Class Favorite by Taylor Morris Page B

one of those quick, sarcastic laughs. As in, If you only knew . But I said, “Fine.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYes, sir,” I responded, looking down at my shoes. “It stinks like always.”
    â€œWell, come here, sit down. Tell me what’s the matter.”
    â€œIt’s nothing, Dad,” I said, still standing. “It’s just school. Nobody likes it.”
    â€œYou know, Sara,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I know we don’t talk much anymore, and I know we haven’t seen much of each other lately, but I’m still here, and you can talk to me about anything you want. No matter what it might be.”
    â€œDad.” I was completely not comfortable talking to him about this day. Instead, I said, “Does Mom know you’re here?”
    â€œYou think it’s okay if I get a few more of my things out of storage?” He said it kind of like he was questioning me, and it made me feel like absolute dirt. I mean, it seemed weird that he would have to ask permission to do anything, especially to come into the house he had picked out.
    â€œSorry, Dad,” I said. “It’s just that, you know how Mom gets when anything unexpected happens.”
    â€œI know. But don’t worry about your momma. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes. Oh, baby girl,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Don’t you worry too much. Life isn’t just school. Only a small part of it. How’re your grades?”
    I shrugged. “I bombed a math quiz today.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œSystems of equations,” I confessed. “I’m terrible at them.”
    â€œWell,” he said, picking up his keys and jiggling them in his palm, “who isn’t?” He smiled at me again, and his eyes looked tired but sweet. He had the bluest eyes in our whole family. Elisabeth’s were blue too, but not like Dad’s. I had always wished I had eyes like his, but I got Mom’s brown ones instead. “Something else bothering you?”
    He was making me nervous, standing there like he didn’t have a thing to worry about. “Mom’s gonna be home soon.”
    â€œWait a sec,” he said, glancing up at the round brass clock on the wall we got from Tuesday Morning. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
    â€œI left early today.”
    â€œOh, you did, did you? What’s this all about?” His voice turned stern, his eyes fixed on me.
    I sighed. I wanted to tell him—I needed to tell someone—but I had no idea where to begin. “It’s a long story.”
    He nodded his head and looked down at his palm, rubbing his thumb across it. “Tell you what. How about you and me go get some early dinner. Luby’s has Salisbury steak tonight. What do you say?”
    Â 
    Dad’s old Ford pickup had a sticker of a kid peeing on the Chevy symbol on the back windshield that Mom had despised. I thought it was gross, too, but I also secretly liked the rare moments when Dad was crass. I was also the only one in the family he joked around with or did outdoorsy stuff with—like hanging the flag and even going to the shooting range. Once a year, Dad went hunting in the mountains of Montana or down to Mexico with a couple of his buddies, and he started going to the shooting range every Saturday two months before his trips. He used to take me with him, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why I liked it so much. I’m no fan of hunting, and I’d never even want to hold a gun, but there was something about the indoor shooting range that I liked. I loved wearing the big earphones, and Dad always let me hold the button that whizzes the paper torso target backthat shows how well you shot. I’d take those home with me, along with a couple of the fat, red shotgun shells. I loved those plastic shells and would sometimes carry them around in my pocket all week until we went