Author's Notes: Everyone wants to know Lolita's perspective. Here's my take on it. Please enjoy.

"Dad."

I am too quiet. Dad doesn't hear me. He's too busy writing in that book he likes so much, one leg over the other, in shorts, because it's hot, in one of those plain white button up shirts that all grownups wear. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he's focusing hard. Maybe he wants to make sure the ink doesn't smudge.

I don't know what he writes in there, but I bet it's something boring like about money or shopping lists. Why is it so interesting that he doesn't notice ME walk in the room?

I turn my foot out and tap it.

"Dad…" I stomp my foot once. "Dada…." I stomp one foot, then the other. "Dadadadada… DA da da da...DAD!"

Finally, Dad flinches and looks up at me. "Gracious, Dolores, there's no need for such a ruckus. I was working very carefully. You see how I was writing with my special pen?" He holds it up, like its God or something. "This means you stay quiet and patient until I am ready to converse with you. This pen, as little and temperamental as it is, means peace and solitude."

Dear God! The way he acts sometimes, he's worse than Mum!

"Mum asked me to ask you about what you wanted for dinner," I say, in a sing song voice, "She's about to go to the shops. We can't have her making something disgusting. Not like yesterday. No, Dad, that would be terrible."

Dad looks up at the ceiling as though he's seen something ugly on it, and he speaks in that undertone like he's whispering in my ear. "Tell her I don't give so much as a damn of what she makes for dinner. She is the cook of the house, after all. What matters most is that I am undisturbed when I am writing, and that she and yourself are happy, Lo. It is darling of you to show your concern, but do not concern yourself for me."

Who in the Name of Cristóbal is Lo?

"Mum was worried, not me!" I shoot back, "I don't care."

Stupid Dad. He always thinks things are so much bigger. Knowing Mum will get me to carry all the groceries if I don't hurry up, I run out the room.

After we eat our proper, better-for-me burgers, Mum wanted me to the clean the dishes, and I didn't want to do them yet, so I went back up to Dad's office. He's writing again, sitting with his legs apart this time. Knowing he hasn't seen me, I approach him by tippy toe. Maybe I can scare him.

One step, pause, continue.

Dad reminds me of a friend's Dad. It doesn't feel like he's my real Dad. Mum says this is normal. I don't know.

Two steps, one step, pause.

He's a professor. I guess that's why he doesn't wear bright colours like Mum, but it is like teacher is all he knows. He's got the same concentrating look on all the time. And he's so bossy, even to Mum. Like anyone cares about what he's thinking about. Darn it, when I go to school I'm going to feel like I'm at home.

I made it close enough. I move my feet so they are almost touching his toes, and I reach over his page to grab the pen.

"What are you writing, Dad?" I ask, taunting.

His eyes dart to mine, and he suddenly it is like he tries to hit me with the book. He pushes it toward me, shoves it against me, like giving it to me, but his knuckles are white against the cover. As if about to burn myself, I bring my hands back, away from the pages.

"If you must know, it is a compilation of a list of French lessons I am to teach you, incredibly boring and tedious. As nettlesome as it is that fate should smite me with planning, they are of utmost importance and not to be read by you, or anyone else. I have no desire for you to study ahead of the tasks I have assigned to you. It would be irresponsible of me to provide you with more than you are equipped to manage."

"I thought so," I reply, "You're very boring, Dad."

"I beg your pardon," Dad answers. His heavy eyebrows look heavier somehow, "I may be many things, my darling, but I am not boring. The mailman who comes every morning, he is. He doesn't change anything about his approach, he's very dull indeed. The dog that lives a street down from us, he is. They are plagued by repetition, and that makes them predictable and therefore uninteresting. I have many intellectual pursuits, hobbies… that you know nothing about. I keep to myself because you are a child and would not understand."

"No," I disagree, "I understand just fine. I know boring when I see it. I'm right and you're wrong. You don't do anything fun."

"Yes, I see what you mean," Dad folds the book and places it in his lap. He observes me more sympathetically. "What do girls in your stage of life do for entertainment in this solemn age?"

He's so weird…

"I read magazines," I reply, "I like going to the park, playing gymnastics, dancing, and using a hula hoop."

