Free The Chance You Won't Return by Annie Cardi

and I guess that was true — so they sent me to stay with my grandparents in Indiana, way out in the boonies. Like even more than here.”
    “Fun.”
    He shrugged. “When I was a kid, I liked going to see them a lot. They have this soybean farm, so there was a lot of space to run around. I was kind of into it.” I imagined Jim in a pair of overalls and a trucker hat, and I tried not to laugh. “And my grandparents are okay, so I went.” He turned down my street. “It was kind of good to get away for a while.”
    Maybe Mom needed to get away for a little while, too. Except instead of going somewhere, she’d decided to be Amelia Earhart.
    “It’s the yellow one on the right,” I told Jim as we approached my house. “You can just pull right in the driveway.” Inside, several lights were on — more than just Katy’s and my room and Teddy’s room. Dad and Mom must have gotten home already.
    Jim turned off the engine and the headlights. “How are you going to get home?” I asked. I hadn’t thought that far in advance. If he wanted a ride, my dad would have to give it to him. And I wasn’t sure I wanted Jim coming inside the house yet, depending on what we’d find.
    “I’ll walk,” he said. “I don’t live too far.” I wanted to say that I knew, that I had seen his house before, and I had even seen when the front corner had been smashed off, when he drove his parents’ car straight into their bedroom — their closet, actually. I was walking Jackson early one Sunday morning when I saw the cluster of police officers, firefighters, Wileys, and a few neighbors with coats over their pajamas. Steering Jackson in that direction, I could see the hole at the front left corner of the Wiley house. Mrs. Wiley’s quilted slippers and winter boots poked out, and a couple of her long skirts fluttered in the breeze. Mrs. Wiley herself stood on the lawn in a nightgown and a George Mason University sweatshirt, talking to an officer. She explained, “We felt it before we knew what it was.” Mr. Wiley kept touching the broken edges of brick and plaster, as though he could understand what had happened if only he could gather the pieces together. From what I could see, Jim wasn’t there. Maybe they’d already taken him to the police station or the hospital. I didn’t tell anyone about seeing the accident — not my friends, not the girls on the soccer team, no one. It was all anyone was talking about, but for some reason it felt like my own secret. And even after the driving lesson with Jim, it felt like too much to admit.
    Dad’s silhouette passed in front of the living room, then retreated again. I didn’t see Mom with him. Maybe she was better, like Dad had promised, but if she wasn’t, I didn’t want to go inside and find out. I didn’t even unbuckle my seat belt.
    “Your parents are going to be okay with me driving?” Jim asked. “Sometimes people get protective about their cars.”
    “Insurance and everything,” I said.
    “Right.”
    I shook my head. “No, it’s fine.” I wanted to stay there and talk about anything, even car insurance, but my father passed by the window again and I could tell he was waiting for me. “Thanks. For driving and helping me drive and everything.”
    “No problem,” Jim said. “You’re really not that bad.”
    We swung out of the car, Jim tossing me the keys as he rounded the trunk. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and I waved good-bye. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strode down the driveway and across the street, moving through the cold glow of the streetlights. I watched him until he cut through a neighbor’s yard and disappeared.
    Inside, someone had left the TV on. Usually I would have shouted hello, but now I just stood in the kitchen, listening for footsteps elsewhere in the house. But my father must have heard the door close, because he walked in from the living room.
    Before he could say anything, I told him, “I brought the car back. We had to