September appeared way before I was ready. I wasn’t prepared for the change in weather, the change in schools, or the many changes in my life that were to follow. My desire to be perceived and treated as a grownup depended entirely on the situation at hand. Though I hated to admit it, being a kid still had its perks, especially when it came to avoiding certain adult responsibilities that were tiresome and boring. But mostly, I was at that age when hormonal activity dictates that one must demand recognition of one’s maturity, especially when one’s social life is threatened in any way. My parents, unfortunately, had their own agenda, and just when I had hoped they would become more lenient and grant me greater privileges, they suddenly seemed suspicious and fearful, trusting my good judgment far less than they had in the past.

Two weeks into the tenth grade, Brenda Davenport, Melanie’s older sister, invited me to her twenty-first birthday party. My biggest problem, or so I thought, would be choosing an appropriate gift while staying within my meager budget. At the dinner table one night, in an attempt to make conversation, I presented this matter to my parents, hoping that they would either offer a brilliant solution or, better yet, substantially raise my allowance for that week.

“Where’s this birthday shindig going to be held?” Dad asked. To my dismay, it was obvious that he couldn’t care less about my gift predicament.

“At The Captain’s Table,” I told him. “In one of their banquet rooms.”

“The Captain’s Table. Isn’t that the restaurant down by the waterfront?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Hear that place is a bit on the wild side,” Dad said, cutting into his glazed pork chop. “Especially on the weekends. Is this shindig going to be on the weekend?”

“Well, yeah, Dad,” I groaned. “It’s next Saturday night.”

Dad shook his head in a way that meant trouble. I looked at Mom for support, but she quickly averted her glance.

“Dad, it’s a seafood restaurant. What’s wrong with that?”

He thought for a moment. “I suppose nothing. But I’m not happy about your being in a place where people are drinking heavily and acting promiscuous.”

I was stunned. I had been invited to a birthday party, not a bacchanal. Suddenly, anyone with a yen for lobster or fish was an alcoholic, prone to deviant behavior, with perhaps a penchant for indulging in aberrant sex acts between bites of shrimp scampi. Had my father suddenly gone bonkers? Were we even talking about the same subject?

“Dad!” I said loudly. “Earth to Dad! I’m talking about going to Brenda’s birthday party, you know, the one her parents are giving—in a perfectly normal restaurant.”

“I understand,” Dad said. “Please lower your voice, Darla.” He took a bite of his food, then paused for several seconds while he chewed. “Well, I suppose it will be okay, as long as you come and go with the Davenports, or better yet, if I pick you up. I’m sure I sound like a worrisome old man to you, but that waterfront area is known to be a haven for some pretty wild things, and I wouldn’t want you involved in any of them.”

“Really?” I asked enthusiastically. “Like what?”

My sudden enthusiasm for the seamier side of life was about as welcome as the atomic bomb, or even worse, a question about Aunt Rebecca.

“We’ll talk after dinner. Meantime, let’s enjoy this ‘scrump-dilly-icious’ dinner your mother has fixed.”

We all laughed. I figured that if Dad could make a Maudie joke, his apparent flight from reality must’ve crash-landed back to earth, and once again, all would be right with the world.

After dinner was over, I jumped at the opportunity to help Mom with the dishes. I decided that spending some time away from Dad would help him to forget about this “after-dinner talk” that loomed so ominously in my immediate future. I hoped that Mom would be capable of providing me with some insight into Dad’s strange behavior at dinner, but all I could get from her was the repetitive exegesis that my father had some very legitimate concerns about my welfare, as naturally, did she. I don’t know what possessed me to even try and break her down, especially when my father was in the very next room, for as usual, “mum” was the word with Mom.

I was drying the salad bowls when Dad stuck his head in the kitchen doorway. “Darla?”

“Is it lecture time already?” I whined. “I didn’t even do anything! I just got an invitation to a birthday party! Lock me up and throw away the key!”

“You’re absolutely right, Darla. You didn’t do anything. And I have no intention of lecturing you. I just want to have a father-daughter chat. Now, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” I moaned.

It was hopeless. He was going to take me prisoner and I had no recourse but to go willingly into ye good family room. I saw Mom crack a smile and then turn her back to Dad so he wouldn’t notice.  Once in the family room, Dad continued to explain what he had started at dinner. “Darla, I’m sure that my reaction to your party invitation sounded a bit irrational to you.”