"Excellent," Dad says, though I think he is just saying that, "The hula hoop is an art, I hear. It takes a very talented young lady to perfect it, to tame its eccentricity. Have you managed to, Dolores?"

"Sure!" I say, "I can show you."

"I believe you," Dad says, "Though retrieving your hula hoop will likely bring a monstrous trail of dirt into this house, and we know how much Mum hates that. It is best you don't. However, I have always been curious of the movement required to keep the hoop afloat."

"Like pretend?"

"Yes, that's exactly right."

"Okay!"

I step back, bow, and hold up my right arm, as if carrying my rainbow hula hoop above my head. "Dolores, hula hoop extraordinaire, number three of our performers tonight. Can the audience give some very enthusiastic applause?"

Dad grins and gives a very quiet clap. "Wonderful, this performer looks marvellous, leagues better to the others already."

"That's not applause!"

Dad laughs, "Really, I can't bear sitting down. You should believe your audience when they clap for you, Dolores. It's very rude of you to demand a reaction like that."

He is smart, sometimes.

"I can't hear you!" I turn my head away. With my invisible hula hoop, I place it around my waist and thrust my wrist out, like making it spin. Pretending to be a ballerina, I keep my neck long and straight, rotating my hips the way I have done so many times. I make it look perfect, I am sure. I turn my gaze dispassionately to the cupboard, desk and table, as if they are also audience members.

I finish my performance by looking at Dad. He looks very happy. I smile back. "There you go, Dad."

Dad claps again, this time a little louder, "Excellent job, Dolores. You had me on the edge of my seat."

"No, you weren't!" I protest.

"I most certainly did. You didn't see, your sneaky eyes were looking everywhere else in the room. But I do know what I was doing, my dove."

I chuckle and look upon him fondly. "You are a fun Dad."

"Thank you. I was trying to demonstrate this the entire time."

Dad is still smiling all big. It looks much better than when he's writing over his silly book.

"Only when you want to be," I finish.

"You ruin everything, silly daughter," Dad mentions with his eyes avoiding mine.

"I know. But I'm your daughter now. I am here to ruin everything. I'm here to ruin your life."

With a sheepish grin, Dad looks back at me again. "I severely doubt that. On the contrary, as your father it is often thought that it is I who will ruin your life. It is a parent's job to embarrass their children."

I laugh. "You wouldn't, Dad."

"Why do you not believe me? Do I not already by being a boring adult?"

"You're bossy, but you're not mean," I say, "Not really."

His presentation is harsh. His dark hair is combed back neatly and he has so many wrinkles, but he is kind deep down. I know that.

Dad observes me for a moment, like he wants to give me a big hug. "I wouldn't be a very loving father if I was mean, Lo. It would defeat the purpose. It would be silly too, yes, very silly. In fact, it is my worst nightmare. Please, you must tell me if I do something cruel and upsetting. Sometimes I become a little…."

"Boring?" I guess.

Dad laughs, "Yes, I suppose you may call it that."

"You said it, you said you were boring," I tease, feeling so happy I could dance, "And, and, and…"

"And what, my darling?"

"Who's 'Lo'?"

Dad's smile dissipates slightly. "I'm afraid I don't know what you are referring..."

"You called me Lo," I repeat, "I heard it, Dad. I know you said it."

"I'm afraid you must have heard wrong, Dolores. I don't have the slightest inkling of what you are referring to," Dad says, "It is nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes, even adults, we hear things wrong. It is a perfectly normal, adult mistake to make. Now I do believe you had some dishes to clean."

That didn't seem right. "Did you mean to say something else? Lo… Love? Loo… maybe loup, like wolf."

"Ah you remember loup? Very good, Dolores. I thought you would have forgotten."

"It is loup, then?"

"My dear, please believe me, I said nothing of the sort. I have only referred to you as Dolores, and that is all you will ever be to me, now let's leave it at that and get a move on with the dishes. Come on. I will help you." He stands to his feet, puts his teaching book in the drawer of his desk, and taps me on the back once he reaches my side. "Mum won't be happy if you've been talking to me all evening. Let's get downstairs before she decides to kill us, and you can tell me more about the types of dancing you like."

I smile and give Dad a hug. He is so nice, and warm. "Oh goody, Dad! Let's go."