Curiosity always got the better of me, particularly when it came to my dad—the missing one. I was the only one who believed he still lived. Everyone else thought he was dead since he should’ve returned home a long time ago. Eleven months, three days, and seven hours ago, to be exact.
My cobalt blue ballet flats slapped a steady rhythm on the sidewalk. I needed the time to myself, away from the chaos of the bus and the chatter of my classmates. I should’ve been practicing my lines for Lady Macbeth, but instead I scoured the streets like a CSI expert, searching for any signs of Dad. I’d been on the lookout for him ever since Mom mentioned having a memorial banquet for the anniversary of his disappearance—like the mere announcement of such a thing would make him return. Maybe it was desperation that led me to hope I’d see him driving by in his car, heading home, as if he’d been away on nothing more than an extended work trip.
The mid-afternoon sun glinted off a storefront window and struck me in the eyes. Squinting, I stumbled to the side and away from the glare. A navy sedan—just like Dad’s—zipped past. Before I could
catch sight of the driver, the car merged into the left turn lane and whipped around the corner to beat an oncoming car as the light flashed to red.
My spine straightened and my jaw dropped. It couldn’t have been...
I trotted to the corner, dodging skateboard-star wannabes whooshing past me to rush the light. They hurtled toward the curb edge in lame ass, stunt-fail style, as if jumping it equated to extreme sportdom.
Whatever. I had more important things to do than pretend to be awesome. At the red light, I dashed into the crosswalk, peering down the street to find Dad’s car. Or the car that looked like Dad’s. For the love of all that’s holy, let it be his. I blurred past the small city stimuli—a row of two-story houses here, half-busted storefronts there, and the people going about their regular lives in between.
There it was. The car hooked another left two blocks down. I pumped my legs, arms swinging and fists curled, bolting into the next cross street without bothering to check for traffic.
Squealing tires and a horn’s furious scream blasted me from my left. A silver luxury sedan plowed toward me, swerved, and then fishtailed, all the while maintaining its collision course with me.
I froze. Lightning-hot terror exploded through my chest and rooted my feet to the ground. Shouts blared around the horrible squeals of tires scraping on pavement, and somewhere in this slow-moving, impending tragedy, I realized my mistake. I’d chased a car on autopilot, without knowing for certain if it
was Dad or not. Odds were it wasn’t Dad, and now I’d never find out.
“Sorry, Dad.” I pinched my eyes shut, as if self- imposed blindness would save me from metal snapping through sinew and bone. Conjured images of a mangled, sparkly top and jeans-wearing, brunette corpse—my corpse—assaulted me.
Air left my lungs, and my jaw snapped shut at the impact. For a moment, I was weightless while my body flew in the air. Then every joint smacked the ground in rapid succession.
I wanted to breathe in cool oxygen, but a heavy weight pinned me. I opened my eyes to a close-up of the sidewalk. Circles of blackened, dried gum and a lone cigarette butt dotted the surface. My cheek melded with the gritty concrete and the weight against my spine was hard as steel. Like car grille steel. Or car front axle steel.
Fumes burnt my nose and coughing did little to clear my lungs. I groaned and shifted—well, tried to shift. A pair of hands slithered under my shoulders and yanked me upright. Being relieved of the vice squeezing my rib cage didn’t stop my spitting and sputtering. Apparently my lungs hadn’t caught up to the concept of being able to expand at will. Still weak in the knees, I let whoever held me bear my weight.
