At last, he looked over his shoulder. “Go to bed. “Now.”
John, that was my father. He could create a joke out of nearly anything, fix a busted pipe in twenty minutes, and stretch chili into three dinners. Since my mother passed away when I was five years old and the two of us started living alone, he had been doing it.
There was never enough money. I learnt early on not to ask for much because he took on more jobs.Dad, that response made me feel even more anxious.
Prom had taken over the campus by senior spring. Girls talked about outfits that cost more than our monthly grocery bill, limos, manicures, and shoes.
“Dad, Lila’s cousin has a bunch of old dresses,” I said one evening as dad sat at the table with a stack of bills and I was washing dishes. Maybe I should borrow one.
He raised his head. “Why, hon?”
I gave a blink. “For prom.”
I knew he had heard the portion I hadn’t spoken aloud because he continued to eye me: “I know we can’t afford one.””It’s okay, dad,” I said. “I really don’t care that much.”We can’t afford one, I know that.”
We both knew that was a lie.
He placed one banknote down after folding it in half. “Leave the dress to me.”
I gave a snort. “That’s an insane sentence coming from a man who owns three identical work shirts.”
He gestured to the sink. “Finish those dishes before I start charging you rent, Syd.”
