"What'dya mean, ya quit?"

I like Daddy's truck better than Mama's car because I get to ride in the front seat and I can pull my legs underneath me without worrying about making the seat dirty, but I don't like it all that better now. Because this time while I'm in it, I'm lying, and what's worse, I'm lying to Daddy, and if he finds out he'll get so mad –

But Mama said she'd let me do this if I really wanted to. And I really want to.

"I'm just not gonna do piano anymore."

"Thought you liked it."

I press my forehead against the glass. We're going through a field with tall, dead grass, and there's a forest way off. Looks like a nice forest.

"I mean, with your Mama playin', your Papaw . . . and you were good in that recital, Syd. You were."

"I didn't really like doing it. I don't really like playing, even. It's boring."

An hour ago, I was sitting at Mama's piano, practicing, just because. Now I'm here, a liar, liar, liar.

After a little while, Daddy says, "Alright. If that's what you want." Another little while, then he says, "That might free up a couple extra weekends for us to go huntin', at least."

I think, and think, and then I say, "Are you still supposed to get me every other weekend?" I look at him. He does something weird with his mouth.

"Yep."

"But this is the first time you've got me in a while . . . ain't it?"

"Your mama don't like it when you say that."

"Isn't it the first time though, in a while?"

"Been busy, Sydney."

I bite my lip and say, "Mama said you didn't call last time, to tell her you weren't comin'. She had me all packed up and everything –"

"I told you, I been busy!"

That hushes me up.

"I got . . . work, and . . ." He stops there, and me, I rub my hands all together and get my fingers tangled up and blink really hard so it all won't look like a big fuzzball.

Before long, Daddy says something so soft I can't really hear and then he massages my neck like he does sometimes when I'm sad, but I don't want him to think I'm sad, I'm his tough girl, so I straighten up and look right out at the road and hope my eyes aren't swollen up too bad. And Daddy says, "Look, we're gonna have fun this weekend. Okay? Head out huntin' in the mornin'. And tell you what, we'll stop and get some pizza for tonight. Maybe some ice cream, if you're a good girl. Your uncle ain't – isn't gonna be at the house till tomorrow, so we don't even got to share. Just don't tell your Mama."

I nod.

"Alright." He clears his throat and lets go of my neck. "So dry up, then. Didn't give ya nothin' to cry about."

That only makes me want to cry more and so I press my head back against the glass and don't say another word for the whole rest of the drive. And I wonder what kept him so busy that he couldn't pick me up for his weekends. I wonder if maybe Daddy has secrets, too.