Usually I roll to school with Jamal, but Monday he dipped out of the house before I could ride with him, and then he crept in close to curfew. Skipped a visit with Daddy. Again. I shouldn’t have expected different just one day later; now it’s Tuesday and I have to go with Mama to Galveston so I can catch a ride with my best friend, Dean, at his parents’ antique store, where she works.

I usher Corinne into the car and frantically roll down the windows to let the heat out, wishing we could take Daddy’s old Buick. It stays hitched under a tree and tarped away with layers of filth—seven years deep.

I wipe my brow from the morning heat. The humidity is the worst, though, the way dust particles stick to my skin like it has a natural adhesive. Another shower is useless, since the sweat will build right back up. Part of me knows the same feeling from stained memories. They never disappear. Just dormant, till they awake in full force during summers in Texas.

Mama joins us, taking the passenger seat so she can finish getting ready. We swerve onto the dirt road, leaving a billowing trail of dust behind us. I cough and hack, then frantically roll up my window before jabbing my fist onto the front dash in three quick pops, hoping the AC will kick in faster.

“We can’t survive without AC this summer,” I say. “It’s already hotter than usual.”

“Hush and be patient while it cools.” Her voice has a sharp edge she hasn’t let go of since the interview.

“We could always sell our car and the Bu, then get a new one.”

The words come out before I can stop them. I know we’d never sell the Bu. Even when money’s tight. Because selling it means giving up on Daddy ever coming home. And if he ever does, Mama wants one thing that hasn’t changed, so he won’t have a constant reminder of the years taken away from him.

“We’re not touching—”

“It stinks.” Corinne pinches her nose at the stale air pumping out of the vents.

“You stink.” I give Corinne a wink in the rearview mirror. Even she knows not to go there with Daddy’s car. She must’ve been born with that gift, ’cause I sure don’t have it.

We take the exit to Galveston Bay, leaving Crowning Heights behind us. Within ten miles, the difference between the cities is glaring. Crowning is basically the no-man’s-land part of Galveston County. We’re more inland, closer to Houston, but poor and rural. The homes in Crowning Heights are shoddily put together, unlike the resort living you see the closer you get to the bay.