The Kid
Lori White The kid tells me she’s dreading going home. It’s 1:00 a.m. We’re barreling north in the Prius after a concert in LA, still thirty minutes away from where I drop her off. The evening’s glittery girl-power excitement has dissipated into the darkness. She’s eaten the sandwiches I packed and the frosted cow-shaped cookies she requested, her favorite sweet treat to finish the night. I have just enough time to talk her back from the disappointment, drawing on the same reassurances I’ve used over the past three years. One more year, I tell her, until we’re driving her to college, the Prius packed with her clothes and books and bedding. We share her dorm room list on our phones, adding essentials she’ll need—a bullet blender, a microwave and mini fridge, a new laundry hamper—for her new home, the first home of her own making. None of this helps for very long. I wait in the driveway for her to let me know she’s inside, but the door is locked and she still hasn’t been given a key. She texts me that no one is answering her knocking, even though there are six people crammed inside the tiny two-bedroom apartment, one who’s sleeping on the couch just inches from the front door. She tries calling her father but he doesn’t answer. Of course, she writes. She’s locked out of the one place she doesn’t even want to enter. Knock louder, I suggest. It’s quarter-to-two now and another twenty minutes till I get home. Finally, she’s in, and I take off, back onto the dark freeway.