who they are at seventeen.

  Or eighteen, or nineteen or

  maybe ever, for that matter.

  My dad used to say you learn

  something new every day.

  If that’s true, don’t you change

  a little every time? How can

  you learn something new

  and still be the same?

  “I don’t know. But ‘new’ and

  counterintuitive are two

  different things. I prefer new.”

  As Accurate

  As my response is,

  his question

  is valid.

  I understand

  that while

  the definition

  of the external

  me

  seems to

  have changed,

  intrinsically,

  I’m the same

  person I was

  prior to . . .

  yesterday.

  How

  is

  that

  even

  possible?

  Fortuitously

  We’ve reached the Triple

  G and I can think

  about what I’ve got to do

  now instead of what

  might come afterward.

  Gabe asks for the key

  to the Focus, promises

  to extricate it from the ditch,

  then continues to the house.

  Hillary is a lucky girl.

  I arrive at the barn

  with five minutes to spare.

  Max, who has already saddled

  a bay gelding, can’t help

  but notice my gorgeous face.

  Boy, I hope whoever did

  that to you got it worse.

  “Actually, my steering wheel

  looks a whole lot better than

  I do. It was just a little accident.”

  He’s unconvinced, but lets

  it go. You okay to ride?

  Superfly there is raring to go.

  “How can I turn him down?

  No worries. I’ll be fine.”

  The horse’s name totally fits.

  Wind sharp through my hair,

  we circle the big paddock on

  a well-used track. Trot to warm

  up, urge him into a lope, and

  after once around, when I give

  him his head we are, indeed,

  flying. The syncopation

  of his gait; the warm puffs

  of his exhales into the chill

  air; the rising scent of horse

  as he works up a sweat.

  These things make sense, and

  I’m grateful for their logic.

  Slow him, walk him to cool

  the heat of his exertion.

  Return him to Max, who has

  a sorrel filly ready to ride.

  We work like this for two-

  plus hours, and this time

  when I return the young

  stallion, Hillary’s waiting

  to talk with me. “Okay to take

  a short break?” I ask Max.

  He grins. If my boss there says

  so, and I imagine she does.

  I Hand Over the Reins

  And go to join Hillary,

  who’s sitting on a soft bale

  of straw. She takes a good,

  long look at my face, winces.

  Gabe told me what happened.

  I’m so, so sorry, Ariel. Oh, by

  the way, he’s meeting the tow

  truck at your car. As long

  as it’s okay to drive, they’ll

  drop it off here for you.

  A sudden thought crosses

  my mind. “How much do you

  think it will be? I don’t have

  any money to speak of, and—”

  Don’t worry. I’ll cover it.

  You can pay me back whenever.

  In fact, if you need a few dollars

  to hold you over till you get

  paid, I’m happy to loan it to you.

  “Wow, Hillary, that’s really

  nice. I’ll let you know if I do.”

  Okay. But, listen. I . . . uh . . . wanted

  to talk to you about Gabe and me.

  I know you two had a thing, and

  since I’ll be seeing a lot of you

  here with the horses—

  “Hey. Don’t worry. I’m cool

  with it. Gabe and I are just

  friends, okay?” I don’t feel

  the need to confess anything

  about special privileges,

  even though her expression

  tells me she definitely knows.

  That’s what Gabe said, but

  I wanted to hear it from you.

  He also mentioned your mom

  showing up after the game.

  That must have been a shock.

  “Hillary, that is a major

  understatement. I truly

  believed I’d never see

  my mother again, and

  honestly, I never wanted

  to. I’m still not sure I do.

  The only thing I feel

  for her is resentment.”

  Even as the words leave

  my mouth, I hear how

  cold they must sound

  to an outsider. Will I

  ever thaw all the way out?

  Hillary Nods Understanding

  But now she says simply,

  I’d give anything for a little

  more time with my mom.

  She doesn’t add the part

  about that being impossible,

  but she doesn’t have to.

  I get what she’s trying to tell

  me. “I know, and I wish it were

  in my power to give that to you.”

  Instead, I’ll just give her my

  not-quite-a-boyfriend. “As far

  as my mother, we’re supposed

  to meet next Saturday after

  I finish up here. I’ve got a week

  to figure out what to say.”

  Another curt nod, and like

  the last, it means she wants

  to offer unsolicited advice.

  Maybe you should just listen

  and decide how to respond

  after that. Not that you asked.

