Diamond Eyes Makes His Mark

By DJ Key

Mark Van Buren, nicknamed Diamond Eyes by his loving aunt, is a fourteen-year-old misfit from Michigan who can’t seem to do anything right. When he discovers his father and stepmom plan to ship him to Florida to live with his uncle DJ and aunt Rita, the founders of a cover band, the Ambient Images, he worries he won’t be accepted. But when he fills in to sing one night, he finds himself at the start of a personal journey that will change his life forever, as well as the lives of everyone around him.

Various adventures take him on an Alaskan cruise, the Las Vegas desert, an Amish farm, and a crocodile-infested swamp. Through it all he discovers who he is while experiencing the ups and downs of life.

Diamond Eyes Makes His Mark is a testament to the trials and tribulations adolescents face in today’s world, such as bullying, suicidal thoughts, loss of a loved one, and sexual identity. Ultimately, it is a tale of faith, endurance, and the power of unconditional love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662446672

Book preview

Chapter 1

Following Fate

The risers came crashing down.

First the left, then the right. The three-tiered platforms that we stood on while singing folded in on themselves with a sonic slam. All of us stared in shock as we waited behind the thick maroon curtain to go onstage while the dust swirled.

After a collective gasp, the audience began to stir with unease. Mr. Brown, the choir director, sped backstage with a look of horror on his skeletal face. It was surely the work of Jimmy Kirk. I stared into his icy eyes as he grinned devilishly.

What’s the matter, Van Buren? Scare ya?

Leave me alone, Kirk, I shot back.

Just don’t forget your lines, ya parasite, he sneered. It’ll throw shade on the rest of us. His homies around him snickered.

I didn’t like one thing about Jimmy Kirk. He always knew just what to say to make me feel like a loser. To dodge him as Sam the custodian righted the risers, I retreated toward the curtain, hoping my burgundy dress shirt would blend in with the fabric and help me vanish. Fat chance.

You can’t hide from us, Van Buren, ya gutless coward. Again, his toadies chuckled.

My stomach churned as I pinched open the narrow slit where the two ends of the curtain met and stared into the buzzing audience. Two reserved seats roped off at the end of the second row sat empty. Where were they?

Forgetting the minor catastrophe, the kids backstage started taking selfies and chatting on their phones. I took out mine and dialed my dad’s cell. After ringing four times, it went to voice mail. Maybe they were running late because of the snow, I figured.

At least I knew the lines for my solo. I rehearsed in the shower, in my bedroom mirror, in the empty hallways. I just hoped my voice wouldn’t do anything weird like it did sometimes.

Mr. Brown called the choir together before we went on. I know you will all sing beautifully, he said, his voice quavering. He was obviously still shaken by the collapsing risers. He closed his eyes and broke into an ear-to-ear grin. Now, break a leg!

Even though that ancient phrase was for thespians, it made sense for our group because it was supposed to bring good luck. We all placed our hands in the center of our circle, one on top of another. Some of the Freshman girls hung their free arms around one another’s shoulders. Then we all shouted, Choir! and broke free.

We took our places on the risers as the curtains separated. I stood next to my friend Chuck Lawson in the front row. The band in the pit began the familiar harmonies of O Holy Night, and I swallowed hard, scanning the audience again. The seats were still empty. We started to sing.

Our voices meshed well through the first two verses, the basses on the right and the melodies on the left. I was part of the melody section and kept the time by hitting my fist against my pant leg. My solo was approaching.

The word glory was the most difficult. I had to hold the notes for four beats, and I was worried about it. On cue, I raised my chin and began to sing. But I didn’t hold the last note long enough. And to make matters worse, my voice cracked on the highest octave.

The audience cringed. Jimmy Kirk sighed in exasperation behind me as my eyes darted through the crowd past the two empty seats and finally settled on Mr. Brown in the pit, who stood aghast in front of us.

Then Chuck inched forward for his solo. His voice didn’t crack or hit the wrong notes or anything; he was spot-on. I could have wrung his neck.

Jimmy Kirk jabbed me in the ribs as we finished the hymn, but I was too embarrassed to move. My face burned, and sweat trickled down my spine. I tried to forget my mistake, but the damage was done. The song was ruined.

We ran through the rest of the carols without incident. At the end, the audience applauded politely while we bowed, but my stomach roiled. I clutched it and keeled over after the curtain closed. Not only had I messed up and my dad and stepmom missed the show, but now I also didn’t have a ride home.

