Chapter 1
“When will you be back?” I asked Dad, watching as he zipped up two large suitcases. He was on the shorter side but broad and solid, someone most people wouldn’t want to mess with. He wore red and black sweats, his glasses catching the light as he looked at me with an expression that seemed almost soft, compassionate. For weeks, I’d heard my parents argue, more than ever before. Now, out of nowhere, Dad was leaving without saying where.
“I don’t know, boy,” he finally said, heading toward the stairs of our two-story row home. Confused, I looked over at Mom. She was taller and thinner than Dad, with glasses like his, dressed in blue jeans and a red top. Her arms were crossed as she leaned against the door, eyes fixed on him as he started plodding down the steps.
“Where is he going?” I asked her.
“Ask him,” she replied, stressing each word with this cold, hateful tone.
I followed Dad down the steps. He was struggling with his bags but still managing to get down one step at a time. My sister was asleep in her room as I passed by. “Where are you going?” I called out.
He paused, turning back to look at me for a second as if he was going to answer, but then stopped. “I’ll call you when I get there.” With that, he turned and went out the back door.
I looked back at Mom, who was crying silently, her hand to her mouth as she quickly disappeared into their room, closing the door behind her. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t understand. Was he going TDY, like for temporary duty, the way he’d done in the past? Was he visiting Na-Na, my great-grandmother? And why was he leaving so late? It didn’t occur to me that arguing could be a factor. All I knew was that Dad left without saying goodbye.
I knocked on Mom’s door and could hear her on the phone. “He left. He left us!” she said, her voice heavy with anger and pain. I couldn’t tell who she was talking to, but I knew one thing—she wasn’t expecting him to leave, and that just made it all more confusing. I stayed outside her door, trying to catch more of the conversation, and eventually picked up bits and pieces. It sounded like Dad was moving into his own place. But why? Did I do something?
I thought about it. I wasn’t exactly the son he probably wanted. I was sensitive, not into the outdoors like he was, and didn’t really care for cars. But we were always close. He’d been my coach in basketball and soccer. Sure, some people thought it was just because I was his kid, but he held me to the same standards as everyone else. And my grades were okay, not great like they used to be, but they’d started slipping since all the fighting began. Maybe that disappointed him.
But wouldn’t he have told me if it was about my grades? I thought back to a conversation we’d had after the first quarter, when he’d teased me about Jessica, a white girl I was sort of dating, and hinted that maybe that was why my grades weren’t what they usually were. The whole thing had made me question why I was even dating her. I liked Jessica, sure, but not as much as I liked Tracy and April, who were Black. Jessica liked me, and, well, I wasn’t exactly a catch, so when she asked me out, I said yes. We’d actually dated briefly last year, in sixth grade, after this big district-wide competition. She’d been crying on the bus ride back, and I’d felt bad for her. So when we got back to class, I passed her a note asking her out, thinking it might cheer her up. She said yes, and everyone knew we were dating, but she broke up with me the next day. I didn’t mind—we barely knew each other.
Now, in seventh grade, she’d come back and asked if we could date again. I was surprised, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I agreed, even though my crushes on Tracy and April were stronger. Dad would tease me about Jessica from time to time, and I started wondering if he’d left because of that. He was a proud Black man, something I’d often heard from his friends. He’d always pushed me to learn about African American history and figures, and our house was full of African art—paintings and figurines that made it clear what he cared about.
But no, Dad wouldn’t leave because of something like that. He would’ve just told me straight out, like he always did. It couldn’t be Jessica. But confusion still clawed at me, making my chest feel tight. What if he didn’t come back? Who was this woman Mom was yelling about on the phone now? And what else could it be? I’d even made the all-star team this year, without Dad as my coach, something I thought he’d be proud of. Could he be upset about that?
I thought back to a game earlier in the season, when he’d tried to give me advice during halftime, and I’d snapped at him for the first time. The memory made me wince; I’d instantly regretted it. I’d expected him to get angry, maybe even hit me, but he’d just nodded and went back to the stands. After that, he never came to another game.
Maybe that was it. Maybe I needed to apologize. All he was trying to do was help, and I’d yelled at him. I could feel guilt building up, tightening my throat. My thoughts started spinning, wondering what else I could’ve done to make him leave. Maybe it wasn’t just me. Maybe it was something Mom did, or even my sister, Celine. Maybe it was all of us. Nothing made sense.
I tossed around in bed, reaching for a comic book to distract myself. I stared at a picture of Jean Grey, wishing I could read minds, hoping I’d somehow know what Dad was thinking. My eyelids started to feel heavy, the confusion and worry finally giving way to sleep. My last thought before drifting off was simple and painful: it’s my fault, and I have to fix it.
