"Where were you last night?" my dad asks when I come down the stairs in the morning to see him sitting at the dining table.

To say I'm surprised is an understatement. My dad usually doesn't come crawling out of his room until after I've left for school. Or sometimes we'll just both get ready and somehow dodge each other without realizing.

"I was just out."

"I heard you come in at midnight," he says.

"I was out with Tally."

"On a school night," he points out and I almost burst out laughing.

"That's never stopped you on a work night," I mutter.

"Fran," he snaps. "It's still a school night and you shouldn't be out that late. You know that—"

"Stop." I clench my eyes shut. "Just stop."

"Stop doing what?" I can hear the confusion in his voice and I snap my eyes open, glaring at him.

"Stop telling me off like you're my dad," I say.

He immediately shrinks back, his confidence draining away until it's nearly all on the floor. It's silly, but it irritates me—the way he's trying to act like a regular parent who can tell me off. Who can rein me in when I mess up. He isn't that parent. He's anything but. The idea that he thinks he can just waltz in and out of parenting me makes me want to scream at him.

It's a full-time job. He can't just pick the moments when he wants to act like a dad.

"You're my father," I say. "But you can't be my dad. Not after everything you've done."

I turn around and don't look back to see his reaction. I stay as strong as I can and go back upstairs to my room to finish getting ready for school. I act like I didn't just shoot my father in the heart. I pretend like I didn't just create a huge void between us. I pretend that I don't see him when I walk out the front door. I pretend that I'm not hungry from skipping breakfast because of him.

I pretend like everything is okay.

And after pretending for so long, I start to believe it myself.

***

"Something's wrong," Tally says at lunchtime.

I shrug as I pick away at my sandwich. I tear the crusts off and then pick at them, breaking them into smaller pieces mindlessly.

"No, something is definitely wrong," she persists.

"Nothing's wrong," I say. "Really. Just not in a good mood."

Tally sighs and picks up her own sandwich, taking a huge bite. "There's a difference between not being in a good mood and looking like you just saw a dog get shot in the face."

I give her a horrified look. "Something is definitely wrong with you. Shot in the face? Really? Couldn't you have said something normal? Or at least less graphic?"

"But the weirdness is a part of my personality," she says. "If I said something normal then you might as well go talk to Steven over there."

Steven lifts his head up from his seat, glancing over at the two of us from another table nearby. "Um, it's Sam."

"Who?" Tally frowns at him.

"My name," he says. "It's Sam."

"I didn't ask for your name." Tally laughs a little and looks back at me. "Honestly, everyone's trying to be my friend today."

I just shake my head at her and chew on a little piece of crust, the taste not very appealing.

"I thought you weren't a fan of the crusts," Tally says.

"I'm not a fan of the crusts."

"Then why are you eating the crusts?" She raises an eyebrow.

"It's helping with my bad mood," I mumble.

Tally stares at me, chewing slowly as she analyzes me, her eyes narrowing. "Something is definitely wrong."

"Yeah, I think we've established that."

"You going to tell me or is this going to become a guessing game?" she asks.

"I don't want to talk about it." I shrug. "I mean it. I just don't. Won't help anyway."

"It might."

I catch her eyes. "Just drop it, Tal."

She looks conflicted but nods in the end. "So," she chirps. "Let's talk about something else."

I give her a grateful look and finally stop messing around with my sandwich. I pick it up, biting into the side.

"So, how's the love life with Tyler going?"

I choke.

"Excuse me?" I gasp out.

"You know, the hot guy, dark hair, broody personality," Tally says. "Oh, and his job is also highly illegal."

"Quiet," I hiss. "Someone might hear. And there is no love life."

"Yeah right," she scoffs. "I see the way you look at each other."

I frown. "Like what?"

"Like you're both the last bucket of water in the middle of the desert." Tally laughs.

"Screw off," I mutter. "There isn't anything."

"Okay." Tally grins slyly. "But it wouldn't be that bad if it did. He is pretty attractive."

"Are looks all you care about in a guy, Tal?" I ask.

"It's not a bad thing!"

"You're going to die alone, Tally," I say with a straight face. "Alone and with cats."

"Take that back," she growls.

"An abundance of fat cats."

Her eyes turn narrow and she huffs, shovelling her sandwich into her mouth in such a way that I can't help but frown at her. She looks barbaric. "You're meant to eat the sandwich."

