It's bizarre to be so nervous about seeing the person who knows me best, but the past year hasn't been so kind to Lionel and me. I'm standing outside LAX on a sun-soaked afternoon in early June when my brother's navy-blue sedan screeches to a halt a few feet away. Part of me doesn't mind that he's thirty minutes late, because I needed time to get used to the idea of being back home. But now he's here and my heart is thumping like it's going to jump out of my mouth and there's nowhere to go. Lionel bolts from the car and barely looks at me before he starts rummaging in the trunk, shoving aside a plastic crate filled with used books to make room for my luggage. 'œI am so sorry,' he mutters. 'œThe freeway was a nightmare.' There really is no such thing as traffic back in Avalon, Massachusetts. People don't honk their horns. The put up with totally inconsiderate shit, like neighbors stopping their Volvos and Saabs in the middle of tree-lined streets to chat with friends, clogging up the road so no one else can pass. L.A. drivers would honk until their horns went dead while flipping them off and threatening murder—and I have missed that.