We parted company, and I walked home alone, thinking all the way. In the mists of approaching rain and the dark of gathering dusk, the old town streets of Carbonado looked a little more run down than usual. Those plain, cookie-cutter houses with tin roofs seemed more ramshackle, and the air pressed against me, like I was swimming rather than walking.

        Thinking of Jason, What a depressing life! If I had known these things about him, most likely I wouldn’t have latched on to him as a friend so easily. Not because some people looked down on him, but because I didn’t want to bear someone else’s burdens. Being a teenager is hard enough on your own without carrying around the problems of someone else too.

          I turned the corner on Farm Street and took in the fresh painted picket fence and the giant climbing rose bush leaning over half of our front porch roof. It looked like an enormous, lopsided exclamation point.

          Although my parents and I didn’t see eye to eye on everything, Charlie was right. They loved me. When they said “no” to me, I knew they meant it for my own good. And my mom always did fun things like making chocolate flavored pancakes with smiley faces. My dad took me to see the San Francisco Giants once a month during baseball season when we lived in California, and he always played catch with me. Little things, sure, but important, family things.

          When I slipped through our front door, my dad, who had gotten off work early today, was talking to my mom. “Dear, did you ever pick up that special peach Roman chamomile tea for Mrs. Jenkins when you went to Tacoma yesterday?”

          “I sure did, Dave. It’s sitting on the top shelf of the pantry.” My mom pointed to the tall cupboard next to the refrigerator. “But I don’t know why you just can’t order it at the store.”

          “Like I said before, the distributor just won’t deliver it in small quantities. Not many other customers want to buy it, you know.” He shrugged.

          “It’s too bad you have to pay money out of your own pocket and make extra trips just to keep your customers happy.” She shook her head as she opened the oven to check the tuna casserole.

          “It’s not that, Sandra,” he said, opening the pantry and clutching the tea. “Mrs. Jenkins is eighty-three years old, and she can’t drive anymore. She really enjoys that type of tea.” Then, he slunk over to my mom, arched his eyebrows using his “crafty” look, and whispered, “Besides, she brings warm, homemade, chocolate oatmeal cookies to the store for us.” He smiled from ear to ear, holding the tea in one hand and my mother’s waist in the other.

          At that moment, from my spy's nest just beyond the kitchen doorway, I was convinced I had the best parents in Carbonado.