By Logan Markko

After a month at the Motel 6 in Skokie, Dad calls, promising pepperoni pizza and a two liter of Mountain Dew if we help him move into his new apartment. Grace complains about having to cancel plans with her friends, but Ryan volunteers us anyway.

We spend all day lugging cardboard boxes up three flights of stairs. By the time we’re finished, I’m drenched in sweat, and my back is sore from all the bending and lifting. Dad falls asleep as soon as he sits down on his plastic-wrapped couch, and we forget about the pizza.

Ryan’s going back to college at the end of the summer, but Grace and I are stuck with Mom until we turn eighteen. Dad gets us on Wednesday nights and every other weekend, but Mom says we can see him whenever we want as long as we let her know first.

Dad says he wants everyone to get along. He buys us all tickets to a night game at Wrigley Field and even invites Mom’s new boyfriend, Dicky. Dicky’s a personal trainer and has tattoos all over his arms. He’s also a White Sox fan.

We take the “L” into the city. I stare out the window as Dicky tells jokes. Mom and Grace laugh at everything he says. Dad pulls his dirty Cubs hat down low over his face so nobody can see his eyes. Ryan takes a nap.

“How about you, Sammie?” Dicky asks me as we get off the train. “Do you like the Sox, or are you one of those bandwagon Cubs fans who only started following baseball after they won the World Series?”

I hesitate.

“The Sox,” Mom answers for me. “Just like the rest of us.”

Dad scoffs. “I thought you hated baseball.”

Dicky puts his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m a product of divorce too. It can be rough sometimes, but your mom’s a great gal.”

His breath smells like peanut butter and protein powder.

A flood of people sweeps us into the stadium.

Our seats are in the nosebleeds. The players on the diamond beneath us look like specks of dirt, not elite professional athletes who’ve made millions of dollars throwing a ball or swinging a stick. The six of us sit squeezed into a line, Dad on one end and Mom on the other. She says he’s a cheapskate for making us sit so high up, that it always boils down to saving a few bucks with him.

Dad orders two beers from a ballpark vendor and asks us how school’s going. Grace reminds him that it’s July, and Dad goes quiet, digging his fingernails into his wrist until the skin starts to bleed in little half-moons.

Dicky says next time he’s in charge of buying the tickets. One of the White Sox pitching coaches is a friend of his from college and can get us a spot right behind home plate if we want.

Dad starts telling a story about how he and his friends used to cut school and sneak into Wrigley when they were teenagers. I smile and nod, even though I’ve heard Dad tell this particular story a hundred times.

The game drags on. Ryan drinks the beer Dad bought him, and Grace eats cotton candy while she listens to Dicky explain why home runs and strikeouts are ruining baseball. Mom rests her head on Dicky’s shoulder and closes her eyes.

The inning ends, and the players jog off the diamond so the teams can switch roles in the field.

Dad offers me a sip of his beer, but the aluminum can he hands me is basically empty. I shrug my shoulders when he asks if I want a beer of my own.

Mom sits up suddenly. “Dicky’s going to take us all to Europe.”

“Really?” Grace squeals in a high-pitched little girl voice, sounding like she’s ten instead of sixteen.

“Sure,” Dicky says. “Anytime you want. I’ve got a billion frequent flier miles.”

“I thought we’d go to Six Flags sometime,” Dad mumbles. “Or maybe even Disneyland.”

Ryan reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a water bottle filled with brown liquid. He takes a long sip from the bottle, then smacks his lips together loudly.

Grace rolls her eyes. “Roller coasters are for kids, Dad.”

“But you are a kid.”

“And you’re condescending,” Mom says.

“Bitch.”

“Asshole.”

Grace checks her phone. Ryan yawns.

The crowd roars, but I can’t tell what’s happening on the field. The night air is hot and sticky, and I know that if I don’t get up soon, I’m going to melt in my seat. I’ll seep through my clothes and drip down the stadium steps until all traces of me have disappeared into a puddle at the bottom of the stairs. I imagine a gray-haired custodian in a navy Cubs polo shirt and tan slacks mopping me up and emptying me into a filthy Wrigley Field urinal, flushing me away with a push of a button.

“Sweetheart,” Mom calls after me. “Buddy,” Dad says. But I’m out of my seat and winding my way down the stairs, pushing closer to the field. A sea of red-and-blue jerseys carries me away, until I find myself looking down at the first level of seats.

A custodian holds out his hand. “Ticket stub, please.”

He’s too slow for me. I duck under his arm and down the stairs toward the wall that separates the fans from the field. The custodian yells after me, but I don’t turn around.

The players are so close I can practically reach out and touch them. They dance like shadows under the lights, running and jumping across the dirt and grass. Music pounds over the stadium’s speakers. The fans scream in unison. Down here, everything is more alive than it’s ever been. As perfect as it will ever be.