Sticks and Stones

The hot Florida sun shone down on me mercilessly.

Today was a Tuesday, which meant that I was standing at the bus station with a bunch of middle-aged people scrambling off to work while I stood by the street and awaited my father’s arrival.

I didn’t want to be here. I pretended as if I did, for the families sake, but I really wanted to be in Colorado, awaiting my final grades for sophomore year and hanging out with the friends I had acquired over the last six months. But, it was my dads turn to have me.

            Ever since their divorce, I had been swapped off between parents biweekly. But now, their lawyers contacted each other and came up with a brilliant plan.

            Six months with my mom, six months with my dad.

            Rotate.

            I asked a man what time it was; he informed me that it was a quarter ‘till seven, which meant I had another five minutes before my father was supposed to be here. I had been riding planes and buses all morning, toting around the bulky pink suitcases that my mother had so thoughtfully picked out the morning before, her exclaiming it was the best way to not lose your luggage at the airport.

            I picked at the loose threads of my jacket clumsily until a black Sedan pulled up in front of me, and my father walked out, leaving the car running.

            My jaw dropped. He looked . . . Happy.

            “Ty!” He shouted, a grin exploding across his face. He walked over, a loose white tee shirt and beige jean shorts hanging on his tall awkward frame, and embraced me tightly.

            “Hi, dad.” I said, my voice muffled from being pressed into his shirt. He was tall, six foot two, to be exact, but yet I had gotten the short genes from my mother, leaving me at five foot one.

            This made our greetings always very difficult.

            He rustled my dark brown, wavy hair and chuckled. “Tyler, you haven’t changed a bit. Can you believe it’s been six whole months already?” Wrapping his arm around my shoulder as best he could, he pulled me back to the car with my bags in tote. I climbed into the passenger seat as he ran to the trunk and put in my bags. I took in the sight of the familiar car. He had fixed the upholstery, it now being black leather. The crayon rainbows on the ceiling from late night drives and no paper were still there, faded, but noticeable. He had started to keep it clean, so the old clutter was diminished, but you could still see signs that it was once there. I smiled faintly.

            The driver side door popped open and my father scooted in. He was humming an eighties song and adjusting his seat so his head didn’t hit the ceiling.

            “Ready, Tyler?” He turned on the car and pulled away from the bus station. I smiled as an answer.

            I guess I didn’t have a choice.

After half an hour in the car, driving down vaguely familiar streets, we pulled up to a tall tan house. The yard was perfectly clipped and brilliantly green, shining with dew from the night before.

            My father got out and ran to the back of the car. I stepped out, still staring at the random building and wondering how he ever got enough money to afford it, if it was even his.

            The sun had just begun to rise, leaving everything in a light fog. The streets around us were quiet, with no traffic buzzing by like in my moms apartment in Colorado.