"I know that," she snaps with a mouthful of food.

"So then why are you inhaling it?"

Tally's response is just to throw more food in her mouth and I laugh a little, taking another bite of my own sandwich. I lean back in my seat.

"So nothing is really going to happen with you two?" she asks.

I shrug. "I don't think he's interested. I don't even know if I am."

"What about what he said yesterday . . . with the fighting?"

I sigh. "I don't know. He's a good guy. I know he is, but . . . that doesn't mean he always does good things."

Tally nods. "I mean, it surprised me. Freaked me out a little to be honest. I was more surprised that he trusted us. I wouldn't if I had that kind of secret."

I nod. "Well, let's make sure that we don't let him regret that decision."

***

Miss Joit gave us the option to stay after school with Mr Small and continue painting the props. I immediately jumped at the idea and here I am now, in school after hours and out of my father's hair.

I know that avoiding him won't help and I'm just putting off the inevitable, but I don't want to go back. I don't want to look at his fallen face and say sorry and accept his own weak apology in reply. For once, I want to be stubborn and stick up for myself.

I'm not going to let him just walk over me like usual.

He has to come to me this time. I'm not running after him like a lost puppy.

I sit on top of one of the tables in the cafeteria with a small cardboard cut-out in my hand. I dip the paintbrush into the set of paints on the table beside me and start painting. It's a little unsteady because it's in my hand instead of on a hard surface, and the cardboard bends from the wet paint. But I get the job done.

There are only three other people in the room with me, as well as Mr. Small, who sits off to the side, marking papers. The other people are only here to waste time until their rides show up to take them away. I, on the other hand, plan on being here for as long as possible.

The cafeteria doors open and I glance up after a few seconds to see who entered. My eyes widen when Tyler comes in, shrugging his jacket off as he walks. He looks around the room and then finally sees me. I look away quickly—awkwardly—and when I look back, he's already walking towards me. He slows down and holds his jacket in one hand before placing it on the desk beside me.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi . . . " I finally reply.

"Didn't expect you to be here," he says.

"Shouldn't I be the one to say that?" I raise an eyebrow. "I mean at least I like art, so that's a good enough excuse, but you literally hate it so . . . "

Tyler laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. My eyes immediately go down to the lean muscles underneath his tight shirt. I look away quickly. "When have I ever said I hated art?"

"Well, practically every day when we've been painting during drama," I point out.

"Yeah, okay," he says. "It's not exactly the most fun."

"So why are you here?" I ask.

"I'm grounded," he says.

I laugh a little. "Nice. But doesn't that mean you go from school straight home?"

"The last thing I'm in the mood for is to sit with my parents all night. Staying here means a few less hours of awkwardness. They didn't seem to mind. I said it was just extracurricular or some crap like that."

I shake my head in amusement. "So, you're here not because of a burning love for art but because you don't want to be stuck around your parents?"

"Pretty much." He grins and then looks down at the cut-out in my hand. "What's that meant to be?"

"A frog," I say.

He frowns. "It doesn't really . . . "

"Yeah I know," I sigh. "It looks more like a green puddle . . . with eyes."

"It could start becoming trendy." He shrugs and steps forward, leaning past my legs to pick up a paintbrush from beside me. He looks down at the set of paints. "Tell me what to do."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Tell you what to do?"

"Yeah." He smiles. "Come on, teach. You're going to make me learn how to paint."

I smile a bit. "Okay, um, get a bit of this on the paintbrush," I point at one of the paints and he follows, "then mix it in with the spare white over here. Then paint around the rim of the cut-out."

I hold the cut-out for him as he paints it, pressing his tongue against his cheek in concentration. It's kind of cute.

"Okay, what now?" he asks.

"Wipe the excess paint off the brush and go back to blend the paint into the rest of it."

"Won't that look stupid?" he frowns after a moment of thought.

"No, just do it." I laugh.

He does so and the sheer concentration on his face is almost comical. He takes it seriously and I wonder if he even knows that he's doing it. It's oddly charming – how much the little things seem to matter to him.

We spend two hours in the cafeteria until Mr. Small forces us to go home. It's nice. I unexpectedly like spending time with him even if it's for just a normal thing like hanging around after school. I like how easy it is to be around each other.

I worry that this easiness might melt away.

I decide that I don't want it to.