“Sorta more than a bit, Dad.”

“Well, that’s because I’m a dad. And dads worry.” (If that wasn’t a prelude to a lecture, I didn’t know what was!)

“Dad—”

“You know, I’ve been remiss. I should have spoken to you about this several years ago.” And so it began. And for the hour that followed, it continued. Dad made up for lost time, talking about the myriad perils of drinking, and how they would lead to drugs and eventually ruin my life. When I asked about the waterfront in particular, he explained that it had a reputation for inviting trouble, and that although The Captain’s Table was a respectable four-star restaurant, it was situated in an area that at times could be anything but respectable.

Even at fifteen, I had the good sense to know that his points were valid, but I was not about to become a nun or shut myself off from the world at large. I had no intention of becoming an alcoholic or a drug addict (who ever does?), but I was also looking forward to discovering life outside the family room, and perhaps, becoming a responsible social drinker. My father spoke as if taking even one sip of alcohol would destroy me forever. And, of course, I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t drink. But beyond all that, there was one question that really stood out, and although I had to break a family taboo to broach the subject, I was willing to take the risk.
“Dad,” I said matter-of-factly, “do you think I’m going to turn into Aunt Rebecca?”

Dad looked absolutely stunned, his eyes fixated on me in a way that I had never seen before. Instantly it dawned on me: my mother had never told him about my humiliating experience in Miss Todd’s class, nor had she explained how it had led her to divulge the story of Aunt Rebecca to me.

“What do you know about Rebecca?” he panicked. “Darla, why would you even think of asking me such a question?”

I was in a real bind. I couldn’t tell him that Mom had confessed the awful truth to me. Her worst fears, whatever they were, would be realized if I did so. I had to ease Dad’s mind and protect my mother.

“Don’t you remember, Dad?” I asked nonchalantly. “That scuzzy Martin was rambling on about Aunt Rebecca last summer. He said she was just about my age when she started ‘going rotten’ and Aunt Didi yelled at him and said Rebecca wasn’t a piece of fruit.”

“Oh yes. I remember,” Dad said, looking relieved. “I’d forgotten about that. The whole evening was just a disaster, a spectacle of the absurd. I’m sure that’s why I didn’t remember. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, Darla. Especially rabid ones.”

“Dad,” I began cautiously, “I know you don’t like talking about that evening, but do you remember when Maudie asked you why you didn’t drink, and you got really angry?”

“If I looked angry, Darla, it’s because her question was inappropriate and rude.”

Dad, like Mom, had a talent for answering questions by telling you nothing you didn’t already know. I decided to resort to psychological trickery to get Dad to come clean.

“You know, Dad,” I began, “lots of my friends’ parents lecture them on drinking and stuff, but it’s really hard to take them seriously ‘cause a lot of them are pretty serious drinkers. I really admire you because at least you practice what you preach and you don’t drink. Would it be rude or inappropriate for me to ask you how you found the willpower not to drink at all? And also, what’s wrong with social drinking, like Aunt Didi and Uncle George do?” (I thought it best not to mention the fact that my mother enjoyed a glass of wine from time to time.)

“Well!” Dad said, impressed. “You’re quite an insightful young woman.” He paused and puffed up his chest. I could feel another lecture coming. Perhaps I was not as clever as I’d given myself credit for. “Darla, it’s all about losing control. Now, I’ve told you before that when people yell and scream they lose control. If you add alcohol to that equation, you’ve got a royal mess on your hands. Quite simply, I’m a man who likes to be in control of himself and his behavior. Even with the best of intentions, one social drink too many can lead to disaster. In order to ensure that doesn’t happen, I find it best to stay off the stuff completely. And in case you’re wondering, because I know you have a very curious nature, no, I am not a recovering alcoholic as that trollop suggested.”

I didn’t know what “trollop” meant, but I made a mental note to look it up later. “Dad, did you ever drink?”

“Well,” he answered avoiding my gaze, “like most college students, I did indulge, but I eventually learned that it just wasn’t for me.”

“I guess it’s good that you found out before anything bad happened,” I said.

