Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

She couldn’t talk fast enough. “I can’t wait for that. I
love eating out. I’m sick of being settled.” She meant it.
This was the summer of Carmen and Al.
He didn’t say anything as they drove along small
wooded suburban streets with big Victorian houses rising
on either side. Raindrops burst on the windshield. The
sky grew so dark it felt almost like nighttime. He slowed
down and stopped in front of a cream-colored Victorian
with green-gray shutters and a wraparound porch.
“Where’s this?” Carmen asked.
Her dad cut the engine and turned to her. “This is
home.” His eyes were distant and a little mysterious. He
didn’t seem to want to take on the open surprise in hers.
“That house? Up there? I thought you lived in an
apartment downtown.”
“I moved. Just last month.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?”
“Because . . . there’s a lot of big stuff, bun. Stuff I
wanted to say in person,” he answered.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about big stuff. She
turned in her seat. “So? Are you going to tell me?”
Carmen was never graceful about surprises.
“Let’s go inside, okay?”
He opened his door and hurried around to her side
before she echoed his okay. He didn’t get her suitcase.
He held his coat over both their heads as they climbed
stone steps up to the house.
He took her arm in his. “Careful. These steps get slippery
when it rains,” he said, leading her up the painted
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