I didn’t realize how extremely disorganized my dad is until there was all this paperwork. Our house isn’t messy or anything. We clean it on the weekends, trading off the kitchen and bathroom each week. But he didn’t have most of the forms I need for financial aid. He had his social security number, but I need his last two federal tax returns and bank statement. When I told him that I also needed to know his untaxed income, he froze. Probably since a lot of Dad’s work is under the table. I don’t really see anything wrong with that, since I don’t report my babysitting income.

“I want everything to be in before Christmas break,” I press.

He gives me a thumbs-up before finally swallowing. “Remind me again what you need?”

“I sent you an e-mail with everything.”

“You know I don’t like e-mail.”

“I also left you a list on the counter.”

He takes a swig of beer. “Okay, okay. I’m on it.”

“Because—”

“Ally, I said I’m on it.” He cuts me off, which isn’t like him. But the game is about to start. “I know it’s important, so I don’t want to rush it. Okay?”

I nod as he turns up the TV. Dad starts talking about the offensive line, and I sit there in silence. Occasionally I’ll laugh at something or cheer when we progress down the field. But I know what’s really bothering him. It’s not about a bunch of silly forms.

As much as it’s also been Dad’s dream for me to go away to college, I know he’s upset I’m leaving. How can he not be, when it’s been at the front of my mind as well?

I’m growing up. Things are going to change us. Neither of us is going to like it.

And he’s really, really not going to like the conversation I want to have with him at halftime.

I slide open the screen door that leads to our tiny backyard. Dad is standing over the charcoal grill, an intense look on his face.

The man takes his grilling very seriously.

I hand him a beer.

“Ah, I’ve trained you well,” he says with a smile.

I also want him in as good a mood as possible. The Packers have done their job—we’re up twenty-one to nothing after the first half.

“Can I ask you something?” I begin cautiously.

“Of course,” Dad replies.

Ever since Marian brought her up, thoughts about my mom have been swirling around in my mind.