Dad gave me a fatherly smile and nodded. I had a hundred questions in my head, but I knew that no matter how cleverly I phrased them, he wasn’t going to divulge any more than he wanted to be made known. Whatever kept him locked into this paternal stereotype was not likely to reveal itself anytime soon. It was useless. I waited for him to wrap up the lecture, which ended with “So take a lesson from your old man,” and then I went upstairs to call Melanie.

***

Commiserating with Melanie on overprotective parents turned out to be a huge mistake. After our phone conversation, Melanie innocently shared my woes with Brenda, who in turn told her parents. The very next day, Mom got a call from Mrs. Davenport, inviting my parents to Brenda’s birthday party.

I was furious. This invitation had been a milestone of sorts in my life. It was the first party I’d been invited to that wasn’t at someone’s house, not at the local pizza parlor or in the school gymnasium, and it was to be the first party where the boys, for the most part, would be older. But suddenly, because of alleged promiscuity on the waterfront, or maybe because of my mysterious aunt Rebecca’s past, my parents were going to this party with me. I could understand why the Davenports felt obliged to invite them, but I didn’t understand why they had to accept. Not only were they invading my privacy by doing so, they were degrading and humiliating me at the same time.

I tried explaining this to Dad. (I didn’t even bother with Mom, because I knew she had no power to change any of it.) Dad would not break down, assuring me that we’d just be like “ships that pass in the night.” There was no reason that his and Mom’s presence had to interfere with my good time—not unless I let it.

As Melanie and I sat on my bed lamenting the situation, she apologized profusely for inadvertently getting my parents invited. “I’m really sorry, Dar,” she said, vigorously chewing her gum. “I guess I’ll have to watch what I say to Brenda from now on. Sometimes she has the biggest mouth!”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, rearranging my stuffed animals. “You didn’t know what would happen.”

“Cheer up, Dar. My parents are going to be there too, you know.”

“Yeah, but they’re giving the party,” I moaned, holding my stuffed Tigger for moral support. “It’s their daughter that’s turning twenty-one.”

“Darla,” Melanie said as she popped her gum loudly, “I was with Mom when she booked the room, and trust me, it’s humongoid. I mean, it’s not like your parents are going to be on top of you or anything. There will be plenty of older people for them to shoot the breeze with. Chill out, it’ll be fine.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. But I was still angry.

***

The Captain’s Table exceeded my expectations. From the moment the white-gloved doorman ushered us inside, my romantic imagination took flight. Before Dad could order me to stand at attention, I was two feet inside The Galley, the restaurant’s cocktail lounge, feasting my eyes on everything and everybody. The walls, which were tastefully adorned with various nautical memorabilia, featured a portrait gallery of famous ship captains. Each man’s face, I mused, looked crustier and saltier than the next. To me, there was something mysterious about the sullen, stained faces of these seafaring souls. Something romantic, I imagined, about the way their skin peeled like driftwood and their tears rusted in the rain. Of course, I personally wasn’t in the market to meet such a rugged specimen of manliness, but I found it terribly romantic all the same.

 As I surveyed the room, I couldn’t help but feel envious as I looked at all the couples, who appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be madly in love as they gazed into each other’s eyes through the amber glow of the softy lit room.

A million things crossed my mind. For one, The Captain’s Table was certainly the classiest restaurant I’d ever been in, and I just couldn’t fathom my father’s absurd objections. But more than that, I imagined how it might feel to be in love—to sip exotic cocktails dressed with paper umbrellas, to dine on gourmet dishes with unpronounceable names, then to follow it up with a glorious night—one filled with dancing and resplendent in romance. Certainly, this was the place to be. Just maybe, that evening, I would meet the special guy who would help make my romantic fantasies come true.

As I continued to soak up the ambience, drifting further into my dreamy-eyed trance, I heard my father say to someone, “We’re looking for the Davenport party.”

“Starboard Room, sir. To your right and down the hall.”

“Darla,” Dad called loudly to me. “This way.”

I resented my father so much at that moment. In fact, I felt a pang of sheer hatred toward him, and I wasn’t feeling much kindlier toward my feeble mother, who had sat idly by and allowed all of this to happen. They were invited to this party because of me, not the other way around. But instead, I felt like a ten-year-old kid being dragged to some dreadful family party—the kind of party where strangers tell you they “know all about you” and how you were “this high” when they last saw you, and “my, how you’ve grown” and “you look just like so-and-so.” Whatever the reality of the situation, I didn’t want to be anywhere near my parents. I just couldn’t figure out whether to lag behind them or sprint quickly down the hall in an effort to enter the Starboard Room before them. I opted for lagging.

