Second Chance Summer by Morgan Matson Page A

do, the thing they’d always done, the thing that they seemed to know from birth that they were best at. Which left me, as usual, alone and far behind as they pursued their paths to greatness.
    So for the past five days, I had mostly been wandering around and feeling in the way. I had never been so aware of just how small the house was, and how few places there were to hide in it. And ever since the two embarrassing Henry encounters, I was avoiding both the dock and the woods, and had pretty much stopped goingoutside, except for my nightly excursion to take the trash out to the bearbox (which had somehow become my job) and shoo away the dog who seemed to have no intention of leaving. My mother had also reported that when she’d stopped by to bring a planter of geraniums to Henry’s mother, she wasn’t there, but that a blond girl, around my age, had answered the door.
    I had tried very hard not to think about this too much, and certainly wasn’t letting it bother me. After all, what did I care if Henry had a girlfriend? But it somehow, retroactively, made those two encounters with him even more humiliating, and I had been careful to avoid looking at the house next door, not letting myself wonder if he was home.
    As I sat at the table now and watched my dad flip through his papers, I started to get the claustrophobic feeling that I was getting more and more lately—like I needed to get out but had absolutely nowhere to go.
    “How are you doing on that?” my father asked, and I noticed him trying to read my crossword puzzle upside down.
    “I’m stuck on this one,” I said, tapping my finger on the empty boxes. “A thirteen-letter word for ‘change.’”
    “Hmm,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, frowning, then shook his head. “I’ve got nothing,” he said. “But maybe it’ll come to me. I’ll keep you informed.” He pushed himself back from the tableand stood up. “I’m going to run some errands in town, kid,” he said. “Want to come?”
    “Sure,” I said, automatically. It definitely sounded like more fun than pointlessly surfing the Internet, which was what had pretty much been on my afternoon agenda now that trailing behind my father was no longer an accepted option. I headed inside to get my shoes.
    When I met him out on the driveway, my dad was standing by the driver’s side and tossing the Land Cruiser keys in his hand. I walked across the gravel, feeling the rocks through the thin rubber of my flip-flops, and stopped in front of the hood.
    “All set?” my father asked.
    “Sure,” I said slowly, adjusting the canvas bag over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but think about the pill bottles that were lined up on the kitchen counter. I had no idea what they were for—or what the side effects were. My dad hadn’t driven, as far as I knew, since the morning we left, when he showed up to get me and took me for bagels. “Do you want me to drive?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know how to phrase the question I wanted to ask. My father waved this away and started to open the door. “I mean… ,” I started. I could feel my heart beating fast. Criticizing my father—or questioning his judgment—was something I had absolutely no experience doing. “Is it okay for you to be driving?” I said it quickly, just trying to get the words out.
    The sentence hung between us for a moment and when my father looked across the hood at me, his expression told me that I had overstepped. “I’m fine,” he said a little shortly. He pulled open the driver’s side door, and I walked around the hood to the passenger side, feeling my face get hot.
    We drove in silence down our street for several minutes before I broke in. “So what are these errands?” I asked. I could hear how my voice was unnaturally cheery, not really sounding like me, and I realized it was probably the vocal equivalent of Warren’s strained smile.
    “Well,” my father said, and I could tell by the way he glanced over at me