yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

Halfway home I pull over on a residential street, too amped to drive. My elbow hurts where it connected with R.J.'s face. Idiot.

I start crying.

Not because of fear or anger anymore. Because: When I get home, my dad won't be there to get outraged on my behalf, to be impressed when I re-enact my elbow strike, to say I told you so about making me take that class, to tell me I did the right thing and the store stays open too late, anyway, for school nights. I won't get to see him turn red. I won't get to talk him out of calling the police or Margins headquarters. I won't get to say, Dad, calm down. I lived. It's fine.

I'll walk in the door and his chair will be empty.

I beat on the steering wheel a few times, blow my nose on a napkin I find in the glove box, and head home. On the way I stop at a mini-mart and buy Mandy three magazines and a package of cupcakes.

Why I do this, it's hard to say, except I know it's exactly the kind of thing my dad would have done.

from How to Save a Life by Sara Zarr