Jimmy Kirk appeared behind me with his posse. Great job, Van Buren. I knew you’d screw it up somehow. You ruined the whole concert!

I lowered my head and slunk away, pushing through the door into the hallway, which hit Chuck, who was standing outside, directly in the forehead. He yelped.

Sorry, bruh, I apologized, with my eyes falling to my black loafers. Of all the people to crack on the head, it had to be him. My best friend. My only friend.

He blew it off. Everybody makes mistakes sometimes, he said over the noise in the hallway. Don’t let Kirk’s beef bother ya.

I quickly changed the subject. Can I get a lift home?

He shook his head. Nope.

I scoffed. Thanks a lot! I stared up at the pasty ceiling. A perfect endin’ to a perfect night.

Well, we can’t. We’re going to my gramma’s. His pupils were huge behind his thick black glasses. They always dilated when he was serious, which was all the time. Tall and gangly, and deeply into Star Wars, he was the only kid in the whole ninth grade brave enough to hang with me.

I’m so sorry, Mark, his mother, a parochial schoolteacher, chirped. Her dark-rimmed glasses matched her son’s. We’re picking up Angela from basketball and heading to my parents’ for a holiday gathering. She wore a dress that bunched up around her wide hips. Where’s your stepmother, dear?

I focused on the falling snow outside the wall of windows. Oh, Darlene’s probably just running late.

She missed the concert! If your mother were still alive to see how that woman treats you—

Juanita! Mr. Lawson bellowed, buttoning his coat across from us. I don’t think Mark needs to hear that right now. He turned to me. You’re welcome to go with us to the Christmas party.

That’s okay, Mr. Lawson. I pulled out my phone. I’ll try ’em again. Maybe they got distracted or somethin’.

Around us, kids were celebrating with their moms and dads. My real mom passed from pancreatic cancer when I was seven. She lasted only three weeks after her diagnosis. She wouldn’t have missed my concert for anything in the world. My dad married Darlene five years later. She and I never hit it off from the get-go.

You’re sure you’ll be all right? Mr. Lawson asked.

I nodded. If they don’t show, I’ll grab a ride from someone. Darlene wasn’t picking up. Neither was my dad. I pulled on my knit hat.

Chuck looked up from his phone. I’ll text you later. They vanished through the glass doors and morphed into the snowy evening.

All at once, I caught a whiff of chlorine wafting from the swimming pool doors. That familiar old scent carried haunting memories from my first day at Roosevelt. Without thinking, I pushed through the boys’ locker room door and walked over to the sinks. It swung shut behind me, muffling the commotion in the hallway.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My black bangs fell over my brow and covered my forehead. Two pale-blue eyes shone back at me like gemstones. The navy-and-gold lockers behind the benches reflected in the mirror, along with the huge bear claw painted on the wall above them. Wyandotte Bears was printed in blue block letters beneath it. I leaned back against the sink, facing the lockers, as my thoughts drifted back four months.

Steam had drifted into the changing area from the showers. I set my new gym bag on the bench, about to put on dry clothes after swimming class. Without warning, I was slammed against a locker by Jimmy Kirk, who stood smirking while his friends held my arms. As soon as my eyes met his, he slugged me in the gut and I sank to the cold tile floor between the lockers and the benches. Someone popped me in the shoulder with a damp towel, and I winced in pain. Loud jeering ensued as Kirk stomped on my bare feet with his Timberlands.

Let’s go, Van Buren, you Dutch bum. Hit me! He kneed me in the chin, and my head snapped back into a steel locker handle. My brain rattled, and I tasted blood. Get up! he ordered.

More towels snapped at my arms. I tried to snatch them but grabbed nothing but air. Raucous laughter erupted as I was unable to stop the onslaught, fighting back tears. One of Kirk’s homies grabbed my gym bag as the bell rang and tossed it into the showers. Upending, it spilled my dry clothes all over the wet tile. The incoming class howled and pointed as they watched me retrieve my drenched clothes.

I pulled my wet jeans over my swimsuit, catching a glimpse of my cherry-red face in the mirror above the sinks as I walked out.

A blast of a trombone from a band member in the hall snapped me out of my stupor. I stared into the mirror once more.

Why didn’t I fit in? How come I was the one picked on? I was just a kid trying to find his place in the high school hierarchy. Was it because I just turned fourteen in October and was younger than most of the freshmen? I sighed. Maybe it was just me. Maybe it was just who I was.

