“You really don’t have to give me a ride,” I say.

Mom is scrolling through something on her phone. “But, sweetheart, it looks like it’s going to rain.”

I imagine drawing a muzzle over my mouth, a clamp on my tongue. This whole past year, I’ve walked to and home from school no matter what the weather was. Last winter, I walked home one day when it was so cold I couldn’t feel my toes by the time I got home.

“I’d be okay” is all I manage to mumble.

Mom looks at herself in the mirror. “It’s okay. It’s no problem. I’ve always loved the fall festival.”

If eyes could stretch, mine would be touching their toes. “Are you going to co-co-come?”

She gives her own reflection a sad smile. “Oh, no. I’ll just drop you off. But it will be nice to get a little peek at drop-off.”

“You could come. I know it’s mostly for kids, but some parents chaperone.”

Mom touches my cheek. “Not this year.”

We say bye to Dad. He tells us both that we look nice. This makes Mom smile wide and seeing that makes me so happy that for second I forget about all the reasons I have not to smile.

I follow Mom to the car. When I climb into the back seat, I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve ridden in it. On the rare occasion that I leave the house with my parents, we take Dad’s car.

The cloth seats smell like the floral deodorizer Mom has hanging from the dashboard, and there’s still the faint Kool-Aid stain from when I was little and spilled my soccer snack. I look around for any signs of Parker, but I can’t find a single one.

I’m not sure if that should make me feel happy or sad.

We drive in silence. When we reach the drop-off zone, Mom keeps her hands on the wheel. I watch her study the stream of kids that are pouring out of their cars. Lots of them are dressed in costume. Bea, my old tetherball buddy, walks by decked out in a tutu and fairy wings, and someone I don’t recognize passes by in a pretty awesome dinosaur suit.

I’m wearing jeans and a basic long-sleeve T-shirt. I can’t believe I’m actually here. The idea of putting together a costume seemed like way too big of a hurdle to clear, but now I’m wondering if I would feel safer hiding behind a mask or a wig.

“Mom—” I start.

We haven’t talked about our fight last week. I mean, we’ve talked. But we haven’t talked about it.

We never talk about it.

“Yes?” she says, but doesn’t bother to look back at me.

“Do you think there’s a way to f-f-f-fix things?”

At this, she turns around. Her bottom lip quivers. Her forehead is full of wrinkles, but she looks so young. I feel like I should hug her, keep her safe. “What?”

“Never mind.” I stare at the Kool-Aid stain. I don’t want to make her cry. Not today. “I’ll see you later.” I get out of the car and slam the door a little harder than I should.