  “I don’t mind. You happen to be

  right. Meanwhile, better get back

  to work. I need to earn my pay.”

  Two more things. We’re having

  a holiday party next Saturday

  night. Aunt Peg’s planning it, so

  it should be amazing. Lots of food

  and a band from Sac. I’d love for you

  to come, and you’re welcome to

  bring a date—or your mom—

  if you’d like. Second, I’m aware

  you might need a place to stay

  for a while. We’ve got lots of spare

  rooms if it comes to that. I’m serious.

  At least till you figure things out.

  First her car, and now this?

  “For real? Wow, Hillary,

  that’s incredibly generous.

  I don’t know what I’m going

  to do yet, but my options

  are limited. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Please do. You don’t have to

  carry this alone. One last thing.

  There’s strength in forgiveness.

  I Would Never Have Believed

  I could like Hillary Grantham.

  But she really is a decent human

  being. I’m glad she and Gabe hit

  it off. They deserve each other.

  I go back to riding and she goes

  back to whatever it is she’s got

  planned for the day after taking

  the time to try and improve mine.

  By the time I finish, my rear


  end’s sore, but my brain

  is functioning on a higher level,

  and that’s a good thing because

  now I’ve got to go and see what

  remains of the place I’ve called

  home for the last eighteen months.

  The Focus is parked just outside

  the barn, with a note on it saying

  it’s okay to drive, despite a few

  scratches on the driver’s side.

  Just as I’m about to leave, Peg

  arrives on scene, waves me over.

  Oh my God. What did I do now?

  And why is this the first

  thought to pop into my head?

  But she is kind. Hillary confided

  what’s going on with you.

  I just wanted to affirm her offer

  of a place to stay with us here.

  Too kind. “Thank you. I really

  appreciate it. I’ll have a few

  days to work out if that’s

  something I’ll need.”

  Wonder exactly how much

  they know. What did Gabe tell

  Hillary, and what information

  did she pass on to her aunt?

  I understand the tenuousness

  of your situation. Advice is cheap,

  but for what it’s worth, I don’t

  recommend hasty decisions.

  You’ve lost the majority of your

  life to subterfuge, but there are

  a lot more years ahead of you.

  Make the wrong choice now,

  there might be no turning back

  around. I speak from experience.

  You’ve got all the time in the world.

  Consider carefully. Regret is an illness.

  I Drive Home Slowly

  Thinking

  about forgiveness.

  Is there strength in it?

  Idiocy?

  Defeatism,

  perhaps?

  Where would I

  even start?

  Who would I

  even start with?

  Why would I

  even want to?

  Next, the concept

  of regret.

  This one

  I’ve had no time for.

  This one

  I’ve had no need for.

  This one

  I’d rather not

  make room for.

  The Driveway Is Empty

  No sign of Dad’s car,

  which offers both relief

  and a sinking feeling.

  For once the front door

  isn’t locked, and on the far

  side of the threshold,

  all the suitcases are gone

  and the house is winter-cold,

  no shoes lined up beneath

  the thermostat. I wander

  room to room, absorbing

  what’s left of Dad’s presence—

  the scent of his deodorant

  over the sweat, oil, and booze

  BO it never could quite conceal.

  And more than a trace

  of tobacco. It permeates

  every room in the house.

  There are even butts,

  stomped on the floor. Why not?

  It’s not his home anymore.

  He Didn’t Leave

  A good-bye note

  except for seven words,

  scrawled on the wall

  by the door

  in black Sharpie:

  FUCK YOU

  YOU MADE ME

  DO THIS

  Fuck who, Dad?

  Fuck me?

  Fuck Maya?

  Fuck the whole

  goddamn world?

  And what did I, or

  any of us, make you do?

  Make you leave?

  Make you kidnap me?

  Make you decide

  to try and kill me?

  Oh, how I wish I knew

  if that’s what you

  had in mind.

  I Still Can’t Quite

  Bring myself to believe it.

  Not enough evidence.

  Not enough witnesses.

  Way too much shared past.

  Well, at least he eliminated

  my need to decide whether

  or not to move on. I crank

  up the heat. Why not? Who’s

  going to tell me I can’t?

  That’s the little kid left

  in me. The emerging adult

  does ask who’s going to pay

  the bill. Since it’s in Mark

  Pearson’s name, it won’t be

  me. And it won’t be Dad, either.