“Don’t dawdle, Darla,” Dad alliterated as he turned to look at me.

Dawdle? That’s something you say to a toddler! He was regressing me even further. I hate you! I thought. Why are you doing this to me?

I gave my father the dirtiest look I could, and just as he was about to censure me for it, I saw Mom touch his arm gently, whisper a few words, and nod toward the banquet room. Finally, at least in some small way, she had come through for me. They walked on ahead without giving me another glance. I fell several more paces behind them and made my grand entrance alone.

The room was huge, and there appeared to be at least two hundred people present. To the left was a long banquet table, stocked with fruit, cheese, shrimp, tea sandwiches, and a host of “scrump-dilly-icious” cold hors d’oeuvres, while hot hors d’oeuvres were offered to the mingling crowd by waiters dressed like sea captains. Toward the back of the room was a well-stocked bar, and to the right of the bar, on the stage, was a six-piece band dressed in black tie playing “Eleanor Rigby.”

There were far more adults present than I had imagined, and I felt relieved that my parents would not stand out like the proverbial sore thumb I had feared. Rather, they would blend into the crowd and disappear. I scanned the room for Melanie. Despite my desire to enter the party alone, I did feel rather awkward and out of place.

“What’s a nice girl like you doin’ in a place like this?” I heard a male voice say.

“Huh?” I said, turning around to find the most adorable guy I’d ever seen.

He burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. I know that’s a ridiculous line. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to say that to a girl, and this is the first place I’ve been that seemed appropriate. I swear, I’ve never said it before and I’ll never say it again!”

I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was about five feet eleven, with sandy brown hair and the most gorgeous blue eyes and the sexiest smile I’d ever seen. He was wearing brown corduroy pants, a white shirt with navy blue suspenders, and a dark red bow tie. If someone had described his outfit to me, I would’ve bet he had to be the biggest geek in the world. But he was far from geekiness and I was falling in love.

“I’m Ryan Mullavey,” he said, holding out his right hand.

His eyes were so blue. “Oh,” I said, weakened by his touch. “Hi, I’m Darla McKendrick. I’m Melanie’s best friend.”

“Cool. I’m a friend of Ben’s. We work together at the supermarket after school, in the produce department.”

“You work with lettuce…and fruits, I guess?”

I wouldn’t call them fruits.” Ryan laughed. “But some of my coworkers are pretty weird! Especially Ben.”

“Sheesh!” I laughed nervously. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“But you did,” he said with a grin. “So, who did you come with tonight, Darla?”

I couldn’t tell him. It would be too humiliating.

“ I came alone,” I told him, just as I saw Dad waving at me from across the room.

“Did you drive here?”

“No,” I muttered uncomfortably. “I got a ride.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to take you home.”

“Maybe,” I said, frustrated by the implausibility of that scenario.

Dad, who had no clue that I saw him just fine the first time, began waving at me a second time. I diverted my glance once again, this time looking straight into Ryan’s blue eyes, as if he were the only other person in the room. Suddenly, my legs began to shake, registering God-knows-what on the Richter scale, and every clever line I’d ever rehearsed flew right out of my head. I was a mess. Luckily, Ryan was not as awestruck by this magical first encounter as I was and had no trouble making conversation.

“I’ve been scoping out this room for the last half hour, Darla, and all I can say is, the Davenports sure know some strange people. Present company excluded and all that.”

“Really?” I asked, perpetually fascinated by oddities. “Like who?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you,” Ryan said, taking my hand, and before I knew it, he was walking me through the crowd. I prayed my parents were no longer lurking nearby, and I got angry all over again as I thought about how much more fun this would have been had they remained home in their natural habitat.

“Check it out, Darla.” Ryan laughed as he nodded his head to the left. “Get a load of that!”

“Wow!” I exclaimed, noticing a seventy-something-year-old blonde lady dressed in a gold gown with a jeweled crown on her head. “Who’s she?”

