Pressing your face up against the window, you watch as houses fly by. You and your mother are riding silently in the car, on your way to Richie Thompson’s house for his tenth birthday party. You can barely breathe. Your nostrils are filled with the scent of your mother’s musky perfume and cigarette smoke. She is taking long drags and blowing the smoke toward the top of her window, which she has cracked about half an inch. You wonder why she bothered to crack it at all. Most of it blows right over to you. You pull at the red bow that your mother stuck to the top of Richie’s present, as you gather the courage to ask her the question that you have been wanting to ask her all week, since report cards were given out. You have been waiting for her to be alone. You have been waiting for a moment when she isn’t busy cooking or watching television or writing out bills . . . or, frequently, arguing with Jeff. And, here, in the car, seems to be the perfect time. So you take a deep breath and decide to go for it.

“Hey, Mom?”

She tilts her head in your direction, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Hey, Mikey?” She matches your tone exactly, which makes you smile.

“Remember how we talked about Magic Camp last year? You said that I couldn’t go because I got a C in Math, but that if I got good grades this year, I could go?”

You hear her sigh. She sounds tired, sad. “Yes, Mikey, I remember.”

“Well, it’s just that it’s time to sign up for this year’s camp and I figured that since I got straight ‘A’s . . . ” You stop talking as she pulls up in front of Richie’s house and puts the car in park. Your stomach drops when you see some of the kids from school running around the front yard. Richie, dressed as a cowboy, is chasing them with a toy gun.

“Here we are!” Your mother sings, leaning over to kiss you on the forehead and straighten the bow tie she insisted you wear.

“But . . . Magic Camp. Can I go? Please?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. I’m going to have to talk to Jeff about it. Honestly, I don’t think we can afford it. You know that they are cutting everyone’s hours at the diner and Jeff’s been wanting to get a new car. This one breaks down every other week, it seems.”

You are staring at her, willing her to look at you, which she seems oblivious to. She pushes the last of her cigarette through the window, letting it drop in the road. You blink your eyes, as if that will hold back the tears. Since you had first heard about Magic Camp from Steven Wilson last May, you thought of little else. It had become your sole reason for existing. You worked hard in school to get good grades, so that you could go to Magic Camp. You did all of your chores without complaining, and even, sometimes, did extra ones, so that you could go to Magic Camp. You fantasized about becoming a rich and famous magician, about having beautiful assistants, who let you cut them in half and make them disappear. You imagined wearing a sequined costume that made you look almost like a super hero. If you were rich and famous, you could buy a mansion and wouldn’t have to live with Jeff anymore. Then, maybe, your mother would decide that she loves you more than him and leave him to come live with you in your mansion. None of these things could possibly happen without Magic Camp, however.

“But . . . Mom.” You can feel the tears beginning to roll down your cheeks and it occurs to you that you simply cannot cry in front of Richie Thompson’s house. For your mother, it seems to be working, though. You see her expression soften.

“Look, baby, why don’t we talk about it later. I’ll talk to Jeff. Maybe I can convince him, ok? Just go have fun with your friends.”

Just the sound of his name makes your face burn. You know he won’t let you go.

“No. I want to go to magic camp. I need to. I don’t care about Jeff. I hate him. And I don’t even want to go to this stupid party. I just want to go to magic camp.”

Your mother digs through her purse before pulling out a wadded up tissue. She uses it to dab at your nose and wipe the tears away. Even through your anger at her, you wonder if it’s used, if she blew her nose with it. The thought makes you sick. She rests her hand on your cheek.

“Come on, Mikey. Give me a smile.”

You glare at her, giving her the meanest look you can conjure up. Then, pulling the door open, you step out of the car, taking Richie’s present with you. You realize that you don’t even know what it is. Your mother bought it and wrapped it without even showing you. You stand blinking at the edge of the yard, as your mother drives away.

Just then, Richie runs up to you and presses the metal toy gun directly between your eyes. Right before he pulls the trigger, causing it to make a loud, popping sound, you hear one of the other boys yell, “Look, it’s Michael! And look, he’s wearing a bow tie! What a nerd!” You drop the mystery present to the ground and race after the beat up green car that Jeff is so desperate to replace. You run and run, even as it becomes a tiny speck in the distance and the soles of your dress shoes slip occasionally on the gravel.