  Should I feel guilty? All I feel

  at the moment is warm. I go

  into the kitchen, see what’s

  left to eat in the cupboards

  and fridge. Not a whole lot,

  but then there rarely was.

  The alcohol, I notice, is all

  gone, which is probably good.

  If I’m going to do this on my own,

  I’m damn sure doing it right.

  That means getting up for school

  tomorrow morning and practicing

  basketball tomorrow night.

  Suddenly I’m starving. I fix

  a couple frozen burritos

  out of the half dozen Dad left

  behind. Wonder if Hillary’s

  invitation to move in includes

  food. They probably wouldn’t

  let me starve. I’ll figure something

  out, because that’s what people do.

  I wolf down the mediocre

  Mexican food, wishing it was

  Monica’s mom’s tamales.

  Then I shower off the horse

  smell eclipsing my own nervous

  stink, slip into some hammies,

  call Monica to tell her I love

  her. Her echoed te amo settles

  gently against my pillow.

  Good thing I’m exhausted.

  I tumble toward slumber, hoping

  my dreams aren’t nightmares.

  One Week

  Until winter break, I plow

  through schoolwork, finals,

  basketball practice, and two

  games—Monday away, which

  we blow, and one at home

  on Friday, in which we blow

  the other team away.

  Monday night I sucked.

  Friday night, I kill it.

  I’ve managed to regain

  confidence and footing,

  mostly because of my friends,

  who’ve rallied around me,

  offering support, ideas, food,

  and a whole lot of love.

  I haven’t heard a word

  from my absentee father.

  The next two weeks will offer me

  lots of time to ride and earn

  some extra cash. Plus, Peg’s

  vowed to start my dressage

  training. It’ll be good

  to have something new

  to keep my brain occupied.

  I can’t not think about Dad.

  I can’t not worry about Dad.

  Not One Word

  Not even a call checking

  up on me.

  He doesn’t care at all,

  does he?

  And I’m worried about him?

  So why tonight

  after the game do

  I abandon my teammates

  and very best friend,

  leave them to celebrate

  without me?

  Why do I return

  to the house I, for

  the first time in my life,

  thought of as home,

  thinking maybe

  he’ll be here,

  knowing

  he won’t. Why

  do I sit here alone

  and cry for my dad?

  The dad who left me


  reeling

  six days ago, barely

  enough time

  for my bruises

  to fade green.

  The dad who never

  allowed me a real family,

  with a mom who I now suspect

  might’ve loved me

  all along.

  The dad who constructed

  our lives on a foundation

  cemented with lies.

  Where did he go?

  What’s his name now?

  When he meets

  his next woman,

  will he even admit

  there’s a me?

  He won’t, will he?

  No, he’s excised me

  from his fabricated

  history.

  I am raging.

  I am wounded.

  I am lost.

  Saturday Morning

  At the barn, Max, Peg, and I

  discuss a possible schedule.

  Understanding my situation,

  they offer plenty of hours.

  The horses—and we—will

  miss the extra attention when

  you go back to school, says Max.

  “Once I finish basketball I’d

  love to come work after school.

  I’d leave the team, but I’m not

  a quitter.” I realize that’s true.

  We wouldn’t want you any

  other way, says Peg. We’ll be

  able to give you as many hours

  as you want. Hillary’s doctor

  insists she give up riding, and

  regardless, she’s planning to start

  at University of the Pacific in the fall.

  “I thought she was going

  to Stanford. Why the change

  of plans?” But it hits me just

  as Peg confirms, Gabe. UOP

  is in Stockton. It’s kind of nice,

  really. She’ll be closer to home.

  Quick Decision

  Must be someone’s idea

  of love. I’d ask if she’s already

  been accepted, but I figure

  if her dad can guarantee

  Stanford, UOP is a no-brainer.

  It’s called connections.

  Maybe one day I’ll have some.

  Max goes to saddle a horse

  for me and I take the time

  to ask Peg, “So when Hillary

  goes, you’re staying?

  I mean, you could move

  back to New York.”

  I could do a lot of things,

  but I’ve made a life here,

  and just because one element

  will change doesn’t mean

  I want to uproot myself again.

  “I get it. But what about

  your fiancé? No chance

  at putting that back together?”

  He’s married now, with three

  kids, but even if he wasn’t,

  I wouldn’t try to rebuild