At the top of the mountain Stan parks on a dirt shoulder. Phoebe and I run to the cliff’s edge. She screams, “Come on Elle! Last one to the wall…” I’m sprinting fast, lungs full, out of breath. Beyond us, the city lights beckon. The sprawling hills stretch until they roll underwater. I imagine swimming in a sea of silver stars.

Phoebe is ahead of me spinning and pirouetting, jumping so high she defies gravity. My best friend looks like those princesses they draw in children’s fairy tales. She has sweet clear eyes and Botticelli lips and a blaze of auburn hair always in perfect disarray from riding in her dad’s convertible. The top of her head skims the tip of a maple leaf and for a fleeting moment she is crowned. I watch afraid if I blink she might disappear forever.

Last month, on the last day of junior high, we pricked our fingers and swore we’d remain Bo Diddley and Wonder Woman, soul sisters forever. Come September she’ll be starting high school at the School of the Arts. For now we pretend that the summer will be endless, that the fall will never arrive.

When I told my parents I wanted to go to SOTA, too, they said we couldn’t afford it.

I said, “But it’s public and free.”

My father said, “But it’s not practical.”

I said, “But what happens if I get in?”

My father changed the channel. The remote is wrapped in plastic. It is like everything in our house.

Phoebe and I lean on the wall. The moss is cool. It tickles our elbows. We can see the entire peninsula, all five bridges. We call out their names: the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge, the Richmond and the San Mateo. Our words bounce back in the wind. Way out in the distance we can see the Dumbarton too. That’s how clear it is tonight. It’s so far away it looks like a stray piece of string.

From the car, Aretha is belting out a gospel. She sounds like a velvet storm you could drown in. Phoebe calls to Stan but his head is buried in the trunk. She rolls her eyes and says, “At least your dad isn’t always in his own world.”

I remember the first time I spent the night at their house. Stan came home and started playing the piano at one in the morning. He sounded like Chet Baker singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” with a voice so timid it trembled. He was tapping his foot and because the piano bench had a wobbly leg it added an extra beat against the hardwood floors. He nodded at us and then at the wide open windows and the moonlight. His tweed bowler hat tipped over his brow. Phoebe screamed, “Come on Dad! Don’t you know the time?” A breeze swept through and flapped the calendar pages on the wall. Stan grinned and played on. I couldn’t help it, I grinned too.