When I entered the hallway, most of the students had cleared out. I pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the falling snow. A rogue wind caught me the wrong way and dropped icy flakes down the front of my shirt. I shuddered and shook my shirt collar as they melted into a trickle down my chest. Exhaust fumes wafted to my nose as the few remaining cars left the lot.

I fumbled for my phone. It responded by flashing Low Battery and then died. I frowned and stuffed my hands in my pockets, prepared to walk home.

Just then, a white Lincoln pulled up behind me in the cold silence surrounding the school. Need a ride, Van Buren? It was Mr. Brown. His white hair flowed like a wild mane as he leaned outside his driver’s window.

I guess they were busy, I said sheepishly.

Well, hop in! He reached over to open the passenger door. Before all the heat leaks out. I got in but slammed the door a little too loudly, and he winced. Could I do anything right?

Emmons Boulevard, right? His silver-framed glasses were perched on the tip of his raspberry nose.

Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Brown. I squinted out the foggy window. My breath formed a misty patch that blurred the colorful Christmas bulbs on windows across the street. Slush splashed over the curb as he barreled out of the lot. The radio was tuned to a station playing holiday music, and I cringed when O Holy Night by Anne Murray began even though it was barely audible under the drone of the heater. I rolled my eyes as she sang the refrain perfectly, then closed them, thinking back to earlier in the evening.

Darlene had set up a miniature ceramic Christmas tree on one of the dusty end tables in the living room. It flashed red and green through the haze of her cigarette smoke that drifted toward the cobwebs at the corner of the ceiling. A glass bong sat tilted on its side against a package of Zig-Zags and a Zippo on the chipped coffee table parallel to the couch. Empty Coors bottles clanked and rolled on the kitchen linoleum, where my dad sat wincing at a crossword, beer in hand. Darlene whipped back her tangled nest of messy brown hair with her hands on her hips.

He’s your son, for cripes’ sake. You should be going to his Christmas thing.

You’re dropping him off, he replied. His cheeks were ripe with salt-and-pepper five-o’clock shadow. His greasy black hair hung over his ears. You stay for it.

Well, I can’t. She took a long drag on an ash-laden Virginia Slim 120 while her imitation gold bracelets jingled around her thin wrists. I got to see the man.

You got an excuse for everything. He chugged his beer.

It’s okay, guys, you don’t have to go. I slumped on the couch, watching It’s a Wonderful Life. The falling snow on the screen matched the flakes outside our window.

Let’s go, kid. Get your coat on.

But it’s only six! I snapped. The concert’s not till eight.

Do you want a ride, or do you want to trudge through the snow? Now, get your skinny butt in the car.

I stomped past her in defiance and yanked my coat off the hook. She slammed the door on the way out, and the wreath rocked on its rusty nail, resting at an angle around the brass lion door knocker.

Don’t worry about what happened tonight, son, Mr. Brown said as he focused on the icy road. Your voice is changing, that’s all. I think you got some good pipes. He hit the brakes at a stop sign, and a six-foot snowman with a tilted carrot nose gawked at us from someone’s front lawn. Your singing’s only going to get better.

I don’t know, Mr. Brown. Maybe I should quit the choir. Things just don’t work out for me. Remember the drums?

My dad used to play drums in my Uncle DJ’s band, the Ambient Images. They played covers of popular eighties hits. But he quit after Uncle DJ married his sister, and they moved to Orlando. He said it was a disagreement with the band, but there were rumblings that the real reason for his departure was his drinking problem and that he didn’t quit but was kicked out. Anyways, I took up drums for a while but couldn’t keep a beat. Jimmy Kirk wasn’t surprised when I failed. No one was.

Just because your father played drums doesn’t mean you have to. He slowed to let a salt truck pass. Besides, your passion is singing. I’ve heard a lot of kids in my twenty years as a music teacher, and I’m telling you, it’s your thing. The Lincoln fishtailed as he approached my block and slid ten feet into the empty intersection. Sometimes in life you have to slow down over the speed bumps before you shift into a higher gear.

I twisted my lips, not grasping what he meant.

He veered into my driveway, his headlights illuminating the three-foot drifts in the front yard. I opened the door and thanked him. Marching through the snow, I reached into my pocket for my house key. It was empty.

I glanced down the street, hoping by some miracle Mr. Brown was still there, but he was long gone. It must have fallen out on his front seat or at the school. I trudged toward the side door, not surprised to hear shouting inside.

