M Y L I F E A S A D I A M O N D
11
at home—or alone—because I was usually at
practice or at school. Since I had no friends to play
catch with in Redburn, I’d been throwing a baseball
against my rebounder net, over and over. It helped
settle my busy brain.
J.R. and I headed to the local park, following my
mom’s instructions. J.R. acted like he was a puppy
again, bouncing along and smelling the flowering
bushes. We’d had J.R. for most of my life. My mom
used to have a framed photo of me from kinder-
garten on her dresser. I was wearing a pink dress,
my arms wrapped around J.R., who was about a
year old. That might have been the last time I wore
pink—or a dress, for that matter. Not without
a fight anyway. When we unpacked in Redburn,
I asked her to put the picture away. I didn’t want to
see old photos from before.
I sat down on a bench, regretting that I hadn’t
brought my glove. My hand felt bare without it.
I wished my dad would come home to play with me.
I stood up to boot a baguette lying on the ground
out of the reach of J.R., who would have downed
it in a second. He was getting a bit chunky, Mom
said. Someone must have dropped it when they were
having a picnic, because the trash can was full of
paper plates and empty wrappers.
