Page 18 of Sunshine
“Why don’t I carry that for you?” I offer.
As I lead the way into the nearest building, the trumpet case in my left hand and my tote on the right, Izzy twirls and dancesbeside me in preparation for the ballet lessons she’s starting later in the week.
“I’ve already picked out the tutu I’m going to wear,” she says. “I’ve got twelve of them.”
“That’s impressive. I’d love to see them sometime.”
After a brief meeting with Izzy’s music teacher—a smiling young woman with a purple-dyed undercut who answers my questions about the classroom’s closed-circuit cameras and introduces Izzy to five other kids learning trumpet this year—I find myself wandering the grounds of the Aster Springs community college. I’ve got forty-five minutes to kill, and I’ve never been on a college campus before, so why not?
The place is alive with students and faculty, and I wonder if it’s obvious that I have no business being here. I barely graduated high school, but I’d be a liar if I said that I hadn’t fantasized once or twice about studying again. Trying harder, figuring out what works for me, and getting it right if only to prove to myself that Ican.
I’ve also dreamed about having a brain that works faster and concentrates better and makes easy sense of letters. But, like most things in my life, that’s beyond my control.
I follow without any real destination in mind until, by fate or accident, I wander into the business administration wing. I hesitate outside an open office door where an older guy with a bald head, wire-framed glasses, and a gray mustache sits behind a giant desk, preoccupied with whatever’s on his computer screen, until he notices me hovering like a weirdo at the door.
He offers a polite smile. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, no. Thank you.” I snatch up a brochure that’s stuffed inside a plastic rack attached to the wall outside the door and then hold it up like that’s what I was after all along. “Just came for one of these.”
“Are you interested in business management?” He gestures at the brochure with his glasses. “I’m the head of the program, and my name and number are on the back if you have any questions. There’s also plenty of information on our website.”
I nod and smile like there isn’t a flutter of wishful thinking in my chest or a sinking sense of you’re-not-good-enough in my stomach. “Maybe I will. Thanks.”
I roll up the brochure, stuff it into my tote bag, and immediately forget about it.
Five minutes before the hour, I’m waiting for Izzy in the hallway outside her music room, so I’m there when the door opens and a half-dozen kids file out.
“How was it, little miss?” I ask, taking her instrument case.
“It was fun.” She leaps into the air, throwing her arms above her head like she’s just won first place in the hundred-meter sprint. “I can’t wait to show you later what I can do.”
“And I can’t wait to hear it,” I say with extra enthusiasm. “But first, what do you say we stop by a little place I know that makes really good milkshakes?”
Izzy stops twirling and stares up at me with scandalized eyes. “You want to have milkshakes before dinner?”
“Sure. Why not?”
I offer her my hand, and she slips hers inside it, her palm warm in mine as we walk to the car.
“Daddy never lets me have sugar before meals. He says I don’t need it. I’m already sweet enough.”
I consider our problem with mock severity as I melt inside. I wish Dylan would stop doing and saying things that make me love him more. Always looking out for Izzy. Always strong and disciplined as well as soft and loving. He makes it impossible to get over him.
“Well, your dad is right aboutthatpart—you’re the sweetest kid I know—but I’m in the mood for a milkshake, and you wouldn’t let me drink alone, would you?”
A line of concentration mars Izzy’s smooth brow before she gives me a determined nod. “No, I wouldn’t. I’ll have a milkshake with you.”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Iz. I appreciate it.”
“Ifyou tell Daddy that you made me do it.”
My jaw drops, and I stare down at her until I stumble a little and have to right myself.
“I need to work fast to stay ahead of you, don’t I?” I mumble under my breath.
Izzy mishears me and pumps her little legs so she’s moving two paces to my one. “I’m sorry. I’ll walk quicker.”
The drive to my favorite Aster Springs diner takes ten minutes. The place is just as I remember, with its black-and-white checkered linoleum floor, a long counter with chrome single-serve stools, deep red-leather booths lining the walls, and the smell of burgers and onion rings wafting from the kitchen. We order at the counter, then slide into a booth, and when our milkshakes arrive—strawberry for me and chocolate for Izzy—I hold up my palm to stop her from drinking and stick my arm in my tote.
