The Last Good Day of the Year by Jessica Warman

remember the last time I ate popcorn.’   ”
    Abby laughs with her whole body. She butts her head against Gretchen’s shoulder and kicks her bare feet with glee. “That happened to me! I swear to God, it happened to me the last time I had my teeth cleaned!”
    â€œPopcorn,” Gretchen repeats. “It’s always stuck between molars or below the gum line. People are always so surprised. ‘How did that get there?!’   ”
    â€œStop!” Abby throws a handful of candy corn into the air like confetti. “It’s too funny! I can’t take it! I can’t breathe!”
    â€œYou’re making a huge mess,” I say, picking pieces of candy corn from my hair. “It’s getting all over the floor, Abby. Who’s supposed to clean this up?”
    â€œYou are!” she screeches, throwing another handful. I look at Gretchen for help, but she couldn’t care less. She taps the ash from the joint onto the floor and tilts her head back while she sucks in another lungful of smoke, which she’s still holding when Silver Pickup turns onto our street a minute later. The song “Get It Together” is blasting from the truck’s open windows. The vehicle barely comes to a full stop long enough to let Remy jump out before the driver makes a U-turn in the cul-de-sac and speeds away.
    â€œExcuse me.” I stand up and start walking toward the kitchen as casually as possible. “The smoke is bothering me.”
    â€œBring me a beer, Sam,” Abby shouts, but my hand is already on the back door. I need to get out of this house. I need air, and a place where I can be alone. From the edge of our yard, I can still hear Abby’s laughter carrying on the breeze.
    I don’t have my driver’s license. Even if I did and could leave the house by myself, it’s not like I have any friends in this town. There’s nowhere for me to go. For a millisecond, I think of calling Noah, but that’s a terrible idea. As a kid, I always hid in the playhouse whenever I needed time to myself. Why can’t I do the same thing now?
    The playhouse door isn’t locked. Inside on the floor are a pillow, a short stack of books with an ashtray resting on top, and the
Star Wars
sleeping bag that Remy has had since we were toddlers. There’s a half-empty gallon jug of red wine and a deck of playingcards. A small hummingbird feeder hangs from a loop of silver wire in the window.
    It’s a warm night; the sleeping bag is enough to keep me comfortable for now. Remy’s bedroom light shines through his open window at the back of the house. I watch him pacing the room in slow circles while he talks on the phone, pausing once in a while to look at himself in the mirror or flip through the channels on his TV. His conversation lasts about five minutes. After he hangs up, he strips down to his boxer shorts and walks out of the room, probably heading to the shower.
    It gives me a strange thrill to be in here, watching him, without his knowledge. I know I shouldn’t be doing it, but it’s not like I’m hurting anyone. Besides, it’s really Remy’s fault for not closing his blinds. I settle deeper into the sleeping bag. I gather a handful of fabric in each fist and feel the rough, worn-out cloth in my hands, convinced that I’ve earned the right to trespass, that a part of Remy still belongs to me—will always belong to me—whether he likes it or not.

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    â€œI want to die.” He was as calm as a stranger asking for the time. “Sometimes I think it already happened. Maybe we’re all dead, and this is hell. It’s possible, isn’t it?”
    By then I considered Paul a friend. He wasn’t the kind of person to exaggerate things. I’d spent hour after hour with him and his family, and I felt a sense of kinship as a fellow husband and father. We sat across from each other in a corner booth at