If Only by Becky Citra Page A

where sometimes you don’t see anyone at all.
    He concentrates on thinking about the model. He holds the box in one hand and the bag of paints and cement in the other. He is bone-tired, and he decides he won’t start painting tonight because he doesn’t want to mess it up. But he’s going to sort all the pieces and get everything ready. Hugh said the instructions were impossible, but the steps are numbered. Danny knows that if he follows them one by one, he will know exactly what to do.

Pam
    â€œYou should go,” Dad says.
    This day has just become even weirder, because Dad never cares what I do.
    â€œNo,” I say.
    â€œCarol just wants to take you for a drive.”
    â€œNo.”
    It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m lying on my bed, listening to the Beach Boys. Dad knocked once and then pushed the door open before I could tell him to go away.
    I forget that I think Carol is nice and that she stuck up for me in front of Dad and that I love Carol’s dog, Prince.
    Dad is still standing in my doorway.
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    I don’t know why Dad’s pushing me to go out with Carol. Dad isn’t big on getting to know neighbors. When we moved here, some ladies in the block brought over pies and casseroles. Dad didn’t ask them in, and they never came back. I’ve seen him drive right by old Mr. Thompson, who lives two houses down, and not wave back when he waves his cane at Dad. Danny says that Dad is just too busy worrying about keeping his job, and about not having enough money, and about Pop getting better.
    Danny always comes up with theories. He probably has a theory about why Dad’s drinking so much beer now, but I’ve never asked him. It’s another thing we don’t talk about, but I know that Danny’s noticed. He gets a dark look in his eyes when Dad opens another can.
    â€œYou can’t hide in here forever,” Dad says.
    I close my eyes and turn onto my stomach. Go away .
    â€œI want to see you dressed for dinner. You look awful.”
    â€œRight,” I mumble into my pillow.
    Dad doesn’t look so hot either; his gray shirt has a stain and he needs to shave, but I’m not stupid enough to tell him.
    â€œLook at me when I’m talking to you.”
    I roll over slowly and sit up.
    My record ends, and I can hear my clock ticking on my dresser.
    Dad frowns. “What were you thinking, doing that to your hair?”
    I shrug. “I like it this way.”
    Dad gives me a hard look. “You’ll feel better when you get back to school tomorrow,” he says finally, turning to leave the room.
    A fist closes inside my chest, and my lungs are being squeezed. I think I’m not going to be able to speak. But I force the words out. “I’m not going to school tomorrow.”
    Dad wheels around. “Oh yes you are.”
    I wait until he has left and then I whisper, “No, I’m not.”
    Danny will know what to do.
    He’s been in his room most of the day. He comes out to go to the bathroom and get food and then he disappears again. I stand in the hallway in front of his closed bedroom door. Danny’s had a thing about knocking ever since we moved here and don’t have to share a room like on the farm. I wanted my own room really badly, but sometimes I miss our old bunk beds and talking until really late.
    So I knock, and at first I think he’s not going to answer, but then he says, “Come in.”
    The room smells like paint. Danny’s at his desk, hunched over. He’s holding a paintbrush in one hand and a tiny piece of plastic in the other.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I say.
    â€œThis? A model,” Danny mutters.
    I take a step closer to his desk, where a lot more pieces of plastic are spread out. Tiny jars of paint are lined up, and there’s a box with a picture of an airplane on the front. The piece of plastic in his hand is a propeller, and he’s