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forefront of Mitch’s concerns and settled in. It stung him sharply. I’ve stolen something, he thought, because my parents are getting divorced.
    Mitch tried to think about not thinking. But then the word think became all he could think about. Think-think-think-think-think . Like the rhythmic clicking of the ceiling fan, a tic in his brain. Think-think-think-think-think . Until he was apt to explode.
    When he was younger and tried to empty his mind of unwanted worries, Mitch would recall roller coasters he’d ridden on, trying to re-create the different courses in complete detail—each turn, each climb, each drop.
    This no longer worked, so he tried conjuring up the image of Julie McNight, who was in his homeroom and half of his classes last year. She was popular and pretty and not part of his circle of friends. And she was a very good writer.
    For an assignment in English class just weeks before summer vacation, the students had been told to compose an autobiographical sketch. As part of hers, Julie had written: “I have black hair. But it is not as dramatically black and shiny as Mitch Sinclair’s hair, which looks like crows’ wings sweeping across his forehead and over his ears.” (Mitch had memorized this.)
    She’d slid a copy of it, highlighted in lime green, onto his desk as she’d brushed past him the day the assignment was due. An attached Post-it note in the margin at the appropriate spot had the sentiment “I LIKE YOUR HAIR. OBVIOUSLY” printed on it in large rounded letters, followed by five exclamation points and a smiley face.
    It felt good to remember the incident. He tried to concentrate on Julie— her black, shiny hair and lemony smell and the pink spot on her right cheek the size and shape of a little strawberry. He imagined touching the spot—something he could never do in real life.
    Mitch still had the copy of the assignment Julie had given him, folded in half, kept safe in his backpack. He went to retrieve it but got sidetracked by the stolen goggles. A worrisome urgency overtook him, and he decided to return the goggles. Right now. He would not become another Ross Lip Scum.
    The intruders were still swimming. The sounds of the happy family—laughter, splashing, and calls of “Marco!” and “Polo!”—rose like smoke and were carried off in the breeze. From the distance of the lilacs, shaded by the dusty leaves, Mitch scrutinized the goggles. He wound and twisted the rubber strap of the goggles around the eyepieces and a small rock he’d found at his feet, to form a tight, tangled knot. He gauged its heft by tossing it a few times from hand to hand. Then he broke out of the lilacs just long enough to hurl it toward the house with all his might. As sometimes happens when one least expects it, the thrown object hit a bull’s-eye of sorts. The goggles landed in the birdbath, making the placement of them seem deliberate, like a message nailed to a tree, and Mitch felt certain relief.
    It didn’t last long; he would spend the rest of the day slipping in and out of a gloomy haze, awaiting his father.
    The horn blared. Mitch was ready. Unexpectedly, his spirits had taken an upward turn. He was determined to start the night off right with his father. He shouted a quick good-bye to his mother, then walked out the back door and snuck around the house and along the driveway, weaving between the bushes that bordered it. He moved slowly, clinging to the perfectly manicured shrubs. The horn blared again. Again. Mitch heard the car door open. He bent down low, squinted at the ground, and counted to ten. When he craned his neck and looked ahead and saw the back of his father’s familiar red Badger cap, his heart expanded, he felt buoyant. Yes! he thought. Ever so quietly, so as to not make the gravel crunch beneath his feet, he crept up on his father from behind.
    The single moment that followed was loaded to