Not If I See You First(78)

You know it’s just because I don’t want to remember you that way anymore. Every night I pulled gold stars out of that stupid bottle it never occurred to me how morbid that was. I thought it was part of remembering but it was slow poison, like if I kept water to drink on my nightstand in the wine bottle Mom polished off that night. It’s amazing how people can be so blind to what’s good for them and what isn’t, what’s truth and what’s not, or the difference between secrets and things just not yet known.

Oh, and Rule Number Infinity, the one about no second chances I added after I broke up with Scott? Got rid of it. The first rule I’ve ever taken off the list. There shouldn’t be an infinite number of rules anyway. Don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

Now the troll in my brain is making me worry the sidewalk isn’t clear. Which is stupid since I didn’t think anyone was checking it the past three months and didn’t worry about it, even after that near miss at the Reiches’. But now that I know Scott was checking up on me all that time, the thought that he didn’t this morning… Damn it, Dad, why do we have to live with trolls in our brains? If you ever figure it out, let me know… subconsciously or something. Or in a dream…

… because I can’t keep talking to you like this. I thought it was remembering but it’s about not letting go. I need to talk to people who can hear me, and answer, and laugh when I make them happy and bark when I’m an idiot. I keep trying to do everything on my own but I learn so much better with other people, and—irony alert—most of what I think of as my independence I really learned from you. Even though you left way too soon, you taught me enough for a lifetime.

And I’m not afraid anymore of what might have happened that night. No matter what it was, it wouldn’t change the sixteen years of goodness that came before it one bit, and especially not the nine years of darkness you helped me through. There’s so much good to remember and be grateful for, Dad, and I am. I’ll always love you for it.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs. I haven’t had a dream about Dad in a couple weeks. It’s not how I’d prefer him to visit but it’s definitely welcome. My silent monologues are over but I hope to see him again soon.

Outside, I lock the door and slip the key into my sock. I’m still worried about the route…

No, I’m not going to start being afraid now. I told Scott I would own my safety, so I need to stop being an idiot or at least try. If there’s a van parked across the sidewalk up ahead, I need to be smarter and deal with it myself.

I jog holding my left arm outstretched, elbow slightly bent, so if it hits something it’ll fold safely and I’ll have enough warning to turn my shoulder in and protect the side of my head with my right forearm. Just for the sidewalk part; I won’t run like this once I get to the field. It’s pretty awkward, and it’ll take getting used to, but it’s smarter. Or at least it’s less batshit crazy.

I stop at the intersection. The only sound is a couple of birds so I jog across the street, my left arm still out on the minuscule chance someone parked in the crosswalk since yesterday and didn’t get towed. That and to get more practice doing it.

I reach the chain link fence, turn right, walk fourteen steps to the gap, turn left, and pass through without touching either side, like always.

Click.

I freeze.

From the far side of the field, I hear the soundtrack to Grease.

This time it isn’t endlessly looping while he waits with his phone a few blocks away. I heard it start just now.

I grin. I try to stop, but then I stop trying to stop because why shouldn’t I smile? I remember what else he did the last time he met me here, and while that might be too much to hope for this soon, at the very least, with Scott here now, Gunther Field has never been safer.

The question is, do I run like always or should I just walk over and play it cool?

God, who is that person? I silence the troll in my brain and start jogging… running… sprinting…

Just how fast can I run? I mean really?

Time to find out.





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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thanks to Jennifer Weltz, my agent at JVNLA, for being amazing, calm, patient, and for never letting me get away with anything. And to Tara Hart for walking me through the myriad details.


Thanks to Pam Gruber, my editor at LBYR, for immediately understanding Parker and helping me tell her story better. To copy chief Barbara Bakowski, production editor Annie McDonnell, copyeditor Ashley Mason, and proofreader JoAnna Kremer, for helping improve the telling while protecting Parker’s voice. To Liz Casal for her excellent book design. To Alvina Ling, Farrin Jacobs, Shawn Foster, Victoria Stapleton, Kristin Dulaney, and Leslie Shumate, for their praise and encouragement during this exciting process; and to internal champions Megan Tingley, Andrew Smith, Dave Epstein, and the rest of the stars I’ve yet to hear about at LBYR who chose to believe in Parker Grant.


Thanks to Saralyn Borboa, Literary Committee Chair for the National Braille Association, for kind and thorough advice, with consultants Bonifacio Lucio, Jo Elizabeth Pinto, and Marilyn Breedlove. For those interested, employed here is simulated Unified English Braille (UEB). Scott communicates to Parker with uncontracted grade 1 braille, which uses one cell per letter, but all other instances here are contracted grade 2 braille, which shortcuts certain whole words and common letter combinations. Working out what they mean requires some effort, looking up contractions and formatting conventions, or consulting a transcriber. Have fun!