What Happened to Goodbye(61)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Oh, it is. You have no idea.”

“Dave?” Mr. Wade said, peering out at us. “How’s that light coming?”

“Got it. Be right there,” he replied. His dad nodded, waving at me, and I waved back, watching as he carried the box out of the garage, placing it beneath the basketball goal, then doubled back. Dave said, “To my dad, heaven is a big mess and an endless supply of Rubbermaid bins.”

I smiled, then looked up at the building in front of us. “Hey, did you ever go in here? You know, beyond the cellar?”

“A couple of times, when I was a kid,” he replied. “Before they boarded up the windows.”

“Is it a house?”

“If it was, it was a big one. It’s huge inside. Why?”

I shrugged. “Just wondered. It seems so out of place here, with everything else grown up around it.”

“Yeah? ” He looked back at the building. “Never really thought about it like that. It’s been here for as long as I can remember, though. I guess I’m just used to it.”

We started walking across the yard, toward our driveways, where Mr. Wade had piled a few more boxes under the basketball goal, along with several Rubbermaid plastic bins. “See?” Dave said. “Welcome to paradise.”

I scanned the boxes. Some were open, some taped shut, and hardly any were labeled. “What is all this stuff anyway?”

“You name it.” He clicked the flashlight on, moving it across them. “Old chemistry-set parts, rat cages—”

“Rat cages?”

“My mother is allergic to all dander,” he explained. “Except rat.”

“Ah.”

“And then, of course, my model trains.” He leaned over, lifting the flaps on a box and pulling out something. When he held it out to me, I saw it was a toy soldier, small and green, holding a gun. Bang.

“Wow,” I said. “How much of this stuff do you have?”

“More than you would believe. If you and your dad are minimalists, then we’re . . . maximumalists. Or something.” I looked at the soldier again. “We don’t throw much away. You never know what you might need.”

“That’s what stores are for.”

“Says the girl with no thyme,” he replied. There was a loud scraping noise from the garage, and we both looked over to see Mr. Wade, red-faced, his skinny arms straining as he tried to push the shelves out from the wall. “I think I’m being paged.”

“Right,” I said. “Have fun.”

“You know it,” he said, then walked over to the garage, sliding the flashlight into his back pocket, taking his place on the other side of the shelves.

As they started pushing again, I walked over to the boxes, peering into the one Dave had taken the soldier from. Inside, there were more figures, as well as horses and wagons. The box beside it, identical in size and shape, held yet another collection, this time of weapons: miniature cannons, rifles, muskets, plus more modern things—revolvers, machine guns—clearly from other soldier sets. As I dropped my single soldier back in, I looked at Dave and his dad again and thought of all of those battles he must have created, each detail perfect and accurate. The most controlled kind of conflict, all within your doing, the outcome and every consequence carefully manipulated. Maybe it was geeky, or even embarrassing. But now, especially, I understood the appeal.

The next morning, I got up early, slipping out the front door before it was even fully light. My dad had gotten home later than usual the night before, which I knew because I was up, and remained so, listening to his familiar late-night noises: the radio on low as he had a beer in the kitchen, his routine after-work shower, and finally the sound of him snoring about two seconds after he turned off his light.

The entire evening I’d been avoiding thinking about my mother as I made myself dinner, checked e-mail, folded laundry, and ran the dishwasher. I focused on normal things, routines, as if by doing so I could keep the strangeness that was this whole custody issue at bay. Once I was in bed, though, I could think of nothing else.

Now, out in the semidarkness, my jacket wrapped tight around me, I started walking toward downtown, my breath puffing out in front of me. No one was out, save for a few bundled-up runners and some policemen, driving slowly, the entire roads to themselves. I walked down block after block, retracing my steps to that bright neon OPEN sign.

“Welcome to Frazier Bakery!”

I nodded, walking over to the counter, where this time an older guy with curly hair and glasses was standing behind the register. “Hi,” he said. He looked kind of sleepy. “What can I get you to make you feel at home today?”

“Procrastinator’s Special,” I said.

He didn’t even blink. “Coming right up.”

Five minutes later, I was back in that same squishy leather chair, facing the fake fireplace. The only other people in the entire place were a group of senior citizens, having a spirited conversation about tics at a round table by the front door. I thought of my dad, asleep back at the house, not even knowing where I was or what I was about to do.

Once I’d calmed down the night before—and it took a while—I could understand why he’d said what he did about just giving in to my mom’s demands. We’d been fighting for so long, and now, with only half a year left that any of this mattered, I didn’t know if I wanted to be the one to put us through it all again. What was six months, in the scheme of things, when I knew I’d be leaving here by the end of the summer anyway?

But really, it wasn’t about six months, or a summer. It wasn’t about the divorce, or all these moves, and all the girls I’d chosen to be. This time, more than any before, it was about me. About a life I’d built in not much more than a month, a town where I felt finally somewhat at home, and the friends I’d made there. It was just my luck that at the precise moment I most needed to be able to cut and run, I’d finally found a place—and maybe even some people—worth holding on to.

“Welcome to Frazier Bakery!” the guy behind the counter yelled. He sounded more awake: I wondered if he’d had a few shots of coffee himself.

“Good morning!” a woman’s voice, cheerful, called back. I glanced over, and there was Lindsay Baker, wearing yoga pants and a fleece jacket, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. When she saw me, she smiled and came right over. “Mclean! Hello! I didn’t know you liked this place!”