“You’re too nice. Clearly I don’t have that problem. Neither do those gossiping bitches at the salon. They don’t know a damn thing about me or my family. My father’s never been arrested. My mother would never break the law.”

I stare out the window, watching houses slide past in a kaleidoscope of color from the Christmas lights. Amira puts her blinker on and turns right, heading toward the high school, where I left my car, and when I look at her, I find her staring straight through the windshield, both hands clutching the wheel.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Amira. What?”

“Nothing.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, refusing to look at me.

“Just spit it out.” She’s always been terrible at keeping secrets.

“Fine.” Amira glances at me, then she quickly turns back to the road. “But don’t get mad at me.”

“I’m not going to get mad at you.”

She sucks in a deep breath. Then she steals another brief glance at me. “Your dad has been arrested. Back when he was in high school. I know that much is true, because my mom went to school with him too.”

Chapter Nine

NINE

As we turn down Elm Street, plastic candy canes blow in the wind where they’re suspended from light posts.

“Your mom went to high school with my dad?”

Maybe I knew that, once upon a time. Maybe my dad told me that, back when Amira and I first became friends in the third grade. Maybe that fact got buried beneath the avalanche of more important things on my mind when I found my father’s body on the living room floor, in a puddle of vomit.

But I don’t think so. I don’t think my dad ever talked about high school. About friends he had as a teenager.

And for the first time, I wonder why.

“They were in the same graduating class. Only … your dad didn’t graduate. He got arrested and joined the army.” She shrugs again. “I guess he got his GED.”

“Are you sure?”

Why don’t I know this? How can I know how he liked his eggs and how he made his coffee, but not know he was arrested as a teenager? How can I know the nuance of every smile he ever shined on me, but not know that he didn’t graduate high school?

Amira shrugs as she takes a left-hand turn. “Well, I believe my mom.”

“What was he arrested for?”

I’m not sure I believe her. Yes, my father had problems, but it doesn’t seem fair to his memory to apply one more black mark on his permanent record, when he isn’t here to defend himself. Yet I need to know.

“I don’t know, Beckett. I’m sorry. I didn’t ask for details. At the time, that felt … invasive.” Amira pulls into the school parking lot and heads for my car, which stands all alone now in a sea of cracked concrete. “This was right after your dad died. I was trying … I was trying to understand what you were going through. My mom was trying to help.”