London Is the Best City in America

He was losing it a little.

“At least we know they’re not going to bust us for blocking their driveway,” I said.

“I didn’t block their driveway.”

“You didn’t not block it.”

Josh turned to me. “Do you have any suggestions? For what we’re going to do now?”

I bit on my lip, surveying the situation again. The majority of the backyard was clearly off-limits to us. I knew we were going to have to make a run for it, if we wanted to make it inside undetected. It was tricky, though. There was a little more wiggle room to the left of the tent, but the door there led right to the living room/kitchen area, where we were more likely to run into people. The other option though—right of the tent, toward the farther door—led right past our dad. The real question was whether our mom was near him. Because right now she needed to be avoided at all costs.

“Maybe we should separate, and race inside,” I said. “That way, if Mom catches one of us, we can say the other is upstairs showering. We can make it like we’ve been home for a while.”

“Emmy, I’m not going to make a run for it. That’s a ridiculous suggestion. You think I’m that scared?”

But then, before I could explain my rationale—before I could convince him that a run-in with our mother in his dirty T-shirt wasn’t in his best interest right now—he was gone. He had taken the right-side option, and was running down the hill in long strides, covering his head as he passed near our father, moving faster than I could ever remember seeing him move.

This left me to go left. But just as I was down the hill, heading for the clear, I heard Mom calling out my name from a few feet behind me. I stopped in my tracks, unsure what to do next.

“Don’t you even think of walking away from me,” she said, making the decision for me.

I turned around, giving her a little wave. She was wearing a long silver sheath dress, drop earrings, her hair pulled into a tiny bun. She gave me a less-than-friendly wave back. But as soon as she was up close to me, I hugged her. And as she pulled away, I could tell she wasn’t mad anymore. She couldn’t even pretend to look mad at me anymore. I had her like that.

“I don’t know where you’ve been,” she said. “I don’t even think I want to know right now. Dad had to order an extra air machine because it’s still so hot out here. A huge air machine to blow air into the t

ent. Do you have any idea how much something like that costs? Three thousand dollars! What kind of situation is this?”

I touched her face, trying to calm her down. “You look beautiful,” I said.

She touched mine back. “You look a little tired.” Then she looked down at my wrist. “Oh, my God,” she said. “What happened?”

I followed her eyes down to the spot where Hannibal almost got me. “Nothing.”

She ran her fingers along the invisible cut. “This is clearly not nothing,” she said. “Does this look like nothing to you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“What is going on, Emmy? Please tell me. I can’t make anything better unless you are willing to talk about it.”

And right then, I wanted to so much. Not only because I didn’t want to know about Josh’s situation alone anymore, but also because she would know how to help him—she would know how to fix this—better than I did. But I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe Josh wasn’t ready to have this fixed. Maybe, whatever was going on here, it wasn’t ready to end. Not quite yet.

“Okay, so if you’re just going to stand there in silence, then I at least want you to go rub your wrist with alcohol, and wrap it in a bigger Band-Aid. They’re in your bathroom under the sink. Put two on, if you don’t mind. Layers are always good. Then get dressed for tonight.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

She kissed my forehead, my scratched wrist. “Okay.”

I started walking away.

“Oh, and Emmy.” I turned back around. “FYI, if Mrs. Wademan comes up and asks you later, I told her Steven Spielberg was interested in buying the fishermen’s wives film you’ve been working on.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shrugged. “She wanted to know what you were doing in Rhode Island, and so I told her what you were doing.”

“Mom, Steven Spielberg’s not interested in buying my documentary.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, he should be.”