When I get off the school bus, the sun shines down on me, blinding me slightly as I haul my bag over my shoulder, trying to keep it from constantly sliding off. My house is a little further out from school than others. I could easily walk home, but it would take a good half an hour—twenty minutes if I run.

My house is old with white outer walls and a farmhouse look to it. The building itself is small and narrow, with two floors and a little attic with a single, circular window. Behind that window is all of my mom's things. Her clothes that we never got rid of, her bags and shoes, all her work and papers from the job, and everything else that remains of her.

My dad doesn't like me to go up there. He keeps it locked most of the time and doesn't know that I pick at it every Friday when he's out until it pops open for me. I sit there a lot, just going through everything. Sometimes I don't even bother to open anything—I just sit. It doesn't help me at all and I know it's probably only hurting me more.

But nothing else in the house has anything to do with Mom.

No pictures, fridge magnets, notes, nothing. It's like she never even existed. I guess that's what my dad's going for. He doesn't want to have to be reminded of the fact that she really was there, living and breathing until . . .

I sigh and walk past the large oak tree with the tire swing hanging from its largest branch. I don't swing on it anymore. Mom used to go on it with me.

I walk along the still-wet grass and stop at the front door, pushing open the unlocked door. The house is cold inside, and I know that my dad hasn't bothered to put the heating on. I drop my bag on the floor and kick my shoes off. I head toward the sitting room and stand in the doorway.

"Good day?" my dad asks me as he lounges on the couch, his arms resting out on the back of the furniture and his eyes glued to the television screen. His clothes are rumpled, and his face is darkened by a short stubble which is starting to grow back.

At one time, my dad's appearance was everything to him. I don't know where that man's gone, but the one in front of me is messy, uncoordinated, and currently knocking back a bottle of beer.

I take a deep breath to calm myself and nod. "Yeah. It was good. You? Work okay?"

I head into the kitchen, discreetly opening the fridge door.

"Yeah, it was alright," he says, and I shake my head to myself. By the state of the house and the six missing bottles of beer from the fridge, he hasn't even left the house, let alone go to work.

I look over at the microwave to see the time.

3:20

I glance back into the mostly-empty fridge and realize that there's nothing we can actually consume, unless I wanted to make a ketchup and hummus sandwich in a stale bread bun. I close the fridge door and walk back to the sitting room.

"Can we go out for dinner?" I ask. "Head down to the diner? It's cheap on Tuesday."

My dad turns his head back to look at me and nods slowly. "Sure. I'll drive us over in about an hour."

I look at his beer bottle and swallow. "Um, I'd actually prefer to walk. If you don't mind."

My dad nods again before looking back at the television and that's it. End of conversation.

***

After the fifteen-minute walk to the diner, the building comes in sight. It's one story high and has a lit-up sign that says, 'Bennie's Diner' along the front of it. The windows are large, and the lights are bright as we walk up to the front door. My dad goes in first and I follow. He gets us a table.

The floor is covered in red tiles. There's a large counter in the corner where people sit on high stools, drinking, some of them eating. The rest of the room is surrounded by large booths adorned in red with light wooden borders and white tables.

My dad slides into one side of the booth and I sit opposite him. I look to my right and the sun is still shining, glistening against the large window beaming down onto the table in front of me. I lift my hand and press it onto the table, feeling the light warm my skin.

A waitress comes over before I have to try to make small talk with my dad. I smile at her and she smiles back.

"Welcome guys. Are there any drinks I can get you to start off?"

I look over at my dad then turn back to the woman, the tight smile still on my face. "I'll just have a Coke."

She nods and looks at my dad. He runs his hand over his stubble and frowns a little, as if he's only just noticed that the facial hair is there. "I'll have a Corona."

The waitress smiles quickly and then turns around, walking over to the main bar. A silence encases us then, and I just look down at the table, letting out a quick, short breath.

"This is nice," my dad says, and I take pity on him for a moment and nod, giving a forced smile.

"Yeah, it's nice," I say. "We haven't done something like this in a while."

My dad leans back against the seat and sighs contentedly, his muscles relaxing and his shoulders sagging as the tension in his body is released. The waitress comes back after a few more minutes of silence and places my Coke in front of me and the beer in front of my dad. My gaze lingers on the beer but I force myself to look away, realizing that I'll just have to bite back any snide comment I have and keep going.

