the engine. I won the shoot and found a penny.
Today must be my lucky day.
R AIN IS COMING DOWN IN sheets, splashing onto the fogged windshield almost faster than the wipers can keep pace. The headlights click on, its sensors tricked by the dark morning into thinking that it’s nighttime. It feels like nighttime to my senses, too. It’s the kind of stormy morning that would be perfect for crawling back into bed.
But I’m not about to let the gloomy weather dampen my good mood. I have no kids to shuttle, buckets of time, and traffic is moving despite the weather. I’m going to get to work early, organized, and ready to tackle the day, instead of late, frazzled, grape juice stained, and unable to kick some inane Wiggles song out of my head.
And I’m going to get some work done on the way. I fish in my bag for my phone. I want to make a call to Harvard business school. November is our biggest recruiting month, and we’re competing with all the other top consulting firms, like McKinsey and Boston Consulting Group, to pluck the best and the brightest from this year’s crop. We never lure in as many graduates as McKinsey does, but we usually beat out BCG. After our first round of a hundred and fifty interviews, there are ten particularly impressive candidates whom we plan to woo.
I find my phone and begin searching for the Harvard number in my contact list. I can’t find it under H. That’s odd. Maybe it’s under B for Business School. I glance up at the road, and my heart seizes. Red brake lights glow everywhere, blurry through the wet and foggy windshield, unmoving, like a watercolor painting. Everything on the highway is still. Everything but me. I’m going 70 mph.
I slam on the brakes. They catch the road, and then they don’t. I’m hydroplaning. I pump the brakes. I’m hydroplaning. I’m getting closer and closer to the red lights in the painting.
Oh my God.
I turn the wheel hard to the left. Too hard. I’m now outside the last lane of the eastbound highway, spinning between east and west. I’m sure the car’s
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