His eyes say I am fragile, and he is scared to break me. I am not broken. There is nothing to be broken over at all
WE are 40 minutes late. I can already hear my mother’s disappointment layering her voice like the carbon leaking out of our car and staining the sky bleak and gray. In retrospect, that is appropriate. In retrospect, it should have rained so hard we had to turn around and go home.
The clouds are heavy, and the air is slick with sweat. Shmuel eases on the brakes and makes the final turn onto Mommy’s street. He pulls up behind Asher’s car and parks but doesn’t turn off the ignition.
“Can we go home?” I ask. The seat belt stretches over my stomach.
He looks at me, switches from park to reverse. “We can leave right now,” he says. He maneuvers the car, so we are back on the street on the right side of the yellow lines.
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