Exile

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Just after dinner on the night before the start of senior year, Dad polishes off his guacamole garden burger, looks at me seriously, and asks, “So, now what, then?”

Tonight is also my eighteenth birthday, which means that I’ve known my dad for six thousand five hundred and seventy days, and so I probably should know that he means this question to sound supportive. Concerned, but supportive.

Yet my heart races, and all I can hear is I told you so.

“I don’t know, yet,” I reply, shoving the last chunk of burrito into my mouth.

“Honey, it’s senior year,” adds Mom, whom I’ve presumably known for about nine months longer, and who I know means to sound supportive, too. But Mom wears her worry on every word.

“I’ve heard,” I say around food.

Now what. . . . Senior year is supposed to be the culmination, the big finale of an epic journey, but given our surroundings, I wonder if I’m going in circles instead.

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