The darkness swallows me. Where’s the door? “Help!” The knob rattles. A small light floods the room. “It’s okay, I’m here,” Mom soothes.
Adirondack chairs abandoned lakeside. Kayaks tied to the car roof. Tweens puff on stolen cigarettes, plot to run away together.
Approaching the sad girl on the playground, I looked at me. “Every year is better than the last.” And then I returned to the time machine.
Daddy isn’t fair, taking my cell away like that. I’ll show him. When the sleek car pulls up, I reveal my white thigh and wait to be let in.
In first grade they hated each other; in junior high they said they hated each other. Just before leaving for college they slept together.
“Hi Papa,” she says. “I have your Father’s Day gift.” Sobbing, she spits a wet gob of phlegm against his headstone. “See you next year.”