Sunday afternoons always wrapped me in a thick layer of gloom. The threat of school tomorrow, of that awful routine returning in full force, and the idea of people having family dinners all over the neighborhood while I watched some boring TV show, or worse, a golf tournament, weighed me down, until all I could do, was curl up with a book somewhere and wait for the night to finish me off.
It was four in the afternoon and I’d gotten the heater in my bedroom to work again, so I sat over my blankets on my bed, listening to my mixed tapes. I knew them all by heart. When a song ended, I’d start singing the first lines of the next song before it even began.
My father was coming home next week. Why did I have a feeling we wouldn’t recognize each other anymore? I could scarcely recall his featur
