I’d put the mangled bumper in the bed of the truck and moved the truck to the driveway. I’d tried to move the platform that was now bent and broken, but it was too heavy. The torn-up grass I’d pieced back together the best I could, covering the major bald spot, but it was a muddy mess even when I was done. Inside the truck, I’d cleaned the floor mats, wiped down the seats, and even refilled the water gun. I’d showered until the hot water ran cold and now I sat in the cab, ice packs on my shoulders, listening to his voice over and over. My parents had some home videos of my brother from when he was younger, cancer free. But none from when he was older. So this was the first time I’d heard his mature voice.

After he spoke, there was twenty minutes’ worth of silence. I knew this because I listened to every second of the rest of the tape to make sure he hadn’t said anything else. Then I rewound the tape all the way to the beginning and played the whole thing again, taking note of the songs now that I knew what they represented—songs that made him feel alive.

It was late in the afternoon by the time I finally pulled myself from the cab and went inside. I hung the keys to the truck carefully back in their glass box in the kitchen. Not that it would help. My parents would still know I had taken them out. My phone had died an hour before so I plugged it in.

Three missed calls were waiting for me when it got some charge back. All from my mother. Did she know? Had my neighbor called and tattled? There was no way someone hadn’t seen what was going on this morning.

As I was contemplating whether to call her back or not, my phone rang again, her name flashing on the screen. I took a deep breath and answered.

“Hello.”

“Hadley, hi. I’ve been trying to call you.”

“My phone was dead. Is the race done?” Maybe if we talked about that first, she’d know I was still a good daughter.

“It finished a couple hours ago.”

“It went smoothly?”

“Very. I was going to stay until tomorrow, but I’m tired and your father is coming home tonight and I just want to have all day tomorrow with the two of you. I need some family time. So I’m already on my way home. I should be there by nine.”

Family time? Now she wanted family time?

“And Dad?” I so needed my dad to be home first. He would help me explain this all to Mom. He would make it better.

“I think he’ll be home closer to ten.”

I swallowed. When the lump in my throat didn’t budge, I swallowed again. “Okay.” It wasn’t too late to run away. My grandparents might take me.

“How was your weekend?” she asked. “Fun?”

I might as well prepare her now. “Interesting. I need to tell you something when you get home.”

“Did you throw a party?” she asked, laughing like she knew it wasn’t a possibility.

“No.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”

“Okay, we’ll talk when I get home, then. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I was glad we’d said it now because it might not be said for a long time after today.

My first instinct when I hung up was to get onto my computer and talk to the guy who’d been giving me advice for over a month now. It took me two seconds to remember that guy was also the one who just walked away from me like he was finished. No, he wasn’t finished. He was just hurt that I didn’t want him to stay, like Amelia said. Everything would be fine once we talked again.

I signed onto the computer anyway, thinking I could just read over our old conversations and get something helpful out of them. But they were gone. Every last private message we’d shared had been deleted. And since I hadn’t done it, that meant Jackson had. My heart tightened in pain and I quickly shut the computer. If I hadn’t thought he was walking away before, I knew now. He was done with me. Just like that.

The next five hours went by both painfully slow and alarmingly fast. I spent them cleaning. Icing my shoulders more. Making sure everything was in order so that when Mom came home, at least she’d be happy about one thing. I wasn’t sure if I should wait outside, sitting on the tailgate of the truck. Or if I should let her have her reaction in private and wait inside, where hopefully she’d have concealed some of the initial shock.

Like the coward I decidedly was, I chose inside.

I wore my hair down and put on a nice outfit, as though I were waiting for a date. I was usually in swim gear so this, too, would make my mom happy.

The key in the lock sent my heart racing. I began a silent plea, to God or to my brother or to whoever was listening, that this wouldn’t break apart my family. The sound of things, her purse maybe, hitting the entryway floor, followed by rushing feet prepared me for her arrival. And then there she was, standing in the doorway to the living room, a panicked look on her face.

When she saw me, that panicked look melted into relief. I was confused by the reaction but then anger took over her features. That’s what I’d been expecting.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I didn’t mean to.”

“What. Happened.”

The speech I had rehearsed for five hours left me faster than I could blink. It was a good speech, if I remembered. One that explained how sorry I was and how much I just wanted to feel equally loved. Something that would make me sound apologetic and her feel guilty. That had seemed like the right balance. But my brother’s voice on the tape was repeating over and over in my head. If you can’t laugh, what’s life worth?

And that’s when I saw the humor in the last few days. Eric would’ve found it all funny, I was sure of it. Me stealing his stupid truck. Heath Hall mask on the dash. Jackson squirting me. Slurpees and muddy feet and kissing. And last of all, me unable to put it all back together, sleeping in the truck bed, prying off the bumper. It was all very funny. I’d had an adventure with my brother, in a way, and I wasn’t sorry for it. I was happy about it. It wasn’t a good time to laugh and I was sure half the reason for this reaction was sheer exhaustion but I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

Thirty-Eight

Mom was so good at the disappointed face. Like she had practiced it in front of the mirror hundreds of times to make it just perfect. I had just gotten my laughter under control when she pulled out the face and that thought sent me laughing again.

“Are you on something? Have you been drinking?” she asked.

I was never going to stop laughing if she kept saying stuff like that. I tried to think of something sobering. Death. My brother’s death. But again, that only made me smile as I thought about dancing on his grave. He was morbid.

I had come up with a five-minute speech that I was going to have to cut to five seconds because of my hysterics. “I took his truck. I was mad at you for missing my award ceremony and I couldn’t tell you that.”

“So you took your anger toward me out on your brother’s truck?”

Her anger was the perfect medicine for my laughter. It stopped immediately. It stopped because she didn’t have the right to be angry. I did. I got to be mad about this not her. “Yes, actually.”

That surprised her. I could tell because she stuttered at first, unsure of what to say. “Well, that’s . . . you . . . there will be consequences for this.”