If mercy exists in Cross Pointe, Paul will be out with his bowling team and Mom will be home watching TLC. She’ll let me escape upstairs without an inquisition about how my date went and why I’m home so early.
But I don’t expect mercy—I expect them to be brooding because they missed their dinner reservation. Mom will be nursing some imagined slight by one of the neighborhood ladies: not being invited to join a walking group or insufficient praise of her flower beds. Paul will be brainstorming ways to solve her drama. And when I walk in, all that fix-it energy will be focused on me. Why don’t you still play baseball? Have you joined any clubs? I heard about this great charity project the high school is doing—that pretty Waterford girl is running it—why don’t you sign up? Do you know the average CP teen spends three hours a week volunteering? When was the last time you spent three minutes thinking of anyone but yourself? How about we all go to the art fair on the town commons tomorrow? Mrs. Glenn’s son, Patrick, will be there—you boys could do something afterward.
Why can’t the town leave me alone? Why can’t Paul and Mom leave me alone? Why can’t Brighton? Haven’t they all taken enough from me—my address, the second half of my senior year, my identity—did they really need my girlfriend too?
I just want to make it to graduation. Fourteen days, that’s it. A few more months beyond that and I’m gone. I’ll be in a dorm on the other side of the state. I don’t think anyone has ever looked forward to going away to college as much as I am.
When I reach the exit for Cross Pointe, I accelerate. I blow by the exit for Green Lake too. I’d keep driving all night, except in East Lake the highway becomes something with traffic lights, and my rage and red lights aren’t a good mix. Since the forty dollars from Mom is the only cash in my wallet, I need to park before I impatiently rear-end the SUV in front of me. I end up sitting in a diner with a forced-retro decor, picking at a half-decent burger and plate of salty fries.
It’s fine. I can direct my anger at the pink stars on the tabletop and the obnoxious jukebox music while the grease congeals on my plate. At least I can until a teen mob comes in and crams themselves into the booths on either side of mine. They aim conversations over my head and annoyed glances in my direction.
This makes three towns where I’m unwanted. I signal for my waitress.
The teens overflow into my booth before I’m out the door.
In the car, I call Carly. An hour later the breakup doesn’t make any more sense, doesn’t make me any less angry. It’s probably a good thing I get her voice mail. And that I hang up instead of leaving a message I’ll regret.
A horn honks, then a car flies past me. I glance at my odometer—I’m driving ten miles under the speed limit. When I reach my exit I can’t think of a good excuse not to take it. I can’t think of anywhere else to go.
The looming cul de sac makes my muscles tense. I hate this town: a “planned community” constructed at the intersections of Hamilton, West Lawn, Green Lake, and Summerset. Everything about Cross Pointe is artificial and obnoxious.
Mom and Paul still love exclaiming that they’re “so lucky to have found a house here! No one ever moves from Cross Pointe!” as if that justifies the insane cost of one of the super-sized matching colonials laid out in straight lines with sidewalks that are too perfect to meander and meet at right angles under streetlamps with hanging flower baskets.
Hate. This. Town.
I take the left into our neighborhood too fast, and my overcorrection tears a tire stripe through the lawn. I hope I took out some of the sprinkler heads on Paul’s automatic watering system.
I try to psych myself up to turn into the driveway. Maybe after this song. Or maybe after the next one. I drop my chin and take a deep breath. My head fills with chemical cherries, the smell so strong I half believe I’ll find Carly beside me. But when I turn, the seat is still empty and her lip-gloss residue is smeared on the collar of my shirt.
12
Brighton
7:53 P.M.
17 HOURS, 7 MINUTES LEFT
The grandfather clock is chiming 7:53 p.m. when I finally give in to my urge to climb the stairs. The monitor is telling the truth: Sophia’s fast asleep, lying on her back with her arms and legs spread out in starfish formation. Her pacifier has fallen out of her mouth but her lips still twitch in a sucking motion.
Her nursery is decorated in pink and white—matching polka-dot crib sheet, dust ruffle, rug, curtains, and overstuffed glider. Board books fill a carved white bookshelf, and I’m sure the dresser is full of sweet, ruffled outfits.