The Ballad of Darcy and Russell

Friday

I stood at the foot of the stairs with my duffel bag, trying to remember if I’d forgotten anything. I was tempted to unzip the bag and start going through everything one more time, despite the fact I’d spent the whole morning channeling my nervous energy into making sure I’d packed properly.

“Got it all?” my dad asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning at theNew York Times crossword.

“If I don’t, I won’t remember until I’m halfway there,” I said, dropping my duffel at my feet. I stepped around the dog’s food and water bowls as I crossed to the fridge, pushing the cards and photos out of the way so I could open the door. It was still early, but I’d woken up with a start hours before my alarm, with everything that was going to happen today scrolling in a loop in my brain. “That’s the way this works.”

“How are you feeling?” He turned to face me fully, setting the crossword down. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was actually concerned or if he needed a break from trying to figure out five across.

“Nervous,” I admitted. But it would have been weird if I wasn’t, right? I’d never done anything like this before. “But excited, too.”

“Well, have fun,” my dad said. He gave me a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Be safe. Please come back in one piece.”

“I’ll do my best.” I glanced outside, at the bright sun and the wind blowing the trees around. “It’s nice out, but if you’re going to the park, you should probably bring Zyrtec.”

He grinned at me. “Duly noted.”

I leaned over him to look at the crossword. “Fun fact—did you know that a person who creates crosswords is called a cruciverbalist?”

“I did not,” my dad said as he picked it up again. “But I would appreciate any help you can offer on nineteen down.”

I gave him a quick hug, then headed across the kitchen and picked up my duffel bag. “If I give you the answers, you’re never going to learn.”

My dad groaned. “This is revenge for me telling you that whenever you had a math question, isn’t it?”

I laughed. “I’ll call when I get there.”

“Drive safe!” my dad called, already focused back on the crossword, muttering curses at David Kwong under his breath.

I stood there for just a second and looked at it—the quiet kitchen, my dad just where he was supposed to be, the clock ticking on the wall. I took in the scene—the one I knew I’d be missing all too soon—and let out a breath.

Then I picked up my duffel and headed out the door.