“You got this, Cham. I believe in you.”

“Thanks,” I say, lingering in the hallway and suddenly not wanting to leave. “I’m not totally positive what there is to believe, but I appreciate the faith.”

Dear Universe,

1. Does this shirt make my boobs look flat?

2. Should I really wear sneakers while running, or are bare feet the soul of moving?

3. What the hell do I do now that everyone’s moving forward and my dad’s health is moving backward and I’m moving at 8.0 on the treadmill, clocking mile after mile, but never getting any farther than my own basement?

Days ’til graduation: 6

“Here, Cham, don’t forget your papers and your deposit when you go to school,” my mom says after dinner one night during the last week of school. She hands me a large packet covered in red ink that swears she won’t sue the Gill School if I get killed by the spirit of volunteering.

“Oh, thanks.”

“I talked to Mr. Garcia,” my mom says, getting the Swiffer out of the hall closet and sweeping with a bit of a swing to her hips. “Seems like Nicaragua just depends on this English assignment. You can do it, sweetie. Want me to help you?”

“Uh, that’s okay.” I dart around her, not wanting to interrupt this romantic moment between her and the mop. “Where’s Dad?”

“In his room, I think.”

I walk in and he’s in his wheelchair in the corner, holding Motorcycle Maintenance. His glasses are on and he’s squinting at the text.

“Hi, Cham,” he says, voice clear and eyes bright.

“Hi, whatcha doing?”

“Giving this old book a try again. I feel good today, but—” He shakes his head. “It’s too…” He pauses and taps his finger against the book. “Mmm, I’m not processing things like I used to. Anyway, enough about me. How are you?”

“Mom gave me my paperwork for Nicaragua,” I offer.

“Nicaragua?”

“The volunteer trip thing.”

“Oh, right.” He frowns and looks out the window. I doubt he does remember about Nicaragua. “I don’t know if I want you going alone to a foreign country where you don’t know the language. I only have one daughter.”

“That we know of,” I say, and smile wickedly.

“Chamomile Myles.”

“Sorry.” I pick a piece of lint off my sweater. “You know, Dad, I don’t have to go to Nicaragua. I could stay here.”

“So it is dangerous?” he asks.

“What? No. I promise, the chaperones have our asses covered.”

“Don’t swear, Cham, it’s not becoming.”

“Sorry,” I sigh. “I just mean with your motorcycle accident and everything, I didn’t know if you wanted to spend some time together this summer or something.”

He locks and unlocks his wheelchair, then looks up at me blankly. He’s not getting that I just want his permission to leave, but of course that’s not what I want at all. He’d never ask me to stay. So what am I really asking? And who?