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Even though I never paid attention anymore to the squeak, I knew instinctively that it was there. But when I opened the
door that day, the silence of it was louder than the squeak. And that could only mean one thing:

Dad was home.

He hadn't been there since before Christmas; our yard was still covered in traces of brown leaves that weren't raked for the first fall since I could remember.

Mom and Dad never fought in front of us, not once. It was always in their room, door closed. For the longest time I didn't know what was going on. One evening, when they first started going in there a lot, I searched for Mom. I had a whim to bake cookies, and only she knew where the vanilla extract was. I tried the closed bedroom door, but it was locked.

“Where's Mom?” I'd asked Elisabeth.

“Where do you think?” she had responded mindlessly, stretched across the living room floor. The reflection of MTV images danced across her glazed eyes.

“Their bedroom door is locked,” I'd said. Then it hit me, and my first thought was,
Gross!
“You mean they're . . .”

“God, Sara. Grow up,” Elisabeth had said. “They're fighting. Again.”

After that, I noticed how often their bedroom door was closed. At first, it was only once every couple of weeks. Then every week. Several times a week. Then one day, Dad was gone. We never saw him leave, never even saw him packing his things away, not one box. Mom had taken us to visit our aunt and
cousins in Cedar Hill, and by the time we got home late that evening, all of Dad's stuff was gone. I didn't even realize right away that he had left for good.

Mom had sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, and I had snuck in their room to look around. It was weird; Dad had chosen this house in particular because the master bedroom faced west. He didn't want the morning sun to disturb Mom's “beauty rest—not that she needs it.” When I went in their room I saw that pictures from their dressers were gone—ones of me and Elisabeth, some of Gram, one of the whole family hiking at Big Bend two years ago. I started to realize Dad wasn't just gone on a long hunting trip—he was really gone. There was a blank spot on the wall, and it took me a moment to remember that it was once covered by a picture of Gram on her wedding day. In the bathroom, Dad's side of the dual sinks and mirrors was completely cleared of razors and shaving cream, toothbrush, comb, the pocketknife he kept in the drawer with his wallet and watch, all gone. The toothpaste marks were still in the sink, from brushing his teeth that morning and the days before. I looked at it, thinking,
Once it's washed, it'll never get dirty again
. I stood looking at the cream-colored countertop, imagining Dad standing there, shaving with the old-fashioned shaving cream and brush I bought him as a Christmas gift when I was in fifth grade and that he'd used ever since.

Look, it's not a big deal. Most kids I know don't live with
both their parents. The point is, on the most horrific day of the school year, in the most horrific semester of my life, I came home and the door didn't squeak. With the squeak gone, it felt like part of my family's past had been erased, and I didn't know how to handle that.

“Hello?” I called out.

I dropped my bag in the entry hall and walked through the living room, where the heads of three of Dad's prize bucks still hung on the wall, black glassy eyes staring into vacancy. I don't even remember Dad bringing them home—that's how long they'd been there. I usually didn't even notice them, but with the door now silent, I felt hyper aware of the house. I heard the back door click shut and heavy footsteps on the linoleum floor in the kitchen.

“Hello?” I said again.

“Sara? It's Dad,” he called back as I turned the corner into the kitchen. He carried a box marked camping equip, and his cheeks were pink from the warming spring air, making his smile brighter and seem friendlier. “Hey, baby girl,” he said, setting the box down and spreading his arms out to me. I stepped into them tentatively, mindful of my little breasts touching his chest.

“Hey, Dad. What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” he said, dropping his truck keys onto the counter. “Just getting a few things out of the attic.”

“Mom will be mad if she sees you here.” I regretted it instantly, even if it was true.

“I know,” he said, eyeing me closely. “That's why I came now, when I thought everyone would be out.” He scratched at the day-old stubble on his cheek—he actually hated shaving and only did it for Mom. She used to refuse to kiss him until he'd shaved off the prickly hairs. I wondered if he still had the old-fashioned shaving set I gave him or if he had discarded it, no longer needing to bother. “Haven't seen you in a while. How's school?”