"Are you ready to order?" the waitress asks, and I look down at the menu that I haven't even opened yet. I look over and my dad doesn't seem in the slightest bit ready yet, so I shake my head.

"No. Can we have a few more minutes?" I ask.

"Sure," she says. "Just call me over when you're ready. My name's Kate."

Kate walks off and I open the menu, flicking through until I get to the dinner meals. My eyes don't go to what's the most appetizing or what makes me hungrier. Instead I look at the prices in small print at the end of each description. Everything is relatively cheap, but I pick the cheapest option anyway. It's just something I do to help my dad out, even though I know that a few dollars off a meal won't make much of a difference.

"Decided yet?" my dad asks. I nod.

"I'm gonna get the pasta," I say.

"You always get that," my dad comments. "Must really like it."

I must.

I swallow and reach over to grab my drink. I move the straw around and take a long sip. The shaky breath I let out directly after is not from nervousness but from the complete awkwardness of the moment. I feel like maybe it would have just been easier if I'd stayed home and had my dinner on my lap while my dad watched television. But there's no food at home, and the guy needs to actually get up and go somewhere at least once a week.

I sigh and move the drink further away from me, watching the line of water appear underneath it as it moves. I look over at my dad and give yet another forced smile, which makes me feel guilty. It shouldn't be this difficult to talk to my dad. We should be able to just talk like a normal dad and daughter. But that isn't how it works with us.

We've never been close. Even when Mom was around. The two of us just didn't click. Maybe it was because my dad just never bothered much with me. I never thought anything of it, but now with Mom gone and no one else showing any care towards me apart from sporadic visits from my grandparents, I realize how much of a stranger he really is.

We call the waitress back and place our orders. I wait a minute, counting every second and open my mouth to make small talk when my dad speaks up instead.

"I'm selling it," he says.

My brows furrow in confusion and I lean back a little. "Selling what?" I ask.

"Her stuff."

My face falls and I look at him across the table with a steely gaze. He doesn't look, just keeps his gaze down on his glass of beer and I feel a burst of anger. I close my eyes for a few seconds and take a deep breath, willing his words to just disappear.

"What do you mean?" I ask. "You can't just sell her stuff."

"We need the money." My dad shrugs.

"No, we don't," I say. "I mean yeah, we're a little down, but mom left us enough when she died. So we have enough. I know we do. We don't need to go selling all her damn stuff."

My dad finally looks me in the eye and he takes a deep breath. "The money's not there."

I'm silent for a moment. "I don't understand."

"It's not there, Franny," he says quietly. "We used it up."

I shake my head, laughing humorlessly. "No," I say. "No. There was enough money there for us to be fine for years. It can't have just gone. She was the sheriff, Dad. Mom made good money."

"It wasn't as much as you think," my dad says, but his cheekbones are twitching, his leg is moving up and down under the table, and he won't look me in the eye.

My anger fades and instead there's just sadness. Painful sadness and disappointment.

"Where did the money go, Dad?" I ask, my voice weaker than I want it to be.

"Franny," he sighs. "Sometimes—"

"Where did the money go?" I ask again.

My dad just stares at me and I see his bloodshot eyes and I feel that familiar guilt creeping over me. But right now the guilt is overshadowed by the sadness that completely encases me.

"Dad?" I say, but he just licks his dry lips and leans back in his seat, watching the waitress come over with the food.

When she leaves, and the steam of the hot food separates the tension between us, he speaks. "Money goes, Fran. It doesn't stay. And yes, I probably could have kept it running longer. But it's gone. And we're running low, and I need the cash. We haven't got any other choice."

I just blink. "Mom left that as my college money. She said that it would always be there, so I would never have to worry."

Dad picks up a fry and pops it into his mouth. "We'll save up money. It'll be fine. There's always the college just around the corner. Won't have to pay for housing fees because you can just stay here. You'll be fine."

My eyes narrow and I leave the food in front of me untouched for a moment as he lifts his burger and takes a huge, ravenous bite out of it.

"I'm not going to the college around the corner," I say. "I want to go somewhere else. Pack up and move. I want to live in a dorm and then get an apartment. I want—"

"Well sometimes you just don't get what you want," my dad says sternly. "Sometimes, shit happens."

