I groan, even though he’s speaking the truth. I know it’s cheesy when someone says their parent is their best friend, but that’s who my dad is. It’s just been the two of us for as long as I can remember. He’s the one I can tell anything to, the one who knows how to put a smile on my face when I’m feeling down or under a lot of pressure.

Especially when I’m being overly dramatic about one silly scholarship essay.

“You’re right,” I admit.

Dad puts his hand up to his ear. “I’m sorry, what was that? I need it repeated. Loudly. Actually, wait. Let me get this on video.” He reaches into his back jeans pocket and removes his outdated flip phone. “This is the only time I wish I had one of those newfangled gadgets you kids can’t get enough of.”

A laugh escapes my throat.

“There’s my girl.”

I lean into him. I know what comes next: one of Jason Smith’s patented pep talks.

He rubs his light brown stubble thoughtfully. “You know that any college would be lucky to have you.”

I don’t know about lucky, but I’ve got the grades and ACT scores to get into any state school.

“And you’re going to get that Academic Excellence Scholarship,” he states confidently.

“That’s not guaranteed.”

The state of Wisconsin gives a scholarship to the top student of each graduating class for tuition at most state schools. My plan is to attend the University of Wisconsin–Green Bay, and major in education. The scholarship would make a nice dent in the tuition. I’m currently in the lead, but Dana Harris is only one-tenth of a GPA point away from tying.

I don’t excel in sports, I’m not particularly artistic. All I have is my brain and its ability to comprehend whatever my teachers throw at me.

So getting accepted may not be a problem, but the money to pay for it will. I need as much scholarship money as I can get. Dad works in construction, and there are sometimes weeks when he isn’t working. I babysit whenever I can and save every cent. We live modestly in this small, slightly dated one-story, two-bedroom house that Dad rents from our next-door neighbor. Our rent is reduced because Dad does odd jobs for our landlord.

We get by.

Wait, that’s not entirely true. We more than get by. Sure, looking at our house, it isn’t much. Some of the furniture is old and shabby. The kitchen hasn’t been updated in decades. It’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but it’s ours. Every trinket is a memory. Every rip in the upholstery and stain on the rug is a story.