“Like Momma?” I ask, crossing my fingers he’ll say yes.

My momma is the coolest person I know. She’s so tough. A lot of people think she’s my sister, but my momma tells me that they only think that because she had me when she was young. I’m not even sure why anyone thinks she’s related to me at all. She has blonde hair, where I have black; our eyes are different colors; and unlike hers, my cheeks are covered in freckles. I don’t like my freckles that much. A lot of kids tease me about them. They say I look like I have dirt on my face.

“Yep, just like your momma.” Dad puts his cigarette out in the ashtray then looks in the rearview mirror, messing with his scraggly brown hair.

My dad doesn’t like to dress up. He wears a lot of old T-shirts and jeans. But today, he put on nice pants and a button-down shirt. He also made me wear a dress, which yuck, I hate dresses. The one I’m wearing right now is black. I’m glad for that because I hate bright colors, like pink, even more than I hate dresses. But I still don’t get why he made me wear a dress or why my mom braided my hair. They usually let me do whatever I want. Today, though, they were all about me being on my best behavior while we go to wherever the heck we’re going. My dad has also checked to make sure I remember how to swing a punch, like, a ton of times.

I don’t know why he’s asking this so much. I’m the only seven-year-old I know who knows how to throw a wicked right hook. I even got suspended from school once for hitting another kid. He deserved it for pantsing me. My parents thought so, too, and argued with the principal about it, which is why I no longer go to that school. Well, that and we moved recently.

The move had to do with me getting into the fight. At least, that’s what I think I heard my parents whispering about late one night when they thought I was asleep. They were worried about me getting in too much trouble and drawing too much attention.

“All right, here we go,” my dad mumbles as he pulls up to a set of tall gates.

We’ve been driving for what feels like hours and, until this gate, I haven’t seen anything other than fields, trees, and old gas stations.

“Where are we?” I ask, kneeling up in the seat to try to see over the gates, but there are too many trees in my way.

Dad pushes the shifter into park and stares at the gates with a frown on his face. He’s not usually the kind of guy who frowns a lot, so it’s weird to see one on his face.

“Dad?” I say when he doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer me. “What is this place?”