Me at 10's Arc

Chapter 2 of 9

On Friday, they sit around the kitchen table waiting. This is how it always goes. Dad comes home from work, takes off his overalls and muddy boots, pulls out his guitar. He sings old country songs while they eat. She sits close enough that her knee touches the table leg. Close enough to be picked. But tonight he walks past the guitar leaning against the wall. He doesn't pull out a chair. He stands in the doorway with his boots still on and says they're going to Florida. Right now. Pack one bag each. She watches his hands. They're not reaching for her. They're not reaching for anything. She goes to her room and pulls clothes from her drawer. She doesn't know what to pack for Florida. She doesn't know why they're going. She fills her suitcase with shirts and shorts and the brown-haired doll from her bed. When she comes back to the kitchen, three bright suitcases sit by the door. Hers is the smallest. Her father is carrying them to the car, one by one, and he doesn't look at her when she stands beside him. In the car, she sits behind his seat. She can see the back of his head. She stays quiet. She doesn't ask why they're leaving or when they'll come back. Being good means not needing answers. But the guitar is still in the house, and his hands never picked her up, and she knows now that trying to be small enough to fit into the space he left isn't the same as being chosen. It just makes her smaller.