"Matt," I hear my dad say. I groan and pull my pillows over my head. It's 6:30 in the morning by the way. Oh, and yeah, I don't have school. It's summer.

"Matt, come on," he says, shaking my shoulder. "Get up."

"No," I say and roll to the edge of the bed, getting as far away from my lunatic father as possible. My dad walks to the other side of my bed and leans over, getting in my face.

"Do you want to play football?"

Dammit. I sigh. Of course I do.

"Yes," I say and mean it.

And he knew it. He had me. But still, he had to drive his point home.

"Do you want to play football more than you want to sleep right now?"

I don't answer. He already knows.

"What do you want more? You wanna sleep or you wanna play football?" I sigh and force myself out of bed, throwing my sheets across my floor.

I look down at myself. I'm weak. Or strong, however, you want to look at it. I'm already in my gym shorts, a t-shirt, hell I even have my sneakers on. Why?

"I want to play football."

My dad smiles and slaps me on the back.

"Good," he says like I'm a dog that needs training. But in a way, I guess I am. And like a good little puppy, I follow my dad downstairs to the kitchen.

"Drink something," my dad says and tosses me a water bottle. I chug half the bottle and leave the rest for when I get back.

Outside, it's sticky and hot even though it's early. Just one of the perks of living in the south. There's no escaping the heat. Not in the morning, not at night, not during the summer. I yawn, stretch my legs, and walk down my porch steps to the middle of the road. I stand there mentally preparing myself for what I'm about to do. No cars come, not even close. I don't have to worry about that. Not at this time, not ever really. Even if a car came down the road, they'd be more likely to stop and ask me how my day is than run me over.

 All right no more stalling. I take my first step. Then my next, right left right left until I gain some speed. I feel like an idiot, making such a big deal out of this. I don't mind running. I actually used to love it when I was younger. Three years ago really, so I wasn't that young. Twelve. That was when my mom left. She had my youngest sister, Marcie and a few months later we woke one morning and she was gone. No big fight, no dramatic falling out, just packed up her stuff in the middle of the night and left. My younger brother, Andrew, was the one who found the note.

My dad and I were in the kitchen. I was pouring myself a bowl of Rice Krispies and my dad was sipping his coffee and reading the sports section of the newspaper. All normal for a Saturday morning. Then we heard my brother crying and my dad went to see what was up.

I sat down at the kitchen table, picking up where my dad left off in the newspaper and didn't think much of it. Why would I? But a couple of minutes went by and my little sister, Carrie, who was five, came into the kitchen. She was crying, too. I still wasn't worried.

"Come on, Care, you know he's fine."

Drew and Carrie were pretty close, still are, and sometimes when Drew got into it, Carrie felt the need to join in. She didn't say anything, just kept crying. I sighed and folded up the newspaper the way I watched my dad do just minutes ago.

"Carrie," I said softly and picked her up and set her in my lap. "Don't worry, he'll be alright."

Carrie sniffled and looked at me with big, watery eyes.

"It's not that," she stuttered.

"Then what is it?"

"Carrie," I heard my dad say.

We both looked at him, standing there in the doorway. He looked so...sad. And defeated. Like he'd just been punched in the stomach with his hands tied behind his back. It was weird and honestly kind of alarming. That was not my dad. My dad was a strict and pragmatic football coach who'd make you run a mile for every minute you were late to practice. He wasn't...that.

"Go to your room," he ordered weakly. Even so, Carrie hopped off my lap and scurried to her room.

My dad took a deep, painful breath and sat down next to me at the table. He didn't say anything. The worrying started.

"What's going on, Dad?" I asked. My dad stared down at the table and ran both his hands through his hair.

"It's your mom," he said. Another deep breath. "She's gone."

"What do you mean?" Panic boiled inside me, turning my muscles to jelly and heart into a ticking time bomb. "She's dead?"

My dad let out a broken laugh.

"No," he said.  "She's not dead."

