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she had
    been thin, I could see that in the pictures. I resembled her, not
    Dad, with her light brown hair, angled face, and serious eyes.
    5 Which, by the way, I took in our backyard. If you look closely at the photo credit, you’ll
    see that it reads Photo by S. P. Clara, which is the name we gave me. The “S. P.” stands
    for Sweet Pea. Pretty good photo, right? My mother was a photographer, and Dad says
    I have her eye.
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    She wore her hair long and straight, though, or in a ponytail
    down her back, whereas mine stops right at my shoulders.
    “They’re all thin on that side of the family,” I said.
    “Nerves,” he said. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want him
    to. My mother’s family hated him, and it seemed like the feeling
    was mutual. Still, they were our relatives, hers and mine.
    I snitched a piece of bacon right off the plate. “Bacon makes
    you believe in God.”
    “A pig would disagree. See if he’s got any hot sauce around
    here,” Dad said, which meant he would be making eggs, too.
    “You’ll never believe what I found on the shelf above my dresser.”
    He gestured toward the table, where a thin leather photo album
    sat at what I guessed was now my place.
    “Jackpot,” I said. “We know what he looks like now.”
    “Not so fast,” Dad said. “Hey, take a look at these knives. The
    guy likes only the best.”
    I grinned at Dad brandishing the silver knife with the black
    handle, looked down at the album. I opened the cover, expecting
    to see our mystery host in full color, but instead there were only
    dim, square photos from the 1970s—blond boys with shaggy,
    feathered hair, flannel shirts tucked in to flared jeans with wide
    belts. I turned the page. The same blond boys with groovy, 1970s
    parents in front of a Christmas tree flocked white. Some family
    trip to some unidentified state capital. “All we know is that he’s
    blond,” I said.
    “And a little younger than me. You think?” Dad said. “He’s
    probably in high school there?”
    My father was loving this. Maybe he liked not knowing, or
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    Deb Caletti
    maybe he liked finding out. We once followed a searchlight for
    miles until we ended up at a Fred Meyer opening in Lynnwood.
    Dad wasn’t even disappointed. “I guess. Ooh. Looking hot here,”
    I held up the album so he could see a teenage couple in front of
    a purple backdrop with a gold moon. School dance. “Three-piece
    suit in high school? He’s wearing a vest .”
    “He’s not hot . He’s a stud . And she’s a fox . They’re about
    to leave that idiotic dance to get it on in a Chevy van. Have you
    noticed that no one gets it on anymore? No one is funky? No one
    gets down?” My father was on a roll. He cracked eggs into a pan,
    and they started to sizzle in the melted butter. He picked a bit
    of shell out with the edge of his finger. “We could feed the fire
    department.”
    “No one boogies . . .” I added. I remembered my friend
    Danisha’s mother, listening to the oldies station every morning
    when we carpooled to middle school.
    “No pretty mamas no more,” Dad said. You could tell he liked
    how the words sounded. I did too.
    We ate that enormous breakfast. Dad slapped more French
    toast on my plate because we needed to eat up for a big day . I
    groaned when Dad said this. It was the kind of heavy meal that
    makes you feel in need of a nap. Food coma. I didn’t see how
    truck drivers did it. I’d pictured lying around on my white bed
    in the white room, reading books off of the mystery man’s shelf.
    “Don’t you need to work today?” I asked.
    “Explore the town,” he said through a mouthful of eggs.
    “Find the library. Bank. Grocery store. A job for you.”
    I pushed my plate away. “God, no. Dad—”
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    “If you think you’re going to laze around pondering the mis-
    erable state of your life all summer, it’s not going to happen. Job,
    and maybe those waylaid college applications, right? It’s for