I let out one of those quick, sarcastic laughs. As in,
If you only knew
. But I said, “Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, looking down at my shoes. “It stinks like always.”

“Well, come here, sit down. Tell me what's the matter.”

“It's nothing, Dad,” I said, still standing. “It's just school. Nobody likes it.”

“You know, Sara,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I know we don't talk much anymore, and I know we haven't seen much of each other lately, but I'm still here, and you can talk to me about anything you want. No matter what it might be.”

“Dad.”
I was completely not comfortable talking to him about
this
day. Instead, I said, “Does Mom know you're here?”

“You think it's okay if I get a few more of my things out of storage?” He said it kind of like he was questioning me, and it made me feel like absolute dirt. I mean, it seemed weird that he would have to ask permission to do anything, especially to come into the house he had picked out.

“Sorry, Dad,” I said. “It's just that, you know how Mom gets when anything unexpected happens.”

“I know. But don't worry about your momma. I'll be out of here in a few minutes. Oh, baby girl,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Don't you worry too much. Life isn't just school. Only a small part of it. How're your grades?”

I shrugged. “I bombed a math quiz today.”

“Yeah?”

“Systems of equations,” I confessed. “I'm terrible at them.”

“Well,” he said, picking up his keys and jiggling them in his palm, “who isn't?” He smiled at me again, and his eyes looked tired but sweet. He had the bluest eyes in our whole family. Elisabeth's were blue too, but not like Dad's. I had always wished I had eyes like his, but I got Mom's brown ones instead. “Something else bothering you?”

He was making me nervous, standing there like he didn't have a thing to worry about. “Mom's gonna be home soon.”

“Wait a sec,” he said, glancing up at the round brass clock on the wall we got from Tuesday Morning. “Aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“I left early today.”

“Oh, you did, did you? What's this all about?” His voice turned stern, his eyes fixed on me.

I sighed. I wanted to tell him—I needed to tell someone—but I had no idea where to begin. “It's a long story.”

He nodded his head and looked down at his palm, rubbing his thumb across it. “Tell you what. How about you and me go get some early dinner. Luby's has Salisbury steak tonight. What do you say?”

 

Dad's old Ford pickup had a sticker of a kid peeing on the Chevy symbol on the back windshield that Mom had despised. I thought it was gross, too, but I also secretly liked the rare moments when Dad was crass. I was also the only one in the family he joked around with or did outdoorsy stuff with—like hanging the flag and even going to the shooting range. Once a year, Dad went hunting in the mountains of Montana or down to Mexico with a couple of his buddies, and he started going to the shooting range every Saturday two months before his trips. He used to take me with him, but for the life of me I can't figure out why I liked it so much. I'm no fan of hunting, and I'd never even want to hold a gun, but there was something about the indoor shooting range that I liked. I loved wearing the big earphones, and Dad always let me hold the button that whizzes the paper torso target back
that shows how well you shot. I'd take those home with me, along with a couple of the fat, red shotgun shells. I loved those plastic shells and would sometimes carry them around in my pocket all week until we went again. It made me feel like we had a special thing going that the girls—Mom and Elisabeth—couldn't understand.

Dad and I hadn't been to Luby's in months. It used to be our thing, before he moved to an apartment in Abilene. When he had first left, he'd come around every so often to see Elisabeth and me; it was always when Mom was working late or when she took a day trip to some seminar in the Panhandle. Elisabeth is always running somewhere or at some classmate's house working on some wonderful project. So, Dad and I would go to Luby's, a cafeteria Elisabeth and Mom would never tolerate. Mom said she quit cafeteria lines when she graduated from high school, and Elisabeth simply said the food stunk. Dad and I loved it. The truth is, I'd probably die if anyone important from school saw me going in there, but I'm always the youngest one by about sixty years. Sometimes Dad and I'd talk about stuff—my crappy math grades, a Razzie movie Arlene and I were trying to find—and sometimes we didn't talk about anything. We'd just sit there and eat quietly, and the ladies who filled up our iced tea glasses always smiled brightly at Dad and asked him how he was doing and such. I think they were flirting with him, which made me uncomfortable and proud at the same time.

