Sometimes we even went biking together through the park—this was like the one thing we did together where I could tell he was enjoying himself, too. Actually enjoying himself, and not just being patient with me. But he never let me ride on city streets—there was too much traffic. Even in Central Park he made me stick to the footpaths, like a little kid; he wouldn’t let me go on the road. I got bored of my bike, and after a while it didn’t fit me anymore, I was too big, and I didn’t get another. Until now. But I remember how Dad used to bug me to go riding with him on the weekends, and then gave up asking me, because I kept saying no. I don’t know why, maybe I was taking Mom’s side, because we’d hang around at home together, making pancakes or something, while he went off by himself.

Seven

A FEW NIGHTS LATER, Mom wakes me up, coming in late and getting undressed. (She was sitting on the porch with Granma, drinking wine and talking. I could hear them as I lay in bed. Somebody mentioned Spencer—that’s my dad’s name. It feels funny to think of him like that, like he’s some guy with a name. Mom always calls him “your dad” to me. But I couldn’t hear much else; they had the radio on, too.) At first, I don’t say anything, but then she switches on a flashlight and starts reading a book under the covers.

“Mom,” I say. “Mom.”

She looks over at me. I can see her face in the glow. “Go to sleep.”

“I was sleeping. You woke me up.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

She turns off the flashlight, and we lie there for a minute. “How long are we going to stay here?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when we are going to . . . get a place of our own?”

“I told you already,” she says. “This is something we talked about. Right now, I’m looking for a job, and with Granma around, it’s just easier.”

“You said this was temporary, until we get our own place. That’s what you said.”

“I don’t remember saying that. I probably said a lot of things. You may have noticed, I’m kind of making it up as I go along. Don’t you like it here?” she asks.

“It’s fine but that’s not the point. I feel like . . . there’s stuff going on that you’re talking to Granma about, but you’re not talking to me. I’m almost thirteen years old. You let me bike around by myself. I can go to the stores, I mean. . . . You don’t have to treat me like a baby.”

“Nobody’s treating you—”

“Yes, you are,” I say.

“Ben, this isn’t just about you. And I like being here. This is a hard time for me, and it’s a big help . . . everything’s a lot easier for me with Granma around. I don’t really understand what’s going on. She loves you.”