The secretary said, “Go ahead, Mr. Collier,” and the next voice I heard was my father’s, saying, “I only have a minute, baby”—grrrr—“but your mother called me. She is deeply concerned. And while I personally find your position admirable in many ways, I agree with her that this is not an issue worth pursuing at this time. Even you must recognize how self-defeating it is. Taken to its logical conclusion, you’d fail the seventh grade—”

I interrupted him to say, “Eighth.”

He took a slightly annoyed breath and went on. “You’d fail the eighth grade, thereby putting your entire future at risk…in exchange for what?”

This was not a question-question. My father did not wait for an answer. He just rolled on. “Perhaps you’re too young and hot-headed to evaluate the pros and cons of such a rigid position, but I assure you, you are mistaken if you think it is worth the price.”

I replied:

“Your

concern

for my happiness

is really touching.”

It was quiet a second, then he said, “Meaning what?”

“Nothing,” I answered.

He cleared his throat and said, “So are you going to adjust your stance? In consideration of your future?”

“You mean am I going to go in and tell the principal the name of the kid who gave me the test?” I asked.

My father said, “Well, yes.”

I said, “Well, no. I’m not.”

A commercial father squatted down and his curly-headed daughter (I have curly hair) ran toward him, excited out of her curly skull at the sight of him. I don’t know what they were selling, but even with the sound off you could tell she was saying, “Daaaaddy!!!”

“I think you’re being unreasonable,” my father said.

“I can tell,” I answered. My heart was going wild in my chest, but I kept my voice calm.

“Your mother asked me to speak to you about it,” he said. I’m sure he’d expected me to blindly obey, as usual. I’d always been sort of a “Yes, sir” kind of daughter.

“And now you’ve done as she asked,” I said. “I’ll tell her.”

I’d never talked to him like that before. It felt terrible and wonderful and terribly wonderful and wonderfully terrible…

Maybe it felt terribly terrible…

Or maybe just lonely.

“Well, then,” he said. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

I said, “Okay.” And that was that.

Dead phone in my ear. Hear the
Hissssss. Not a snake or a leak.
But a curling flame running a fuse.
Licking its hot, dry, dynamite lips.
Wake up and smell the tuna.
KA-BOOM!!
Daddy?

I stared at my expressionless reflection in the oven door and thought, It’s just you and me, kid.

Even I couldn’t tell from looking at myself that I was scared. How could my face look so calm and normal while I was so confused and terrified inside? Shouldn’t it show?