Matty left the condom on the floor mat, full and floppy like a jellyfish. I don’t notice it until I’m at the end of Woodland. This isn’t exactly a busy road. I know I won’t get caught, so I open the car door at the stop sign and drop it, praying it will get driven over and dusted up before anyone can see what it is. It leaked on the mat. I search my dad’s pockets for a tissue or a napkin, even a handkerchief, but I don’t find one. I do find a small box in his inside breast pocket—black velvet with a rounded top. The hinges creak when I pull it open. The ring inside has a diamond so big I start to wonder if my dad has any stashed money left anywhere. It’s real too. I scratch it against the window and it leaves a thin etched line. I put the ring box in the left pocket, where he keeps his wallet, as a warning, so he’ll know I know about it. I flip the mat over and wipe it on the carpet underneath. When I flip it the right way again, it looks even cleaner than it was to start.

There are three lights in town and I hit all of them red. Then I get stuck behind Mrs. Ivory, who can’t drive any faster than fifteen miles an hour and probably shouldn’t drive at all. Turns out she’s going to visit my neighbor, Mrs. Varnick, and I’m stuck behind her the whole way home. By the time I pull in the driveway, the clock says 4:57, and before I can even throw it in park, my dad is standing on the steps of the motorhome, holding my guitar by the neck like prize game.

“God damn it, April!” he screams when I get out of the car. “Where the fuck were you?”

“Shopping,” I say, and start unloading my groceries from the back of his truck into a pile on the ground. I don’t look at him. I tighten my jaw and ignore his temper tantrum with a fake smile the way my mom used to. “A growing girl’s gotta eat.”

“I told Irene I was getting out early today. At three thirty,” he says.

I smile again and keep unloading. Don’t say anything. Don’t apologize. The Coke bottles clink against each other when I set that bag down. Otherwise it’s quiet and I can feel it in the air, the way he’s about to explode, like how the teakettle gets extra still just before it boils. The metal steps of the motorhome rattle. Even though I’m not looking, I know he’s starting to shake and I’m sure he’s holding the neck of my guitar hard enough to make his knuckles turn white.