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I knew this was going to be an awkward car ride. I had been dreading it for almost three days, which was sad, really. Three days spent on sometime that will only take 20 minutes. I was waiting with a few other girls for a while, sitting on an old picnic table, which was covered in graffiti and faded song lyrics. I thought of the picnic table that indefinitely sat outside the Thundercloud's near Westlake; it was covered in the same forgotten images, of young teenagers trying to shock their elders. Why did people try to do that? We always forget our parents went through the 70's and 80's, which are, to our deepest shame, way more hardcore of a youth then we're having. We can't say anything that will shock them more than they can shock us. So we generally act as if we don't care. I shivered a little, and cursed the fall weather.

My dad pulled up in the dark cul-de-sac. It was around 7:30 then, probably. I had lost my watch in my room a few weeks earlier, and now every morning at exactly 6:21, the alarm will beep for three minutes, which my body has grown nearly used to. When the time change hit, though, it was torture, until my body grew used to that, too. He got out of the car and waved to me hesitantly, opened the door on my side, then went back to the driver's seat. I grimaced to the other girl's sitting on the picnic table, walked slowly to the car, and got inside. I had hoped to tell them why I was dreading this ride home with my dad, but he came before I could. We greeted each other, he asked me how rowing was, I said something vague, I thought slightly about how I have probably answered "fine" to his inquiries of my day, every day since third grade. I knew he didn't like this. I always knew, whenever I said it. But it seemed to be less productive to say how my day really was. What was the point? He greets my voice with a sigh, as he greets my silence with a confused expression of disgust.

Everything started to get louder, then. The windows got rolled down, the radio got turned up, my dad fiddled with his mirrors and glasses and tapes on the floor, I shifted my body toward the window; we both acted as it this was a daily routine. Why hadn't my dad grown up any since he was my age? He was the adult. I always hated parental drama. When the soccer moms trashed each others sons during a game or some such immaturity. One of the moms on my rowing team trashed my mom so much, after a fight they had had about 15 years ago, that another mom lied to me, saying her carpool was full. The next day, she showed up with another girl in the spot, making it very obvious she had lied. If you're going to lie, at least keep your stories straight. That got to me, although it didn't really matter too much. I guess it was the fact that one of my friend's moms lied to my face. She was a parent, aren't they supposed to be mature? I guess adults are no more than children are. Winging it. Hoping no one will hurt us too much, trying to keep everything under wraps, but secretly hoping someone will find us, an aged mummy - folded, decayed in our swathes of smiles, and bring us from our tomb.

I waited for my dad to say something. He had always been better at apologies than I was. I always hated that, it was always so awkward. Him walking up the stairs, knocking on my door, saying he shouldn't have said that, we both made some mistakes, let's just forget about it. I always say "ok" then silently force him to leave. It's a twisted apology to say both parties did something wrong, instead of just owning up to your own faults. But either way, the fact that no apology was coming was a little unnerving. I would never say that, though. If we could just forget the whole thing and move on, it'd would help a lot. I knew he must love me some, but even if he didn't, at that moment, I didn't care. That night, though, it was shocking. Scary. "Everytime you do things like this, I love you a little less." "I'm ok with that." The words rang in my head constantly. I wondered if my dad knew that, as he pretened to listen intently to the radio. The talk show host continued about the economy, the war. The tension in that that car could be felt from a mile away.

"Believe you me, the price is clear, a child waits, a mother near. Two distant lies, both hand in hand. A failed life exposed to the man, who lead her off into the flame, to cast her back to hell again. But hear you me, the break of dawn, will wash away the sins thereof, until the lake, beyond the tree, the child waits, alone is he. The flame is gone, the fire remains, the flame is gone, the fire remains, the flame is gone, the fire remains, the flame is gone, the fire remains. The flame it gone, the fire remains. The flame is gone. The fire remains."

