I run into the kitchen. "Leaving."
"Gen," Mom commands.
I freeze.
Still stirring fruit salad, Mom points to an envelope on the counter.
Southerland High School Instrumental Music Department. I"ve been waiting for this. I play the flute, and this packet makes me an official member of the Southerland Huskie Marching Band. I tear it open and flip through the pages. But I don’t have time to read, so I drop the envelope on the kitchen island and fly out the front door.
My feet thud across our porch before I leap over the steps in the orange glow of the late afternoon sunshine, my curls flying around me like I love when I dance. Usually, they can’t be loose.
"Gen!" Mom exclaims from the door. "Where are you going?"
"To the playground," I respond, halting on the sidewalk and feeling l
