That seemed to be the case, for when I checked myself in the bathroom mirror at home that night, my skin was smooth and clear.

Whoa! I thought. Could this be the beginning of the end for zit-osis? What a relief that would be!

I called Gina to apologize. She was cautious but finally agreed to go out with me on Saturday. I don’t know who was more surprised by my apology: Gina, or me.

Humming contentedly, I returned to my desk, where I was building a miniature room for my little sister, Mindy. It was mostly for her birthday. But it was also a way of apologizing to her for all the times I had yelled at her over the last year.

The project had turned out to be a bigger time-sink than I expected. But Mindy had been wanting one of these rooms for years. Our father had promised to make her one several times, but (as usual) he hadn’t come through. And now he was gone.

Despite how tricky it was, I found I actually enjoyed the work. And I was really proud of it. I loved seeing each piece come to its final polished perfection. That was one good thing about my job at Mr. Colella’s: I had learned a lot about working with wood.

I spent an hour carefully sanding and staining the chair I had finished assembling the night before. When I finally grew so tired I was afraid I would botch the work, I threw Beau, our golden retriever, off the bed and climbed between the sheets.

The next morning my mother overcooked the eggs. “Sorry, Jon,” she said, as she placed the rubbery hen-fruit in front of me. “I’m not functioning on all cylinders yet. I don’t think they’re making the coffee as strong as they used to.”

“No problem,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “I can manage a tough yolk every now and then.”

“Is this my kid?” she asked, widening her eyes and putting a hand on my forehead. “The one who used to have a tantrum if his eggs weren’t runny enough to use up all his toast?”

“For Pete’s sake, Ma,” I said, ducking away from her hand.

School went well, and I had a good time with Gina during art. So I was in a good mood when I got to Mr. Colella’s shop.

Mr. Colella, unfortunately, was not. He was standing in front of the Japanese mirror—which was now in the display area—rubbing a rag almost violently over the glass.

A touch of coldness seized my chest when I saw the red streak that marred the surface of the mirror.

“I would have sworn I wiped this off yesterday,” said Mr. Colella. He turned and handed me the rag. “Here. You take care of it. And do it right this time!”

He stomped off, banging his leg on an old oak dresser.

I studied the mirror. The red streak was longer than I remembered.