I had too many thoughts in my head at once. I felt a tinge of guilt when I thought about anything but my dad, but I felt a surge of anger when I did think of him. I knew that, as a daughter, I was supposed to be really hurt by what he said. But I wasn't, and I've never been able to admit that. What kind of daughter doesn't care if their dad loves them? I knew that was a lie, though. I was just one of those people I can't believe when they tell me this stuff. When my friends tell me things along the lines of "I have no relationship with my mom, my parents are divorced, I'm home along most of the time, all my mom and I do is fight... but I love my life!"

That's just a lie. I know this because there have been too many mental breakdowns having to do with parents, for us not to be affected by them. So I know I'm lying when I say I don't care.. but I'm pretty good at lying to myself, I guess. My dad still hadn't said a word. I always like it when he goes kayaking, because the kayak rests between the seats, blocking the vision between us. This always seemed like a confessional to me, even though confessional is something I greatly dislike. I know that all people are just people. Any priest sitting on the other side, listening to any peace offering you make for God, he will judge you, he will want to advise you to change your life to be, in his mind, better. Why would anyone want to so openly display themselves? Everyone is imperfect, so imperfect, we're all hiding. It seems a strange existence to be able to tell someone sitting on the other side of that wall, or of that kayak, what wrong you have done. I've only had to go to confessional once before, and, ironically enough, I told the man two things: I wish I could stop being depressed, and I wish I could have a better relationship with my dad. What has happened since then, though, hasn't really been the work of God. It has to do with the people around me. One has gotten better, one has gotten worse. So I remain, as always, unconvinced of His existence. The things that have saved me when I need saving have never been Him. It seems like God and my dad are the two people that don't know anything about me, and they're two of the people who should know the most.

I realized, through my thought, the radio had been turned down. My dad's window was being rolled up. I knew this was finally the point where things would get awkward. I braced myself.

"ok."
"ok, yeah."
"mhm."
"yeah."
"thanks." I hope he wasn't hearing me cry. It was dark outside.
"ok."

We were nearing home now, passing under yellow streelamps, passing evening joggers, we had stopped talking by then. I batted my eyelashes and raised my head, fighting tears my dad should have never brought upon me. I thought of home, then, wondered what my mom might have for dinner. Almost every night, my dad asks me if I'm hungry, I say "yes" and then he asks "What should we do about that?" I don't entirely know why, but when people refer to just me as "we" it makes me uncomfortable. As if my being hungry was something that concerned both my father and I, not just me. I'm not in a team with you, you have nothing to do with this. My mom generally has dinner ready, except when she was working. I remember that one time, she came home and just started weeping, because her job was pushing her so hard. It felt weird being the mother then, holding my mom while she cried. But I've always tried to do that, I guess. Whenever my mom and dad fight, I try to push myself between them, make my dad yell at me instead. I guess it's not my job to protect my mom, but she's as fragile as I am. And my dad can't divorce me. That's why I sat there, stony faced, saying "ok" to every apology my dad offered, because I knew he would love me as long as he lived.

We pulled into the driveway, and I felt a small sense of love for him then. Whatever he does, I know he loves me. But I hadn't forgiven him, and it was very easy to slide out of the car, walk into my house, without a word to him. I could smell dinner there, I could hear my mom moving around in the kitchen, my dad stayed outside longer than usual. I knew he was looking at the stars. When I was about 12 years old, my dad and I went camping on the beach. It was extremely windy, we had weird bonding moments in how it took about 30 minutes to pitch the tent and how we saw dolphins in the ocean. That night, we were sitting on the beach, staring out at the reddish moon and all the stars, and I told him the way in which I see the sky: when the horizon cuts off, so does the world. There's nothing after that, the world does not curve down. And the stars are stars, enormous balls of energy and fire and light and they're hundreds of times larger than the earth. So, from the horizon to that gigantic ball of light, imagine all the space. You can't see the sky as simply, the sky, but as space. Vasts amount of space, until you reach the stars.