I sit in the driver's seat of my dad's silver BMW, staring at the dull gray concrete face of the building with the words Shermer High School stamped on it. I don't understand what I'm feeling in the deep pits of my stomach, but I attempt at identifying it, concluding it as a mixture of disgust, horror, and sick anticipation of what might be waiting inside for me. I've never had a detention before, and I can't believe Vernon sentenced me for an entire day, a Saturday no less, to stay at school! I can barely tolerate it for the rest of the week!

Not only that, but my father forced me to dress up. For Pete's sake, I'm serving a detention, Dad. Do I really need to put on makeup, get a mani-pedi, buy a new outfit, and style my hair so it's curled up around my head? It isn't necessary, but I guess it's okay if you're rich.

I don't bother to turn to my father as I shake my head and say, "I can't believe you can't get me out of this."

I don't want to look at him, not ever.

I hear my father inhale deeply and let out an exasperated breath.

"It's so absurd I have to be here on a Saturday," I continue, partly out of anger and partly to irritate him even further. "I mean, it's not like I'm a defective or anything."

I finally bring my gaze up to my father's face as he sighs again and says, "I'll make it up to you. Honey, dissing class to go shopping doesn't make you a defective." He reaches in the backseat with his left hand and gives me a small grey bag containing my lunch, resting his other hand on my left shoulder.

I hate him.

The thought comes to me suddenly, like an epiphany, a revelation. I bask in the glory of this undeniable truth.

I hate my father.

I hate his stupid plaid scarf, and his navy blue corduroy coat, and his ivory-tinted woolen sweater vest, and the white collared dress shirt he wears under it. I hate his smug smile. I hate the way he looks at me. I hate the way he thinks he can make things better when he obviously can't.

But most of all, I hate the way he thinks he's always doing me a favor with every movement he makes, every expression, every breath that circulates through his body.

I glare at him, hoping my eyes can shoot daggers into his soul and finally make him understand that no matter what he says, I don't care and I never will.

"Have a good day."

The phony love and pride in his eyes makes me want to puke. Pissed off to no end, at these words and at the look, I roll my eyes and open the door to get out of the car. I hope to leave fast enough to prevent his hand to leave a hot imprint in my back, cutting through my brown leather jacket, red sweater vest, and white, frilly collared blouse.

Unfortunately, I fail.

I sashay off, gripping my purse, and slam the door, disappointed by the wimpy, unsatisfying noise it makes as it shuts. Instead of slapping sound waves into my father's face, it sound almost muffled, like it's a goodbye ― a forever goodbye.

Farewell ― no, who am I kidding? I don't want you to fare well. Go to hell, Father. When I return, I hope I'll be a changed person. When I return, maybe I'll be able to say it to your face ―

I hate you.

"Is this the first time or the last time you do this?"

Trying not to be ashamed ― why should I be? I don't want my mother to win over my feelings ― I look out the window, imagining myself walking up the stairs to enter the school right now rather than being in this car. Trying to ignore my mother's voice, the stupid Chicago Bears hat she forced me to put on, and my sister's car seat wedged between us, which I can feel acutely even though I wear a thick brown jacket. The little brat.

I can't deduct if she's a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, she is a buffer my mother's voice has to travel through in order to get to me. As if that made a difference in whether or not I heard her, loud and clear, her words repeatedly echoing in my ear. On the other hand, she always sides with my mother, and always finds a way to say the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.

My gaze flickers to the left, as if my body physically can't ignore my mother for long. I quench the urge to look at her in the face. "Last." I mean to say it forcefully, maybe even defiantly, but it comes out as a pathetic whisper.

I succumb to even that urge as she says, "Well, get in there and use the time to your advantage."

"Mom, we're not supposed to study. We just have to sit there and do nothing."

"Well, mister, you figure out a way to study!" she growls, anger morphing her features in an unpleasant way. My sister, with her wide brown eyes, red coat, shiny blond hair in pigtails, and red bandana with white stripes wrapped around her head stares at me and makes me feel more uncomfortable than I already am.

Right when I notice her, she decides to put her two bits in and agree with Mom. "Yeah," she says, more confident than I've ever uttered anything in my life.

I gape at her, jaw slack. Did she seriously…are you kidding me?

"Well, go!" Mom almost shouts. I glower up at her, hoping it makes her so hot with fury she can explode in her brown jacket, before pushing the door open and heaving myself out. I sling my backpack around my right shoulder and look in one last time at my mother and sister. Seeing nothing because of the anger, I close the door to Mom's red Citroen, Illinois license plate EMC 2, and walk off.

My eyes finally rest on the dashboard of Dad's car. My jaw doesn't unclench, shoulders tight and drawn. I'm sure the shame and remorse I feel is written plain as day on my face. Dad's gaze burns into my neck, and I blink a few times, unsettled but unrelenting under his long look.

I find myself wondering what he sees when he looks at me.

What do I look like on the surface? Right now, I am wearing a blue hoodie and my blue-and-gray Sherman High School sweatshirt with my name stitched on it. I can almost feel the round patch with the words State Champion in red on my left arm, and the S adorned with the logo of our school lying on top of my pounding chest.

Is this all he sees? Or does he see something more?

Does he see a son that just wants a little less weight on his shoulders? A a son that just wants a person he can talk to that will understand how he feels? A son that just wants a father he can confide in about his problems?

Of course not.

"Hey, I screwed around. Guys screw around, there's nothing wrong with that."

I nod, head hanging low.

"Except you got caught, Sport."

"Yeah, Mom already ringed me, alright?" I mutter softly, feeling my temper bubble up at the words.

When Dad speaks again, his voice is laced with as much anger as I feel. "You wanna miss a match? You wanna blow your ride?"

I shake my head, going with it.

"Now no school is gonna give a scholarship to a discipline case!"

This finally causes me to look at him. At his red hooded jacket and pale green vest and red collared button down. I can't hold back the glare as it tears through my eyes and pins him down like a clinch. I lurch out of the beige and brown car and slam the door behind me, clutching my lunch bag like it's an opponent's neck even though I want my hands to be wrapped around my dad's.

As I'm driven up to the school, the blue car I'm in almost hits a boy that struts in front of it, walking with a confident pep in his step. He doesn't even flinch. Either he doesn't know that he almost got killed, or he couldn't care less.

Watching him, I have a feeling it's the second choice.

Obviously he's as familiar with Saturday detention as I am. His hair is long and unkempt. He wears sunglasses that cover his face even though the sunlight is not glaring and requires no need of them. He is draped in a grayish-brown robe, hands dug deep into its pockets. A red bandana is tied around his neck.

His appearance absolutely screams criminal.

Oh, John Bender, I say to him in my mind. You're back. Again. Not that I'm surprised.

Remembering what I'm supposed to be doing, I climb out of the backseat of the car, holding my bag, and shove the door closed. For some reason I pause. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today they'll say, "Farewell, Allison! I hope you have a nice day! I hope you are happy! I hope you know that we actually do care!"

But of course they don't say any of those things.

Still holding some odd, misplaced, silly hope, I lean forward and attempt to peer into the front seat, aching for some eyes to hold mine and tell me that they see me.

Instead, the car zooms off without a word. My feet stay planted on the floor as I watch it recede down the street, my heart slowly breaking.