Sometimes the girl with yellow hair comes out to the trampoline, and I wait around to see if she’ll come. A whole morning might go by and I don’t see her, but then another time she’ll jump for hours, just going up and down and not even looking happy or sad, but just jumping.

I miss Jake. When he was around, I didn’t notice the way time passes. But now every day seems long.

Eight

DAD CALLS the night before school starts. It’s the third week in August and still incredibly hot. Even at night you just want to take your shirt off; even your skin is like too much to wear, it’s so hot. Everybody’s in a bad mood, and even before I get to the phone, Mom is shouting at him.

“You said you’d call yesterday,” she says. “I don’t care what’s going on at work. I need to know when . . . We have to prepare ourselves for these conversations. There are consequences, right? I’m the one who has to pick him up off the ground afterward. This is like the last thing he needs right now. Why? Because he’s got school tomorrow. It’s his first day. He’s anxious enough about that as it is. . . .”

I’m sitting in the kitchen with Granma, and she looks at me, raising her eyebrows. “I guess that’s Dad on the phone,” I say, and she sort of laughs. Eventually Mom calls me into the hall.

“It’s your father,” she says, passing me the phone.

“Hey, kid,” says the voice in my ear.

“Hey, Dad.” All I can see is the front door, and my shoes on the mat, and Granma’s sun hat on a hook. It’s dark outside, but there’s a light on the front porch that shows the driveway. The front door has a kind of window in it; sometimes the sprinkler sends a whip of water against the glass. It’s funny to think that somewhere a few thousand miles away, my dad actually exists. He’s sitting in a room somewhere, he’s about to go to bed.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says. “I was stuck in the office. When I told your mother I was hoping to call, I didn’t realize you’d spend all day sitting by the phone. . . .”

“Honestly, it’s fine. It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even know you were supposed to call.”

“Well, that’s not what your mother says.” After a pause, he says, “Let’s start this over. Are you nervous about school tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to go. Is that the same as being nervous?”

He laughs.

“When will I see you again?” I say. There’s a silence on the other end. I don’t want to break it, but it goes on long enough that I can’t help myself. “I know you’re busy. You’ve got a lot of work.”

“It’s true,” he says. “And Texas is a long way—it’s farther than New York. But we’ve got an office in Houston, which gives me an excuse. I’m hoping to come out after Christmas for a couple of days. . . . I’ve talked to your mother about this, too. I don’t think Christmas itself would be a good idea. Your life is confusing enough as it is. But maybe we can take a little trip. I don’t know, just you and me. That’s the plan, at least—that’s what I’m hoping for.”