Chapter 1

CJ smiled at the yellow flowers that waved as cars passed on Townline Road. A few weeks earlier, mounds of browning snow towered along roadsides, in driveways, and around light poles in parking lots. It had been a record year for his plow business thanks to what the weatherman called “Rockland County’s greatest accumulations since,” some year that didn’t mean anything to CJ.

To him, the winter of 1990 was the one to remember. That was the year CJ had purchased the Sierra-yellow 1970 Pontiac that he had just taken out of the garage. The car and a road trip changed the course of his life.

In 1990, there wasn’t a fleet of trucks and snowblowers, just a 16-year-old boy with a plan, a shovel, and pain to motivate him. Fast Car had been on the radio for two years, and like Tracy Chapman, CJ wanted a ticket to anywhere. He had been working and hiding money from his mother since he was eleven.

In the summer, CJ had lawn jobs, plus a gig at the 7-Eleven, putting the Sunday papers together. He shoveled through the hellacious winter, and by spring, CJ had more than enough cash to buy Mrs. Brophy’s car. It had been in her garage since her husband died. The 1970 LeMans didn’t have GTO badges, bucket seats, or four-on-the-floor, but it was a fast car, fast enough to fly away.

The plan had been to leave when summer vacation started, but CJ had had enough. Enough canned beans, microwaved mac & cheese, booze fetching, going for cigarettes, drunken rants, loud parties, screaming fights, hiding, and being blamed for her drinking, and everything else. He had spent enough time watching his mother die a little more each day.

CJ left a note on his bed that read, “Please get help,” and tossed a suitcase and toolbox in the trunk, blankets, and pillows in the backseat, and his music collection upfront. Fear and nervous energy twisted his stomach as he turned the key. The dual exhaust rumbled through CJ, boosting his adrenaline. He wanted to speed so fast he felt drunk, but there was one stop to be made before hitting the highway.

At nine on a Saturday morning, CJ expected an annoyed, yawning person to open the door. He grabbed the wrought iron railing and waited. The door opened, and the woman with a girl’s face looked at him. He clamped down. Sharp, rusty paint flakes dug into his palm, but the surge of emotions cut him deep.

On the drive over, CJ had been fearfully excited, hopeful, and relieved to get away. Now, standing on the stoop, ready to say goodbye, his eyes were on fire. It was a familiar feeling. He had already been a burden, pushed Mimi away, so he always fought back tears. This was different. An emotional bear hug was crushing his chest.

“CJ, what’s wrong? What happened?”