“The Queen of Rich, I guess. Dig those fake jewels on her shoes. Is she a trip or what? And see that guy in the brown jacket over there? The one with the red hair? Every time he raises his Heineken bottle with his right hand, he picks at his pimples or something with the left.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, feeling more comfortable. “What’s the ‘or something’ ?”

“I’m not sure,” Ryan teased. “But if you really wanna know, I’m sure I can arrange an introduction. Maybe even a show-and-tell. ‘Excuse me, sir. Are those blackheads or boils you’re hacking away at there? This young lady would like to examine one. She’s doing a science project on the many faces of acne.’ ”

“Eeewwww gross!” I screeched, as thoughts of the Lughead’s nose embellished the mental picture I was painting. “No way! No thanks! Sheesh, Ryan, did you have to go into such disgusting detail?”

“Sorry,” he said, straightfaced. “Guess you didn’t appreciate my suggestion, huh? Well, Darla, there’s no need to zitpick!”

Ryan and I stood there for several minutes, roaring hysterically, as we bonded over the hilarity of facial blemishes.

“Wow,” I finally said, wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes, “who’s that woman in the tacky black dress? See her? The one with the dyed black hair?”

“The groper,” Ryan said authoritatively. “I’ve been watchin’ that broad since I came in. Miss Touchy Feely with a hundred pounds of makeup. Look at those dark circles under her eyes, Darla. She’s Uncle Fester—with hair. She gropes and paws every man she talks to. Check her out now. She’s going over to that good-looking guy in the navy blazer. Man, he’s about to find out how a melon feels.”

We watched with stunned amusement as this hideous woman caressed the stranger’s face, obviously whispering something of a sexual nature in his ear. The man instantly stepped back from her in blatant disgust, but unfazed, she moved closer. Then, without missing a beat, she put her hand on his shoulder and slowly worked her way down his back until she got to his butt. He stood there frozen, like a statue, his eyes fixated on her while his nostrils flared, and his left upper lip curled upward in revulsion.

“Can you believe this, Ryan? Who is that woman? I didn’t think the Davenports even knew people like that! Why doesn’t that guy just push her away?”

“Beats me,” he said, mesmerized by the action.

Suddenly, a beautiful young blonde in a jade-colored dress (obviously the man’s wife) walked over and yanked the woman away from her husband. Then, in what appeared to be a carefully orchestrated move, she took her brandy alexander and poured it, like an ice cream topping, over the woman’s jet black hair. Soaking wet, and looking just like a hot fudge sundae minus the cherry, the groper hissed and snarled, then raised her hand to the blonde. Just as all hell was about to break loose, Mr. Davenport intervened and separated the women. He muttered a few words to the black-haired woman through the dripping drink, then, taking her sternly by the elbow through a crowd of amazed onlookers, he led her quickly and forcefully out of the room.
“Omigod!” I heard Melanie say from somewhere in the crowd.

“Melanie!” I said, turning around. “Did you see that or what?”

“Your parents sure know some strange people,” Ryan told her.

“Gee, Ryan,” Melanie said. “They don’t know her at all. She crashed the party. My dad just escorted that hussy outta here. Skieve me out. Did you get a close look at her? She had hickeys on her neck!”

“Eeewww, gross!”

“They oughta arrest whoever put ‘em there,” Ryan said.

“Like, can you even imagine the guy who would suck her neck? Must’ve been some degenerate vampire or something. Skieve me out!” Melanie said.

Suddenly, Melanie noticed that Ryan and I were “together” and quickly lost interest in the hickeys. “Well, when did you two meet?”

“Just a while ago,” Ryan told her. “Over by the front door.”

“Darla is my very best friend,” Melanie warned playfully. “Better be nice to her.”

“No problem.” Ryan smiled and winked at me.

At that moment, Melanie’s brother Ben came rushing toward us. “Hey, Darla. What’s up?” He turned to Ryan. “Did you see my old man throw that hooker out of here? Did you get a look at that broad? Man, that was too funny when that lady creamed her. Come on, we’re waitin’ for you.”

“I’ll see you later,” Ryan said as Ben eagerly pulled him away. “I’ll be over there, by the band.”
“A hooker?” Melanie gasped. “Omigod!”