“So,” Dad started as he took a long gulp from his tea—he liked it extra sugary. “How's Arlene? You two up to no good?”

I hesitated before shoving a forkful of mashed potatoes with cream gravy in my mouth. “We're up to no nothing.” Which I knew didn't make any sense, but I didn't know what to tell him.

“Well,” he said. “You get busier the older you get.”

“I'm not busy.”

“Well. Come out with it, then.”

“It's long and complicated,” I said wearily. “And I don't have the energy.”

“Sometimes it's better to just be out with it.” He cut his Salisbury steak, then laid his knife across the top of his plate.

“Anyway. I'd have no idea where to start.”

Dad chewed thoughtfully. “Arlene do something to rile you up?”

I sighed. “Yes, sir. Not to mention the rest of the school.” I pushed my food around on my plate. “Dad? Back when you were in high school, were there popular kids who were nauseatingly perfect?”

“I suspect there've been popular kids since the beginning of the schoolhouse,” he said, looking off toward the dessert cart. “They're nothing new. Is that what's been bothering you? A bunch of popular kids?”

“A little. I don't know.” We sat for a moment. And then I
said, “It just seems like they've got it so easy. And it seems like popular people can only breed popular kids. Plus, they're always gorgeous, athletic, and smart, too. It's like they're all a part of this system that'll never let outsiders in. These people, Dad, they have everything.” I realized I had started to raise my voice there at the end a little bit, but when I looked around, no one seemed to have noticed. Dad nodded his head slowly. “I know it's totally generic to be jealous of them, but it's not fair. What's wrong with wanting to be like them?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Exactly. I mean, in all the stupid magazines they're always telling us to be ourselves, to not care what people think, to love the body we have and all that.”

Dad looked up at me, his mouth tight.

“Sorry,” I said. “It's just that they tell us to be ourselves, but who wouldn't want to look like the girls in those same magazines, wearing cool clothes and having perfect hair all the time? And like actresses, too. Did you see the Academy Awards?” I asked, knowing full well he didn't. “They are all so perfect, and I know they're all prettied up for the event, but still. You can't deny they're gorgeous.” Okay, even I could tell I might be on a whining track now, but sometimes with Dad, it's easy to get going. He says so little that he makes me want to fill the silence.

“Yep,” he said, leaning back in his chair and loosening
his belt one notch. “Yep, I guess I know what you mean. I remember when I was in high school, a little bit older than you, there was this one fella who was real popular. The girls were always slipping anonymous notes in his locker, and people seemed to like him just because he was good in sports. Then he got voted Valentine King at the dance, and he didn't show. He probably figured the kids would think he was an arrogant jerk if he didn't show, but they didn't. Seemed to make them like him more.”

“See what I mean? They get away with everything.”

“Well,” he said, “the thing is, not everyone wants that. When you're popular, people think they have you pegged. And that's not very fair. There's more to people than what they look like. Sometimes they could have a hundred friends but feel like they've got no one to confide in. Things aren't always what they seem. Don't you forget that.”

“I guess,” I said, considering that. “I just feel like everyone is watching me when I don't want them to, and no one is looking when I do. That sounds dumb, I guess.” I took a last scoop of potatoes, then dropped my fork on the plate with a decisive
plunk
.

“Oh, honey,” he said, pushing his finished plate forward and leaning his elbows on the table. Mom hated it when we did that, even if we were finished eating. “No one is watching you.”

“Humph,” was all I managed.

The dessert cart lady came rolling up to our table. “Y'all want something here?” She was old and looked way past retirement, and I wondered if she had to work at Luby's or if she just liked being there. I wondered if, back when she was in high school, fifty years ago, she could have ever guessed that this would be her life. Was she disappointed now, or happy?