The Wave That Came Back

The Wave

Every morning, Joss's dad drove him to school in their old blue car that made a funny rattling sound, like it was clearing its throat. And every morning, when Joss climbed out with his backpack and his lunchbox, his dad would wave.

Not a little wave. Not a quick flick of the fingers like other parents did.

A big wave.

His dad would roll down the window — and it was the kind you had to crank by hand, round and round — and he'd stick his whole arm out and wave it back and forth like he was trying to signal a helicopter.

"Have a GREAT day, Joss-man!" he'd holler. "You're gonna CRUSH it!"

And Joss would wave back, quickly, and walk toward the school doors, hoping nobody noticed.

But here's the thing about Joss's dad.

He didn't stop.

He kept waving.

Joss would be halfway across the playground, and he'd glance back, and there was his dad's arm still going back and forth, back and forth, like a windshield wiper that didn't know how to quit.

"Love you, buddy!" his dad would call out, even though Joss was already pretty far away.

And Joss would feel this hot, fizzy feeling in his chest — something between a laugh and a groan — and he'd walk a little faster.

On Monday, it was just regular embarrassing.

Joss got out of the car. His dad waved. Joss waved back. His dad kept waving. Joss walked away. His dad was STILL waving. A kid named Marcus looked over his shoulder at the blue car and said, "Is that your dad?"

"Yep," said Joss.

"He's still waving," said Marcus.

"Yep," said Joss.

On Tuesday, it got worse.

Joss's dad didn't just wave. He honked the horn. Two little beeps — meep meep! — like the car was saying goodbye too.

Amara, who sat next to Joss in class, was standing right there. She turned around and stared.

"Did your car just honk at you?" she said.

Joss pulled his backpack straps tighter. "It does that sometimes."

"Your dad is still waving," said Amara.

Joss didn't look back. "I know."

On Wednesday, it got even worse.

Joss's dad had found a hat. A big, floppy orange hat — the kind you might wear to a beach party, or maybe if you were a very cheerful scarecrow. He was wearing it when he dropped Joss off, and when he started waving, the hat flopped around like it was waving too.

Three kids stopped walking and watched.

"That hat," whispered Marcus, "is enormous."

"I know," said Joss, and he could feel his ears turning pink.

"HAVE A WONDERFUL WEDNESDAY, JOSS-MAN!" his dad yelled, waving the floppy hat in circles now. The car behind him had to wait. The crossing guard looked over. A teacher on duty covered her mouth, but Joss could see she was smiling.

He did not look back. He walked straight through the doors and sat down in his seat and put his forehead on his desk.

On Thursday morning, Joss sat in the blue car and didn't move.

"Alright, buddy," said his dad. "Go get 'em."

Joss didn't open the door.

"Dad," he said. He looked at his shoes. "Can you maybe not wave so much?"

His dad turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean — everyone sees. The whole class. They all watch you waving and waving, and Marcus always says something, and Amara stares, and — can you just do a normal wave? A small one?"

His dad was quiet for a second.

Then he said, "Sure, buddy. I can do that."

And he did.

When Joss got out of the car, his dad gave one small wave. Just his hand, barely lifting off the steering wheel. Like a polite stranger.

No honk. No hat. No hollering.

Joss walked toward school, and he waited for the fizzy feeling in his chest, but it didn't come. He looked back once. His dad's window was already going up — crank, crank, crank — and the blue car pulled away, rattling quietly.

The playground felt really big that morning.

In class, Joss sat at his desk, and everything was fine. Normal. Nobody said anything about his dad, because there was nothing to say.

At lunch, Marcus said, "Hey, your dad didn't do the thing today."

"Nope," said Joss.

"Huh," said Marcus. He bit into his sandwich. "My mom just drives away. She doesn't even wait for me to get inside."

Joss looked at Marcus. "Really?"

Marcus shrugged. "She's always in a rush."

At recess, Amara walked over and said, "Where was the hat?"

"What?" said Joss.

"The orange hat. Your dad's big goofy hat. My little sister was watching from the kindergarten window yesterday. She calls your dad 'The Hat Man.' She gets so excited." Amara laughed. "She was really disappointed today."

Joss blinked. "Your sister likes the hat?"

"She loves it," said Amara. "She made me promise to look for it."

Joss felt something shift, like a puzzle piece turning in his chest.

That afternoon, Joss was quieter than usual. He kept thinking about the small wave. The window going up. The car pulling away.

He thought about his dad's hand, waving and waving, long after most people would have stopped. Waving even when Joss wasn't looking anymore. Waving like it cost nothing and meant everything.

He thought about Marcus's mom, who didn't even wait.

He thought about Amara's little sister, standing on her tiptoes at the kindergarten window, looking for the Hat Man.

And he thought about the fizzy feeling — the one that was part groan and part laugh — and how maybe, actually, it was mostly laugh.

On Friday morning, Joss sat in the old blue car.

"Alright, buddy," said his dad, in his normal voice. "Have a good day." He put one hand up. The polite wave. The small wave. The wave that didn't mean anything in particular.

"Dad," said Joss.

"Yeah?"

"Where's the hat?"

His dad looked at him. A slow grin spread across his face — the kind that started in his eyes before it got to his mouth.

"You sure?" his dad said.

"I'm sure."

His dad reached behind the seat and pulled out the big floppy orange hat and put it on, and it smooshed down over his eyebrows, and he looked absolutely ridiculous.

Joss opened the door and stepped out. He started walking toward school.

Behind him, he heard the window crank down — round and round — and then:

"HAVE A FANTASTIC FRIDAY, JOSS-MAN! YOU'RE GONNA CRUSH IT!"

Meep meep!

Joss turned around.

His dad was waving. The big wave. The whole arm. The hat flopping in the wind like an orange flag of pure, unstoppable dad-ness.

Marcus stopped beside Joss and stared. "There he goes again."

"Yep," said Joss.

And this time, Joss waved back.

Not a small wave. Not a quick little flick of the fingers.

A big wave.

Both arms, swinging back and forth over his head, right there in the middle of the playground, with his backpack bouncing and his lunchbox swinging, and he didn't care who was watching.

"LOVE YOU, DAD!" he yelled.

His dad honked the horn three times — meep meep meep! — and somewhere behind the kindergarten window, a little girl cheered.

Marcus shook his head. "Your dad is so weird," he said.

Joss grinned. "I know."

And the fizzy feeling was back. But this time, it was all laugh.