Page 4 of Wayfarers

was parceled out to her by the smart lawyers

who ran my grandma’s estate, who didn’t trust my mom

as far as they could throw her—she would have had

a job. A husband her age, maybe, not a spin instructor

who got a spray tan every Sunday. But we did have the money.

I had everything I wanted, if I’d wanted a Chanel double flap

for my eighteenth birthday, a Cartier Love bracelet

for graduation, high-heeled Louboutin oxfords

to wear to—I guess—Culver’s? Who knows.

Cal and I sometimes would sell my presents on Poshmark

and send the profits off to Doctors Without Borders

and in that moment I felt like I was behind the wheel. I felt it

practicing my scales on the Steinway, felt it at the library

with Cal tackling the nightly five hours of homework

for our five APs, felt it putting on SPF 50 and no makeup

on top, tutoring for physics, captaining the track team all the way

to the Illinois Catholic finals. I could see the finish line

so I kept my hands hot-glued to the wheel. I guess

some part of me knew that I was going to hit the wall

hard unless I let the pressure out, but

Cal was the one who suggested it. He’d hear me

watching #vanlife videos while he played Baldur’s Gate

and finally he asked why I liked them. Kicked back

on his bed, phone in hand, was the closest I got

to feeling the hard fist in my chest unclench and so

I answered him honestly:

All day I played Tetris

like a pro, level 400, problem-solving my life

and my mom’s and my stepdad’s and sometimes even

(I didn’t tell him this) Cal’s. You’re just good at this stuff, Sylvie,