She will drive up real slow and squint out her window, looking for me. This is when she does not wear her ugly sunglasses. Even though I could rush up and duck into the car before anyone has had time to see her, I walk up to the car purposefully, casually, stepping around the backpacks and people sitting on the lawn.

Now, I recognize her car, even though it is still half a block away, behind the line of traffic that waits to reach the pickup point. A white Plymouth holds everyone up. Jodi Page takes her time getting into the backseat, and her mother—only her head is visible above the partially rolled-up tinted window—does not seem bothered, and does not hurry her. A few cars back, someone’s father waits impatiently, clenching his steering wheel, though he doesn’t honk. You are not allowed to get into a car until it reaches the front of the creeping line, so I do not try to walk down the line to my mother.

As she nears, I flinch. She is wearing her bug-eyed sunglasses. She bends forward over the steering wheel, something she needs to do to see the Land Cruiser bumper that is only three feet ahead. When the truck moves forward, she lets a long gap develop (the driver behind her makes an impatient face), then she hits the accelerator and jerks forward, braking abruptly just short of the Land Cruiser. Her Tercel chassis seems to bounce on the stopped wheels.

I begin walking towards her car. My eyes focus ahead and I ignore the clusters of people around me. But my mother’s car lurches forward again, and this time she bumps the Land Cruiser. I stop. She hit it hard enough to hear it, and more faces turn in her direction. The mother in the Land Cruiser gets out and walks over to Mom’s car. She is blond and tall and thin and wears black yoga-class tights, and holds a Starbucks iced drink.

I step my way around a sitting couple, but halt again. A crowd forms to watch the yoga mother and Mom, who looks confused as the woman leans into her window and angrily talks down at her. My mother nervously pushes her glasses up on her face, listening. I am hoping this will be over soon, when my mother gets out of her car and looks up at her.

Probably everyone wonders who this little Filipino woman is, since she has only recently begun picking me up here. The yoga mom’s son, Ben Feinstein, only a few years younger than me, watches from a couple of yards away, looking around self-consciously.

Sweat itches beneath my shirt. I am thinking about what to do when Jordan Hammerson approaches. He had distracted Cynthia Rowe, who then forgot she was on her way over to me.

He comes right up beside me, watching them.