I want that to be true. It would be so much easier. But I’ll never belong the way Matty does. I only fit with him because we’ve been this way forever, from when our moms used to drink tea at his house every day. He doesn’t see me how everyone else does. He doesn’t notice that none of his friends ever talk to me. And because he’s Matty, because everyone wants him to like them, they don’t say what they really think. They just pretend I’m not there. It’s not something a few years and some jello will change.

Matty laces his fingers through mine. My hands have been in my pockets; his feel like ice. “Trust me, Ape. We’re good here.”

When I get home, my dad is parked in front of the motorhome, sitting on the hood of his truck. I see him from the end of the driveway before he sees me, smoke and hot breath swirling. My head says turn tail and run, like a warning light flashing over and over again, but the walk back from the deer blind was long and it’s like twenty out. My feet hurt because my boots are too small, and I just don’t have the energy to play these damn games with him anymore. So I tell myself I’m only shaking from the cold. I hold my head high and try to walk past like he doesn’t exist. He jumps down and grabs my arm.

“What’d you say to Irene?” His fingers dig into my armpit, even through Margo’s old down jacket.

I look him right in the eyes and give him my blank face, like I’m dead. I’m a corpse. Corpses can’t talk.

He pulls my arm up. I can barely keep my feet on the ground, “What did you do to her?”

My hand is pulsing. I give him a big, sick smile. “I told her you’re Father of the Year,” I say. “That’s one lucky kid you got on the way. Congratulations.” My nose smarts and I know the tears are coming. I fight them. Close my eyes and imagine I’m running, feet pounding on pine needles in time with my heart, air stinging my lungs until I can barely breathe.

He pushes me away. “You show her respect,” he says.

“Like you do?” I open my eyes and back out of his swinging range. “Telling her you still have a job? Getting her knocked up when you’re broke? Blowing money you don’t have on a car?” I shake my head and smile, trying so hard not to cry. “You’re a shining example, Dad. I’m sure your new kid will look up to you.”

“Maybe this one won’t be such a little shit.” He throws his cigarette down, stomps it out, and opens the door to his truck.