Anna and I actually had a treehouse. For our birthday one year, when we were little, we held a picnic dinner in the treehouse. Dad lowered a bucket on a string - Anna and I "helped" - and Mom put the food in the bucket. Then she climbed up to join us. It was so much fun. Dad would laugh at anything, and the way he laughed, everybody else would find themselves joining in.

    But that changed after the car wreck.

    I try not to think about it. They said he was killed instantly. That he never knew what happened.

    The truck driver who ran into his car got a broken arm.

    After that it felt wrong to laugh. Sometimes it felt wrong even to be alive.

    Mom never mentioned Dad's name after the funeral.

    Neither did my friends. They were cool, they helped by just being there. But I caught some of them watching me, as if I were going to break down and scream. Or cry.

    But I didn't cry.

    Mom changed jobs. She became an editor at a publishing house. She worked and worked and worked. She commuted into New York City every single day except some Saturdays. She stopped cooking. Suddenly Anna and I were on our own, and we learned how to order take-out food big-time. Mom hired a housekeeper who took care of the house during the day.

    And then one day at school I started laughing at this really dumb joke that my best friend was telling and I suddenly remembered how my dad used to laugh all the time. I laughed harder and harder and I couldn't stop.

    I couldn't even stop when class began. I had to run to the bathroom. The next thing I knew I was sitting in the bathroom stall laughing and crying and wheezing and trying not to throw up at the same time.

    After that I went home from school. Just walked out. I told Mom and Anna I'd gotten really sick, and I stayed home from school for a few days.