Sunny(22)

I asked him if he wanted me to call him Dad.

He asked me if I wanted to.

I told him I didn’t think so. Then asked him if that made him sad.

He asked me if I hated him.

I said, of course not.

Then Darryl is fine.

Cool.

Now, your turn. Tell me a secret.

At first I thought about telling him about you, Diary. About how I still talk to you through writing. And how really that’s kinda weird, but I like it. I like you. But then I was like, no, that’s not a big deal, not nearly as big of a secret as me talking to myself. Like having full-on conversations. And none of that’s as big of a deal as me sometimes climbing into my baby crib, since it’s still in my room. But I wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. What I really wanted to say, what I really wanted to tell him was something new, something fresh that I was holding in.

I’m scared about tomorrow. About the track meet. That’s what I told him.

He asked why.

I told I’m used to running the mile, and knowing that I will win, and when I do, I know I’ve made my team proud, and made my mom proud. I knew I’d be putting that ribbon in his hand. But if for some reason tomorrow, I don’t do well, then I’ve let everybody down. Him, the team . . . my mother. Everyone.

Darryl set his fork down. His face stoning up in that serious way. He told me that he knows he hasn’t been the kind of father that gives advice but that he was going to give me some now. And then he said that when I step into that circle, and I do that weird spin, and I let that discus go, don’t think about him, or the team, or even my mother. He told me to let it go for me.





Dear Diary,

After dinner we came home, and before going to bed, we stood over the big table in the family room, picking through the pieces left to the puzzle we were working on. The face was complete, and the tricky part was now getting the rest of her body done, but most of it seemed to be blurred, like wind. It was the picture. The one Gramps gave me. The baby shower. And as Darryl and I tried blurry piece after blurry piece until finally completing most of her torso, we didn’t talk too much. Just worked together. And when we finally said good night, we did this weird hug thing like we had just grown arms, and before going upstairs, I glanced at the puzzle, at the blur, and knew I was in there.





9


Saturday


Dear Diary,

I don’t have time to say much this morning because it’s meet day, and I’m too nervous to write anything except for maybe, I’m so nervous. Wish me luck.

Also, I hope Darryl is okay. Today is the day my mother died.





Dear Diary, By the time I got downstairs, dressed in my Defenders uniform, ready to go to the meet, Darryl had already made breakfast. Pancakes and eggs. But I told him I can’t eat. Too nervous. Actually, first I thanked him. Then I told him I can’t eat because my stomach had been tied in knots all morning. Milky glue guts. So for the first time in forever I turned down pancakes.

Darryl said it was okay.

Then he said Happy birthday.

Happy birthday. Usually my birthday is spent with Aurelia taking me to a dance show or a concert, always always always something experimental that involves face painting and neon lights, which is cool, but I’m not sure how much of that screams Happy birthday, Sunny. But I always appreciate it. It’s more than anyone else usually does, and by anyone else, I mean Darryl. Darryl normally just takes this day off. Like, off of everything. He usually just sits in his chair and be stone.





Dear Diary,

Diary, I don’t want to bore you with all the stuff about the ride to the track. Or even the track itself. It’s always the same—a pretty quiet ride (quiet and cool, not quiet and weird) through the city, past the big inflatable purple long-armed monster dancing outside Everything Sports, eventually leading us to a track packed with people. So many people. Family members and friends stacked up in the stands, ready to cheer on their favorite runners. But I wasn’t a runner no more. And as we turned into the parking lot, that fact slapped me in the face.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t going to run.

Darryl asked if I was ready for this.

I told him I was.

But . . . the thing is, Diary . . . I wasn’t ready. And when I got out of the car and started walking toward the track, I started thinking of a way out of it all. A new plan.

I. OPTION 1: APPROACH THE TRACK (don’t turn back) A. Warm up and stretch with everyone as if nothing is wrong. You have the whole meet to figure out how to get out of this, because the discus is going to be the last event. If all else fails, just say it’s your birthday and you’d rather throw a party than throw a discus, and that next week you’ll be ready.

B. Run the mile as if you totally forgot you weren’t running it no more.

C. Throw the discus and embarrass yourself.

II. OPTION 2: DON’T APPROACH THE TRACK

A. Cry.

B. Poop on yourself. (If crying doesn’t work. But know, there’s no coming back from this.) C. Sunny . . .

Sunny!

Darryl was calling my name. I didn’t even know I’d stopped walking. Sheesh.

I continued on, looking out at the field as I got closer to it and the track, the white lines like rings around a green planet. A planet I’m used to orbiting. But now I was supposed to be locked down. I was supposed to fling the tiny metal spaceship back into outer space. I wished it could take me with it.