He reached in his pocket and took out a folded piece of loose-leaf paper and tossed it on the table between us.

The paper was crinkled and sloppily folded. Under normal circumstances, my dad would have spent at least 10 minutes flattening and refolding it. He would have furrowed his brow in concentration as he carefully lined up the edges. And squinted his eyes as he applied just the right amount of pressure along the folds for the perfect crease.  He would have fixed it. It would have driven him crazy not to. But there it was, untouched and imperfect.

"Can I-?" I said as I reluctantly reached for the paper. My dad let his body slump into the chair next to me and slowly nodded his head.

I took the paper and unfolded it. In it, and I will never forget this, was my mom's swirly, loopy handwriting that my dad hated and loved at the same time, with these words:

Schaffer, Matthew, Drew, Carrie, and Marcie. I love you all so much and you have given me more than I could have ever asked for. I have been so lucky and blessed to have you in my life, but I have to go. I hope someday you can understand, but for now, all I can say is goodbye.

                            -Emily

I looked at my dad, down at the note, and back at my dad. Unlike everyone else in my family, I didn't start crying. I didn't even feel sad- not then anyway. Right then I was mad. Furious even. I stood up quickly, knocking over my chair, and threw the note as hard as I could. It fluttered to the floor.

"I wish she was dead," I said and stormed out of the kitchen.

"Matt," he said, I didn't stop. "Matthew."

Out the front door, down the front steps, into the road, faster and faster, farther and farther away from my father, my crying siblings, and especially that stupid note on the kitchen floor that was all I had left of my mother. I made it to the school before my legs gave out on me and my breathing became so heavy the pounding in my ears overcame my ability to hear myself think. I stopped for a few seconds, let my breathing return to normal, and started up again until I got to the lake. I sat there for a while and tried desperately to block everything out. My thoughts, my emotions, anything at all that made me feel anything except the pain of running. That's all I wanted. Pain. Physical Pain. I could deal with that. Emotional pain was something different. Too hard to control. At least for me.

After a while, I returned home. My dad was waiting for me on the front porch swing, the way I used to wait for him when he was walking home from work.

"Do you feel better?" He asked me and handed me a glass of water. It dripped with cold condensation. It looked delicious. I could already feel it sliding down my throat, cooling my whole body. But I pushed it away.

"A little," I said through a scratchy throat.

My body was tired. My thighs were sore, my feet throbbing, my knees wobbling, my chest tight. My face was hot and my throat was dry. But my mind was empty of everything except that. The only thing I could think about was sitting down and drinking that water. But I didn't do either. Because if I satisfied those needs, my mind would drift back to my mom. And I didn't want that. So I stood there, my dad watching me, me watching that glistening glass of water, shining like a diamond.

"I'll run tomorrow," I declared after I decided I liked the feeling.

"Good," my dad said, "now drink something."

The next morning, and every morning for the next couple of months, I ran. At no particular time, just whenever thoughts of my mom came creeping in. Every once in a while I went down to the lake and submerged myself in the water. It was best when it was cold. It numbed me. Eventually, life without my mom became normal and I stopped waiting for her to come home or even to call. She just disappeared out of my house and out of my life.

Hello and welcome!

Thank you so much for choosing this book and reading chapter one. I really enjoy interacting with my readers, so I came up with this idea to create a special place for you to ask questions and share your thoughts. The Lemonade Stand will be popping up periodically so we can check in with each other. Of course, there is no pressure to share, but I love hearing from my readers and make it a point to be open and responsive to comments.

I'll start by sharing a little about this story. This was the first novel I had ever written, so it holds a special place in my heart. I don't remember exactly how I came up with the idea, but it was heavily influenced by a lot of the country music I listened to growing up. I also really loved the girl-next-door trope, so I wanted to make one of my own. It might not be perfect, but I am proud of it none-the-less!

Again, please don't be shy, I'd love to hear from you!