Sprout

completely not true. “You showered just for me?”
    “Can’t go to work with yesterday’s armpits.”
    “You found a job?”
    “Flegler’s. The vacuum cleaner plant down by Yoder. But”—my dad waved me silent—“I didn’t come here to talk about me.”
    I sipped at the black coffee, which tasted like a mechanic’s driveway. “ Mmmm .” I sipped again. “You come to wish me good luck?”
    “According to Janet you don’t need luck. She says you’re the best she’s ever had. Best she’s ever seen.”
    “Aw, golly gee, Dad—”
    “I come to offer you some advice, so you don’t blow it.”
    “I—” I shook my head. “Whatever. Speak.”
    “You’re not mad at me for dating Janet. You’re mad at me for getting over your mom.”
    “I thought you said this wasn’t about you.”
    “It happens, Sprout. You get over people. Even when you don’t want to.”
    Again I opened my mouth for a wisecrack, again I closed it. “And your advice?”
    “You’ll get over him.”
    I blinked. “You mean this is about Ty? Not the contest? You’re worried about my love life?”
    “Not your love life. Your life, period. Janet tells me you’re about to flunk out of eleventh grade because you refuse to do any work.”
    “I think Janet—”
    “Mrs. Miller.”
    “I think your girlfriend—”
    “Fiancée.”
    I shook my head. “Are you trying to make my brain explode? Jesus Christ, Dad, you get a job, you get engaged.” I sniffed the air. Dust, a little damp seeping in from outside, the coffee in my hand. That was it. “Are you sober too? Is it the Rapture ?”
    “No, Sprout, it’s not the end of the world. And that’s what you need to realize. It’s just a breakup.”
    “It is not a breakup , Dad. He’s gone . He’s disappeared . Don’t you get it? No one knows where he is .”
    “He’s a teenager, Sprout. Teenagers run away. He’ll be fine.”
    “It’s been three weeks .”
    “It is not your problem.”
    “He is not an it. And whose problem is he? Who’s looking out for him? Who’s looking for him, period?”
    It would’ve been easier if my dad’d gotten mad, or gotten desperate. It would’ve been easier if he’d been drunk. But he was calm and sober as a Unitarian minister.
    “You can’t save him, Sprout. He’s not your mom. And even if you did save him, it wouldn’t bring her back.”
    As if on cue, lights appeared in the window. There was the sound of cracking ice as Mrs. Miller’s car shattered frozen puddles in the driveway. I took a deep breath. The conversation was over, but even so, I felt like going out with a bang.
    I pulled the front door open and a blast of frigid air swarmed past me into the room.
    “You feel that, Dad? That’s winter . And he’s out there somewhere. You’re telling me not to worry about him. Telling me to think about myself, my future. But who’s thinking about his future? Who gave him something to look forward to? To work for? To live for?” I put my coat on. “His brother killed himself because he couldn’t see a future. And you want me to worry about winning some contest? Getting my grades in gear so I can get into a good college, get a scholarship, let you off the hook for drinking up my future? I’ve let you off the hook for the past four years. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
    And then I grabbed my stuff and headed outside.
    The heater was blasting and the inside of Mrs. Miller’s car smelled as dry as sawdust, and after a moment, when she didn’t put the car in reverse, I clicked my seatbelt, but she still just stared out the window. The shadowy forest, nothing more than vertical bars of black and gray; the hoary stumps, lined up like wild-haired moai staring out from the past; little bits of window glinting like winking eyes through the net of vines covering the trailer. Once upon a time the only meaning these things had for Mrs. Miller was what I gave her, but now she had her own history, her own associations, with my house, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking about as she stared out at it. Was she thinking about me, I mean, or about my dad?
    The car was so hot I could feel my eyes tearing up, so I turned the heater down a couple of notches. Mrs. M. started at the sudden silence, turned as if she’d just noticed I was in the car. For once I didn’t think she was being dramatic. She really did seem surprised.
    “Your dad—” She stopped when she saw the dictionary. “Your dad says good