My heart sank. As I turned to see which direction Ryan had gone, I couldn’t help but notice my father standing nearby, looking my way and shaking his head in a revolting, I-told-you-so nod.

“Forget about your dad!” Melanie said, noticing him too. “C’mon, let’s check out this feast. We’d better. My parents only paid a small fortune for it!”

“Really?” I asked. “How much?”

The next two hours were great. Melanie and I gorged ourselves on the food, including a piece of Brenda’s birthday cake, then went over to join Ryan and Ben. My nervousness finally dissipated, and I got to know Ryan better, learning that he was a drummer and planned a career as a professional musician. When he asked me if I’d like to hear him play some evening, I fell into a heavenly delirium, completely forgetting that my parents were even within miles of us. After talking for a good hour, Ryan and I danced about five dances, until Ben Davenport cut in, and later Ryan and I found a seat and talked some more. Melanie, who spent most of her time with Brenda and her friends, kept giving me the “thumbs up” sign from across the stage. My spirits were soaring and it was the first time in my life that I really felt like a grown woman.

Around eleven o’clock, the band came back from break for their final set and announced they were going to “slow down the tempo.” Ryan smiled, took my hand, and led me onto the dance floor. The evening was getting better all the time. The disco light above our heads turned slowly, illuminating a shower of stars that floated gloriously around us. I imagined we were dancing in a galaxy of our own, and when we were too tired to dance anymore, we would drift slowly downward, to rest on a nearby cloud and gaze at each other through the pure white mist. Halfway through the second song, Ryan pulled me closer to him. I could feel his breath on my neck. I squeezed his hand in response and he squeezed back. I was positively euphoric.

I was so caught up in the enchantment of it all that I barely felt the tap on my shoulder. Suddenly, Ryan pulled away from me and stared at the person behind me.

“May I cut in?” the voice said.

I turned around to find my father standing there, grinning, holding out his hand to me.

“Dad,” I said flatly as the color drained from my face.

“You won’t mind, young man,” he said to Ryan, “if I have this dance with my daughter.”

“Oh,” Ryan said, quickly assessing the situation. “Sure, Mr. McKendrick.”

Dad took my hand and began to dance with me. I felt like my old Raggedy Ann doll, dull and spiritless, as if the life blood had been siphoned from my body. I started to breathe heavily as I felt my eyes well up with tears. As he spun me around the dance floor, I caught a glimpse of Melanie, who stood there gaping, obviously feeling every bit of my pain, as best friends will do.
When the song ended, Dad stood there and beamed proudly at me. He had absolutely no idea of the devastation and anguish that he had just caused. Here was a man who had just ruined my entire life, and he was unquestionably clueless.

“Thank you for that lovely dance. Well, say good night to your friends, Darla. It’s getting late and we’d best hit the road.”

I hated every insensitive bone in his body. I turned and walked over to Ryan.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, praying that the tears would stay inside my eyes. “It was great meeting you.”

“I’ll call you, Darla,” he said sincerely. “We’ll go out some night.”

“Sure,” I said, convinced that I’d never see him again. “I’ll look forward to it.”

I walked over to Melanie, who greeted me with an anguished “Omigod, Darla.”

“Call me tomorrow,” I said (as if it were even necessary), and I rushed, in complete and utter humiliation, out of the room.

“That was some shindig!” Dad said outside the banquet room, as we were walking toward the exit. “Mike and Grace Davenport sure know how to do it up!”

I ignored him completely.

“Did you have a good time, honey? Sure looked to me and your mom like you did.”

I stopped and turned slowly toward my father. “I hate you.”

Dad looked crestfallen. He stared at me in disbelief and then looked at my mother, as if to ask for help. Naturally, Mom could do nothing but offer a weary sigh. I could tell that he was completely bewildered. Not in my angriest moments had I ever said anything like that to him, and now, just after what he had perceived to be a special father-daughter moment, I was expressing hatred for him. Now he looked as if he were going to cry, and on top of the mortifying embarrassment that I had just suffered on the dance floor, there was the added burden of having totally destroyed my father’s image of his loving little girl. Dad just stood there, helpless, staring at me, as if he were waiting for me to explain or confess that I’d made a horrible mistake. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there and looked right back at him, then at the floor. Finally, he just turned and walked toward the front door. Mom and I followed quietly behind him.