and had to ask for directions. Then I grabbed my guitar and headed out.
The beginning of the trail was a ten-minute walk from my house, and from there it was another mile to where I wanted to eat. When I finally got to the spot, my arm was sore and tired from lugging the guitar all the way there. I sat at an empty picnic table near Poseidon, took everything out of my pack, and set it up like I was having a party.
I was trying to pretend that it was fine for a kid to celebrate his birthday by himself, but my heart hurt like someone had hammered nails into it, and when I inhaled it felt like my breath had nowhere to go, like I could suffocate from all that solitude. That’s when I started fantasizing about killing Bob. I figured if he died I could forgive him for ditching me on my birthday.
The best idea I could come up with—and by “best” I mean the idea that seemed least likely to look like foul play—was pushing Bob off the deck of his houseboat. It was built right over the water and had a simple wooden railing that was designed to let the view of the bay and city in but, if tampered with, would not be good at keeping an asshole father from falling out. And if he fell at low tide in only a couple inches of water, it would be like hitting cement.
The problem with my plan was that when I pictured what Bob’s body would look like after they pulled it out of the water, it didn’t satisfy my desire for revenge at all. Instead it made me think of Sam, and I forced myself to get off that train of thought before I felt even worse.
I drank some Dr Pepper to settle my stomach, took off my shoes and socks, and got out my guitar—I always play guitar barefoot, no matter where I am or what the temperature. I feel more connected to the earth when my feet are touching the ground. More deeply rooted. Like a redwood.
I started strumming an old Tom Petty tune that I’d just learned, and when I got to the chorus I heard a voice behind me singing the words.
I looked back and saw Cal on the trail down below. He was standing maybe ten yards away, his head raised toward the sky, and from where I sat it appeared as though he was staring directly into the sun.
I recognized Cal right away. Well, not by name, but I had seen him twice before, both times at the record store in Mill Valley.
It was hard not to notice Cal. He was extra tall for his age, reed thin and willowy, with fine, wispy yellow hair that made him look like a stalk of wheat blowing in the wind. He had a narrow face and these little round, crafty eyes that reminded me of the great gray owls Bob and I went looking for once in Yosemite. And that day he was wearing the only thing he wore the whole summer—a navy blue sweatshirt and a pair of cutoff denim shorts that his hipbones could barely hold up, with two drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket.
I quit strumming and he said, “That sounded rad.” He slid onto the bench across from me. “I dig that song.”
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the CD.
“You have the whole album?”
I nodded, though it actually belonged to my mom’s boyfriend, Chuck, who was twenty-seven, had a perpetual tan, and worked as a trainer at the gym where she took exercise classes. Chuck was basically living at our house, and he called me Mutant Joe when my mom wasn’t within earshot. I was pretty sure he was trying to make a joke about how I was mute, but he was too stupid to know that the word “mutant” wasn’t some adjectival version of “mute,” and if I hadn’t actually been mute, not to mention timid beyond reason, I would have called him stupid to his face. Instead I wrote the word “rebound” on the notepad in the kitchen every morning, which made my mom laugh; back then, not much made Ingrid laugh, so I kept doing it.
I remember wanting to invite Cal to eat lunch with me, but I figured he was too cool to say yes. Even back then I had a sense that certain people were out of my