They were home, all right, fighting as usual. Darlene was shouting something about a divorce, while my dad yelled that he wasn’t the one she was angry with. Their shadowy silhouettes pointed and gestured behind the kitchen shade, and I froze in my tracks to listen.

Suddenly, I was bathed in a beam of blue-and-white light. A police helicopter was descending above the houses, stirring up gusts of snowy powder off rooftops as it aimed its searchlights around the neighborhood. It swayed and veered with sweeping blades, slicing through the frigid air, sprinkling flakes down like granulated sugar upon mounds of porridge. The vibrations from the rotors shook icicles loose from frosted eaves, and they pelted the sidewalks with a ringing like Yuletide bells from a faraway sleigh.

I clutched the brass lion door knocker and brought it down with a thud against the solid oak door as the copter scattered its blinding lights over a wider area. Mrs. Burns flipped on her porch light across the street—an amber beacon in an obscure sea of holiday hues.

I fumbled to fasten the top snap of my jacket with my free hand, shivering as I brought the lion’s head down again and again against the weathered side door. The plunk complemented the whirring of the heli’s whooshing blades, producing a rhythmic background cadence.

Why weren’t they answering? When the copter finally vanished, all that remained in its wake was an odd green glow, like the twilight of predawn mornings or late-autumn dusks. Finally, my dad opened the door.

Oh, it’s you. He took a step back, doddering in his slippers. His left hand rested against the wall of the foyer.

What’s with the copter? I bathed my chilled face with the pleasant interior warmth. What’re they looking for?

He cocked his grizzled jaw. There was a prison break at Wayne County. Two guys. It’s on the news. He glared at me like it was my fault. His breath reeked of Canadian whiskey and Marlboros. Go on in. Darlene wants to talk to you.

That was not what I wanted to hear, so I brushed past him and descended the stairs to my basement bedroom. I’ll be up later. I pulled off my soggy loafers and drenched socks and crawled under my comforter.

Across from me hung posters of my favorite eighties bands, New Order, Missing Persons, Berlin, and A-ha. Above them was the one award I ever won. From the choir.

A moment later, I heard footsteps stomping down the stairs and my Detroit Tigers lamp crashing off the banister. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. He was drunker than I thought.

He pushed open my door, and it hit the dresser, knocking my song journal into the trash can. He leaned against the paneled wall and belched. I was looking over your report card. A C+ in algebra isn’t gonna cut it.

The concert was awesome, Dad. Thanks for askin’. I knew I was dissing him, but I didn’t care. I’d had enough for one evening.

Oh, I guess I dozed off. His eyes moved from poster to poster. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with concerts, anyways. There’s no future in music. He hiccupped. You should be studying math.

I don’t like math, Dad. I don’t even like school.

That’s because you’re not trying. Dammit, Mark, you got a chance to be an engineer. You’re living in Detroit, for God’s sake, the automobile capital of the world!

I don’t wanna be an engineer, Dad. I rubbed my numb toes.

There’s big money in it. And lots of jobs.

I don’t even know what they do. I looked up at him. Drive trains?

Don’t be a wise guy. It’s your future we’re talking about.

I wanna play in a band like you did. You were really good!

He tossed his hands in the air. You haven’t heard anything I’ve said, have you? He sat down at my computer. Get serious. A band’s a dead end.

But it’s what I wanna do.

And what exactly do you want to do?

I wanna be in music.

Doing what? Playing drums? He raised his eyebrows. Because we all know how that went.

Not drums. Maybe guitar. I don’t know.

You…you don’t know. He smiled with sarcasm. Sounds like a plan to me.

Bernard Sumner stared back at me from my New Order poster as if to say, Better get a clue.

It’s time to grow up, Mark. His sappy advice only irritated me more. My hands started shaking, and I balled them into fists.

Mark, get up here! Darlene yelled.

We’ll finish this later, he said.

Now what? I trudged up the steps and found her waiting in front of the picture window in the messy living room. Her arms were folded, and she had a ruminating look on her face. Cigarette smoke blurred the television screen. When she saw me, she reached for a tall glass of something boozy from the end table and tapped her pack of Virginia Slims into her palm until one popped out.

Guess your father forgot to get you, huh, Marky?

I sank into the sofa and glared up at her through the smog. I asked you not to call me that. I hated that nickname. It made me feel like a little kid. Like I didn’t know anything.

As usual, she wasn’t listening. I asked him to pick you up because I had things to do.

He’s drunk, Darlene. He fell asleep. I couldn’t believe her gall.

