I turn on my heel and get the hell out of the house. I get on my bike, gripping the handlebars so hard my knuckles hurt. I am riding through my neighborhood. Faster, faster, faster. As I’m zipping down the road, pumping my pedals like mad, I turn down Lottie’s street and see a truck in front of her house. It’s not a huge moving truck, but it is a pretty big one, and I know what it’s for. I’m not even thinking about seeing Lottie. I just see Pete and can’t stop pedaling.

Pete, who for my whole life was there for me, who made me lunches and cuddled me when I cried, who was Snowy Owl in Brownies and caroled with us at Christmas, and is now mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Since when does he have a handkerchief? And why the hell is he moving out? What the hell is wrong with our parents?

The closer I get to the house, the madder I get, and I stand up on my pedals, yelling, “Hey! Hey, Pete!” as I careen crazily down the hill toward the house, my hair whizzing around. He looks up, focusing on me, and starts to wave, but it turns into a whoa, whoa motion since I am not really slowing down. I know I’m going to crash. If you’ve been riding a bike as long as I have, if it’s like a loyal old horse to you, you know when she’s going to toss you, ass over teakettle, but quite frankly, I couldn’t give a shit. Good, I think, as I half-assedly try to stop but slam right into the side of the truck. The pain feels good.

And it hurts like a bitch.

Pete is gathering me up, returning my head to my neck, putting my arms back onto my shoulders, snapping my feet into my ankles and wiping my bleeding elbow with that goddamn handkerchief.

“When did you get that thing?” I mumble, sounding like a drunk baby.

“What’s that, honey?”

“That thing. That handkerchief. I’ve never seen you use a handkerchief before.”

“What?” He looks at it, then back at me. “I don’t know. A while ago, I guess.”

“Why?” And I’m crying. “Why did you get a handkerchief?”

“Why did I get this handkerchief?” He lifts me up, and I move all my joints to make sure they’re working. He’s looking in my eyes, and they are full of love and I miss them.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I liked it,” he says, softly. “Why did you get that shirt you’re wearing?”

“Like, is that part of your big transformation?” I wipe my eyes.

“What do you mean, hon?”

“Next thing you know you’re gonna be living somewhere else and buying fair-trade coffee with your new girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or whatever.”