It's like I'm super-aware of all the other cars. When you're a passenger, you don't have to pay attention to them, but now that I'm behind the wheel it's like they're all up in my face. And I guess the mayor was right that you can't drive without those ribbons, because every single car I see on the way home has at least one and usually two of them. There are so many people from here serving in the military—Brookdale's always been a patriotic place.
I park the car right up against the house on the side that faces the main road. There's a parking pad there with room for two cars—Mrs. Mac always parks in the back, so there's always been this empty space, and now it's mine. God, it's so cool! I stand there for a few minutes, looking at
my
car, in
my
driveway. The school reporter takes a couple of pictures of me standing there with my hand on the car and I'm so happy that I can't help it—I smile for the camera.
Inside, I get a surprise—Dad's still up, yawning and grumbling, but still awake. This happens sometimes, when he just can't sleep. I try not to annoy him as I start to throw together something for dinner. Man, this reward money has totally changed my life ... and I don't even have it yet!
And then suddenly Dad's yelling, "Kevin! Kevin!"
It takes me a second to realize that he's walked over to the apartment's only window, looking right out into the driveway.
"What's that?" His voice has gone sharp, like that time I tried to set a frog on fire back in sixth grade. (Long story.)
"That's my car, Dad." I've got a can of ravioli half opened and I almost cut my thumb off when he yelled.
"Don't be smart. That ribbon."
"Oh. The ribbons."
"
Plural?
" he says, as if someone just dipped his big toe in battery acid. "There's more than one?" He cranes his neck, looking for the other one.
"Yeah. The mayor put 'em there before I—"
"Get rid of them."
"Why?"
And he starts to do that whole brain-moving-too-fast, flustered thing: "Because ... Because ... Don't you
get
it? It's just a—"
"OK, OK." I cut him off before he can go into total spaz mode. "I'll get 'em after I eat."
"Do it
now."
He says it with such venom that it takes me a second to figure out that he's still just talking about the freaking ribbons.
"OK," I tell him, and go back to opening the can.
"I'm serious!"
You've
got
to be kidding me. But he's not. So I slam down the can, go peel off the magnets, and toss them in the trash can.
"Happy now?" I say once I'm back inside.
But Dad's nowhere near happy. If happy was the earth, Dad would be out there orbiting Pluto.
"How could you drive around with those things on?"
"Chill out, Dad. Everyone has them."
"That's exactly my point," he says. "People think ... Do you know what people
think?"
And here he goes again: "People, they, you know..."
"Yeah, Dad."
"Let me tell you something: When I was in the army, those things didn't mean anything at all. You think they helped me over there? You think they helped any of us?"
It's the most he's talked about the army in, like,
forever.
I just stand there, stunned. He glares at me and then he shakes his head. He looks like he's about to say something else, but he just goes off to his bedroom and closes the door and I'm able to eat my dinner in peace.
In the morning, I drive to school for the first time, which is great. Tell the truth, I'm starting to get used to this "hero" thing. People treating me well in school, Leah inviting me to parties, the mayor bending over backwards to get me some wheels ... There are worse ways to live a life.
And at school, I experience one of them.
I don't get it. All of a sudden, no one's talking to me. or high-fiving me. As I walk through the halls to my locker, I just get stares and glares. What the hell?
Oh, God, wait. Did someone find out? Did someone find out the truth, about what
really
happened at the library that day?
No. No, that's impossible...
And then I get to my locker.
Someone has taped a sheet of paper to
I park the car right up against the house on the side that faces the main road. There's a parking pad there with room for two cars—Mrs. Mac always parks in the back, so there's always been this empty space, and now it's mine. God, it's so cool! I stand there for a few minutes, looking at
my
car, in
my
driveway. The school reporter takes a couple of pictures of me standing there with my hand on the car and I'm so happy that I can't help it—I smile for the camera.
Inside, I get a surprise—Dad's still up, yawning and grumbling, but still awake. This happens sometimes, when he just can't sleep. I try not to annoy him as I start to throw together something for dinner. Man, this reward money has totally changed my life ... and I don't even have it yet!
And then suddenly Dad's yelling, "Kevin! Kevin!"
It takes me a second to realize that he's walked over to the apartment's only window, looking right out into the driveway.
"What's that?" His voice has gone sharp, like that time I tried to set a frog on fire back in sixth grade. (Long story.)
"That's my car, Dad." I've got a can of ravioli half opened and I almost cut my thumb off when he yelled.
"Don't be smart. That ribbon."
"Oh. The ribbons."
"
Plural?
" he says, as if someone just dipped his big toe in battery acid. "There's more than one?" He cranes his neck, looking for the other one.
"Yeah. The mayor put 'em there before I—"
"Get rid of them."
"Why?"
And he starts to do that whole brain-moving-too-fast, flustered thing: "Because ... Because ... Don't you
get
it? It's just a—"
"OK, OK." I cut him off before he can go into total spaz mode. "I'll get 'em after I eat."
"Do it
now."
He says it with such venom that it takes me a second to figure out that he's still just talking about the freaking ribbons.
"OK," I tell him, and go back to opening the can.
"I'm serious!"
You've
got
to be kidding me. But he's not. So I slam down the can, go peel off the magnets, and toss them in the trash can.
"Happy now?" I say once I'm back inside.
But Dad's nowhere near happy. If happy was the earth, Dad would be out there orbiting Pluto.
"How could you drive around with those things on?"
"Chill out, Dad. Everyone has them."
"That's exactly my point," he says. "People think ... Do you know what people
think?"
And here he goes again: "People, they, you know..."
"Yeah, Dad."
"Let me tell you something: When I was in the army, those things didn't mean anything at all. You think they helped me over there? You think they helped any of us?"
It's the most he's talked about the army in, like,
forever.
I just stand there, stunned. He glares at me and then he shakes his head. He looks like he's about to say something else, but he just goes off to his bedroom and closes the door and I'm able to eat my dinner in peace.
In the morning, I drive to school for the first time, which is great. Tell the truth, I'm starting to get used to this "hero" thing. People treating me well in school, Leah inviting me to parties, the mayor bending over backwards to get me some wheels ... There are worse ways to live a life.
And at school, I experience one of them.
I don't get it. All of a sudden, no one's talking to me. or high-fiving me. As I walk through the halls to my locker, I just get stares and glares. What the hell?
Oh, God, wait. Did someone find out? Did someone find out the truth, about what
really
happened at the library that day?
No. No, that's impossible...
And then I get to my locker.
Someone has taped a sheet of paper to
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