Driving down a two-lane curvy highway. To our right is thick green bush then steep drop and valley below. To our left is the town. Emily drives my car. She doesn’t look much older than the last time I saw her. I’m in the passenger seat. Natalie is behind me. Sullen. Picking at her nails. We drive by the high school. It’s the last day. It’s a pale yellow building. Yellowing grass. Picnic tables. Stacks of balloons gathered and waiting to be released. Mostly white balloons with some dark red between the white. Very round. A party in waiting. No kids yet. They are still inside. It’s so quiet. The breeze ruffles the tablecloths. We cruise by. It’s so effortless the way we are moving. Looking in the rearview mirror, I say, “I like the balloons.”
Emily opens the sky window and stands as the car keeps moving. I unbuckle and stand. The air presses on us. The car takes care of itself. We pass the elementary school on our left. A small brick building. Parents are setting out cups and games. The kids are still inside. Emily’s mom is there. On the grass. She’s holding a stack of paper cups. She watches as we pass. I sit back down, buckle in, reach over and guide the car. Emily sits down and takes the wheel. I ask, “How did you fare during the pandemic?” Emily says she was fine. I say, “Mia did okay.” Natalie from the back, still picking at her fingernails, shoulders hunched, says, “Don’t ask me. I didn’t do so great.”