"Yeah," I say. "You happened."

I grab my fork and stab it into a piece of pasta. I don't look at him throughout the rest of the meal and when I'm finished, he's still finishing off his fries. I sigh and my hand clenches against the side of the booth.

"I'm gonna go to the washroom," I say and slide out of my seat without looking back at him. I walk towards the washrooms, carefully stepping out of the way of waiters carrying plates of food in their hands.

When the corridor leading to the washrooms is in sight, I stop. I look over at the door that is directly opposite me and I glance back at my dad who I can no longer see and is hidden, tucked away around the corner.

I'm indecisive for a moment but then I walk out for a quick breather. I could do with the cold air right now. I head out the front doors. The breeze pushes against my cheeks and I sigh. The sun is slowly setting now and it's getting dark.

I wrap my arms around myself and look at the numerous other buildings surrounding the little diner. It's on the outskirts of the city and most of the businesses here are a bit sketchy. The diner is the one place that I know is always trustworthy and a good place to go.

I walk round the side of the diner, making sure that my dad can't see me through the windows. I lean against the brick wall of the building, closing my eyes briefly. The air calms me, stilling my racing heart for a moment, and then I can finally think.

My mom had enough money for us to not have to rush into selling her things. We should have savings. Something. There's something he isn't telling me. I feel like he's hiding something from me and I don't like it. What I dislike more is the idea that all my mom's stuff will no longer be stored away in the attic. Now I won't be able to just walk up and sit there, having a piece of her with me.

I open my eyes and blink rapidly against the tears I can feel coming. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry over something like this. Nothing has happened yet. My mom's stuff is still in our attic and nothing is moving. It's not the time to cry and show how weak I am. I just have to make sure that her stuff stays around as long as possible.

The revving of an engine makes me snap out of my thoughts and I see a red truck barreling down the road. It drives past the diner and skids to a halt just a little further down. I push off the wall and walk forward, watching it turn into the building next door with a screech of tires.

The truck swerves into the parking area, taking up two parking spaces. Its headlights fade out and I have to squint a little to see who's getting out.

Tyler Madden comes out from the driver's side. I glance at the passenger door to see a tall man with short, blond hair shut his own door and walk around the car, his lips moving as he says something to Tyler.

I take another step forward, staying close to the wall, not wanting to appear like I was listening in on their conversation. I can't hear them anyway as they're too far away, on the other side of a low stand of bushes.

Neither of the two boys notices me there as they continue talking while walking away from the run-down red truck. Tyler has a sports bag slung over his shoulder, the strap too long for his body. The blond boy tosses Tyler a bottle of water, which he catches with one hand.

I frown a little as I look at the building they're walking towards. It's two stories high and looks dirty. There are quite a lot of cars outside of it but other than that it just looks like a basic building. There is no sign pointing towards it or anywhere on it from my view. I'm curious. I look back into the diner and decide I can spare a few more minutes before going back to my dad without him thinking I've really gone.

I moved forward, cutting through the little path between the bushes and then I run past Tyler's red truck. It sits like a beacon against everyone else's bland, dark cars. I walk through to where I saw Tyler and the other boy go and come up at the front of the building. It has a little sign above the door that tells me it's a bar. Confused, I take a step toward the open front door. A man comes out, arms crossed over his black shirt. His dull, serious eyes look down on me.

"Identification," he says in a monotone voice and I blink at him.

"I don't . . . " I trail off when I see Tyler inside the bar, walking past the tables and heading to the back of the room. He goes around the corner, nearly out of sight from me, and the blond boy opens a door hidden at the side. The two of them walk inside and in the last second before the door shuts behind Tyler, he glances back and sees me.

He frowns, but he doesn't seem to recognize me. He looks for a few seconds longer before turning and walking through the door.

"This is a bar," the man in front of me says, drawing my attention back to him, "if you aren't legal, get out."

"But he isn't . . . " I say, looking past his head just in time to see the door shut behind Tyler.

The man raises an eyebrow at me and I take a step back, sighing and turning around, the confusion surrounding me. People walk past me as I make my way from the bar. I go back into the diner and sit opposite my dad, smiling when I need to and nodding when I'm supposed to.

Like a perfectly practiced performance.

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(French edition of my book ASK AMY is available in bookstores in France and online retailers outside France)