And the next morning, Dad flies to London. He leaves so early that I’m still in bed, but I hear him moving his luggage to the door. When he comes in my room to say goodbye, I pretend to be asleep.

Four

MOM AND I ARE SITTING in the kitchen, having breakfast. It’s been a few weeks since Dad left, but it’s not like he was usually around that much anyway. I mean, we’re used to him being gone, even though this time feels a little different.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” she says.

Sunshine is streaming in, and I’m eating waffles with maple syrup. It’s a really hot July morning, and I’m not wearing a shirt. Mom tried turning on the air-conditioning, but that didn’t do anything to cool things off, it just made a lot of noise. So she opened all the windows. I can hear traffic on the street, a long way below. Motorcycles revving, a big truck going past.

“You remember Granma’s house in Texas, right?” Mom says. “I think we might go there for a while.”

“For a summer vacation?” I pour a little more syrup on my waffles. That’s the kind of thing Mom used to call me out on, but lately she’s been letting things slide.

Most of my friends go away on exciting summer vacations, to places like Paris and Hawaii. They come back to school in September with souvenirs, key rings or stuff made out of leather or wood, and they tell funny stories about what happened at their hotels, which make me jealous. If I can’t laugh, I always just say, “Oh really?”

We don’t usually go any farther than Cape Cod. There’s a tiny airport in a field, and the flight from New York takes about an hour. After that a taxi drives us to the house my dad always rents. It’s the same place he used to go as a kid. You can see the ocean from the garden, and my mom likes to lie on the beach, pretending to read a book. Working on her tan, she calls it. Since Dad is in London, I figured maybe we wouldn’t go this year. That’s one of the things I’ve been wondering about.

“Well, it will be summer when we go to Granma’s. But I think we might want to stick around for a while. Maybe move there. Go on, drink your juice,” she says, because I’m just staring at her. For some reason there are tears in her eyes. “Your granma misses you,” she says.

“I don’t even really know her,” I say, setting down my glass.

“Well, this is your chance.” My mom clears her throat and tries to sound cheerful. “It’s not easy for me on my own, with your father . . . away. This way I can go back to work. Granma can help out and you guys can get to know each other.” I don’t say anything, and she adds, “It would mean a lot to me.”