She sat down at my side. Well, I had an important…I had to meet with someone.

Did you get your drugs, Darlene? I braced myself for a slap.

Look, you little… She took a deep breath. What I do is none of your business. She corrected her posture, trying to compose herself. She even managed to conjure up a fake smile. So did you walk home?

Mr. Brown drove me. I glanced out the picture window. The snow was really coming down.

The truth is, your father and I are having…issues. She reached for the ashtray on the coffee table and brought it to her lap.

This wasn’t exactly breaking news. Are you gettin’ divorced? I secretly hoped they were.

She shook her head. I know it’s been bothering you too. She took a deep drag on her smoke and exhaled fumes as she spoke. It’s been brewing for a while.

I thought you guys were tryin’ to make it work?

We’ve been trying for over a year now, Marky, but something’s been in the way. She stared at me like I was a cockroach.

What do ya mean? I walked over to the window. Then it hit me like a boatload of bricks. I was so stupid sometimes. It’s me, isn’t it?

She dug her pointed heels into the carpet. You’ll have to compromise a little.

What does that mean? The temperature in the room was rising, and I snapped back my T-shirt a few times to cool my chest. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, and the heat from the furnace register made the silk curtains in front of the picture window dance at my feet. What are ya sayin’, Darlene?

She crushed her cigarette out and lit another, shooting me an icy stare. We’ve decided to give it one last shot, one last hurrah, so to speak. In order to do that, we need some time alone. She took a gulp from her glass and a drag off her smoke. Vapor escaped from her nostrils. We agreed you should go and stay with your aunt and uncle in Orlando for a while.

I slapped my forehead with my left palm. What? I just started at Roosevelt!

We’ve discussed it, Marky. It’s the only way to save this marriage. Her face contorted smugly. It’s for the best.

I never felt so abandoned. So unwanted. The dam of tears I was holding back began to break.

She jettisoned into the kitchen to refresh her drink, but I was on her heels. I’ll stay out of the way. I can take care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter.

She puckered her purple lips. Oh really? Who’s going to take you to school? Who’s going to buy your clothes? Your food? Drive you to your little events like that stupid little concert? She popped ice cubes out of a frosty tray into her glass.

I’ll take the bus. And I’ll get a job! I wiped my face on the shoulder of my T-shirt.

You’re fourteen, kid.

My dad slipped in and took a seat at the table near the window. They caught those escapees, he said.

So you guys are just gonna send me away like some dog to a kennel? No wonder it’s for the best. It’s the best for you two! My hands were balled into fists again.

It’s not like that, Marky, she said. It’s just that we have to work out some issues. And If you’re not here, it’ll give us the chance.

I plopped down next to my old man, eyeing him. What do you think?

He shrugged. We do need some time alone. He got up and shuffled back into the living room.

Thanks for asking what I want, you guys.

Darlene’s eyes grew wide. I’m asking you now! Do you want to bring your friends over when we’re at each other’s throats? Do you want them to hear us arguing over you?

Oh, so it’s my fault you can’t get along?

Well, you certainly don’t make it any easier! What would Chester think? Or any of your other friends?

His name’s Chuck. And I don’t have any other friends. I stared at a small brown spider scurrying across the linoleum and wiped my eyes. I don’t wanna go. I’ll have to start all over.

She eased into a chair next to me, looking up at the ceiling. She let out a long sigh. You’ll be living in Florida, Mark. Florida! Where the sun shines every day.

I rested my chin on my wrists, elbows next to the salt and pepper shakers. Didn’t Aunt Rita just have twins? They won’t have room for me.

That was two years ago. She cleared her throat. They still got a band. I know you like that.

Dudn’t matter. I don’t wanna be a charity case.

Don’t focus on the bad stuff. They want you to come down. Your aunt said so herself.

I thought back to last summer, when they visited on the Fourth of July. They made it up four times a year, once every season. I was putting out the trash behind the garage when I overheard them talking at the barbecue grill.

He’s all alone up here, David, Aunt Rita said as the summer breeze kissed her long auburn curls. Uncle DJ, who was seasoning some steaks, nodded. She straightened her raspberry sundress and sipped her glass of ice tea. I bet the boys would love to have him visit. Guys? She yelled to my two stepcousins.

David Douglas, Uncle DJ’s son from his first marriage, was seventeen and had maize-yellow hair to go along with the chiseled features of his father. He and I had always had natural chemistry.

Daryl James, however, was a different story. He avoided me like poison oak. He was fifteen, and skinnier than DD, with dirty-blond hair. According to my dad, he was the only son of the Ambient Images first guitarist Dennis Macupson, who died in a tragic accident seven years ago. Uncle DJ and Aunt Rita adopted him soon after. Dennis ended up being replaced by some hotshot guitarist from Europe named Jacobsen.

Daryl James followed David Douglas into the yard and folded his arms impatiently.

Wouldn’t it be great if Mark came down for the summer? Aunt Rita asked them.

David Douglas nodded. It’d be killer! We’ll hit Universal’s Islands of Adventure!

He’s a dweeb, Daryl James replied, with his top lip twisting into a snarl. He can’t even boogie board.

Thanks, bummer-man, Uncle DJ chided. I think we should invite him. You guys will have a blast! DD nodded, while Daryl James scowled.

Aunt Rita put her arm around her husband while the boys took off. A frying pan crashed to the floor in the kitchen, and my dad started cussing. It’s not very healthy for him here. And I’d hate to see him fall into the wrong crowd. You know what happens in high school. He’s so sensitive.

He wears his heart on his sleeve, that’s for sure, Uncle DJ agreed.

You on board? she asked him.

Absolutely, hon. When?

This August.

But it never happened. My dad made me go to summer school to get a jump on algebra. Now it seemed fate was giving me another chance.

Darlene extinguished her cigarette. If you don’t focus on the good stuff, things will never work out. She scooched in closer and put her hand on my arm. It’s just for a little while.

How long? I asked.

She reached for her pack of smokes. A few months. Her Zippo erupted into a huge flame and singed the tip of her Virginia Slim. You’ll be no worse off there than here.

Getting away from Jimmy Kirk would be fleeky. Totally great. She was making too much sense. The back of my head began to throb. But Daryl James hates me.

There you go again, she huffed.

And Aunt Rita has the twins to worry about.

She can handle it.

Darlene was right; Aunt Rita was considered a family wonder after having twins at forty-two. She could just about handle anything.

Besides, she continued, I already got you a ticket. You’ll be leaving January 2. That way, you can start the new semester down there.

You already got me a ticket! My voice rose to a whine. New tears churned. You guys don’t ever want me back, do you? I buried my head in my hands.

Now, that’s not true. She touched my shoulder.

A bottle tipped over on the table next to my dad’s La-Z-Boy in the living room. Mark! Get me another beer.

Darlene rolled her eyes and tossed her right hand up to the wall. Is that what you want?

He stumbled into the kitchen and belched. Didn’t you hear me? What’s the matter with you? He shot me a pained look with his bloodshot eyes, then stubbed his toe at the bottom of the fridge and cursed.

Do you want me to go to Florida, Dad? I sniffed.

Hell, I don’t care. He returned to the sanctuary of his recliner. But wherever you go, you better get them math grades up and stop wasting all your time singing, you hear?

Darlene and I stared at each other for a moment. Then she looked away.

I’ll go, I told her.

Chapter 2

Navigating the Images

Darlene pulled to the curb in front of the Delta Airlines terminal. Reaching over, she hugged me half-heartedly as I cracked the door. Good luck, she said, tapping my wrist.

Bye, Darlene. I grabbed my bag and headed through the sliding glass doors. One last shot of frigid air enveloped me as if to mock my decision to leave. But I kept my head high as I marched to the departure gate, confident I made the right call.

I had a window seat; Darlene must’ve booked it long before Christmas, which made me wonder how long they had my exit planned. I put my head back against the flat rectangular pillow and eyed the sky before takeoff. Overcast and dreary. I was worried what was in store. How would my stepcousins deal with me? Would I make any friends? My track record wasn’t the best.

We were in the air twenty minutes later, cruising above a tundra of ivory clouds. I had streamed some of my favorite music on my iPhone. I knew Uncle DJ’s band remade a lot of the stuff that I liked. Eighties pop music.

I dozed off to my streaming of Totally 80s on YouTube, which included some of my favorite retro hits. I dreamed I was on the front porch back in Michigan with my real mom. It was springtime, and the two heavy wooden flowerpots on each end of the concrete slab were full of blossoming geraniums. She dropped eight tea bags in a glass pitcher and went to set it in the backyard sun to brew sun tea. Meanwhile, Jimmy Kirk pulled up on his red Suzuki moped.

Hey, loser, get down here and apologize for ruining the concert! His dirty-blond hair was plastered to his