Writing Our Song Read Free Page A

Shipbuilders commemorative ash tray.”
    “I call dibs on the ashtray,” I said.  “I’ve been looking for a new hobby.  It’ll help me get that Janis Joplin voice down too.”
    “By ‘hobby’ you mean collecting ashtrays and you’ll get the voice by yelling about how much you love ashtrays, right?” asked my dad.
    “Of course, what else?” I asked.
    “Can’t think of anything.  I hope the apple keeps alright for half a year, Kate,” he said.
    My mom looked over with a slightly bemused look on her face.  She’d never quite ‘got’ the sense of humor that my dad and I had developed between us.  She was always, unintentionally, just on the outside of the jokes.
    “I’m getting the scissors, this is one for the scrapbook,” I said.
    “Be an angel and wait for me to finish reading the whole thing,” said my dad, pulling the newspaper back to his side of the table once I was finished.
    I stood and set about making myself a bowl of cereal, still unable to wipe the smile from my face.  When nobody was looking I pinched myself and it hurt.  It was real, last night really happened!
    When I was about halfway through my breakfast, my mom finished with the dishes and made herself a cup of coffee.  I took a few good breaths through my nose, enjoying the scent.  I’d tried coffee before but it wasn’t for me.  The smell though, that was good stuff.
    My mom leaned over my dad and read from a different page for a while before sighing.  My dad glanced up at her and then followed her line of sight to the article she was reading.
    “Tech guru Mitchell White sells company for reported three hundred and eighty million dollars,” he said.
    “I bet he doesn’t have to steal from hot dog stands to make ends meet,” she said.
    “Maybe not, but you don’t amass that kind of wealth without crushing the dreams of a lot of other people on the way up I bet.”
    I began to eat faster, trying not to draw attention to myself.  It seemed like arguments about money had become more common between the two of them lately.  They rarely flared up into full-on shouting, but I couldn’t help but notice the snide remarks that had become more common in their conversations.
    When I had asked if there was anything wrong, I’d been told that everything was fine and it wasn’t for me to worry about.  That didn’t help with how uncomfortable it was for me when they went so cold on each other.  It was especially sad because I’d also seen the way they looked at each other when they forgot about everything else, and that was a beautiful thing.
    Still, they had no intentions of making me part of the conversation and damned if I wanted to be a bystander if it did escalate into an argument so I finished my cereal in record time and excused myself.  I had much happier things to think about today.
    I escaped back to my room and shut the door, opening my closet and pulling out just about every single piece of clothing I owned.  Tonight, I had to look perfect.  I was about three hours into trying different combinations and texting my friends when I heard a knock at the bedroom door.
    “Come in,” I called.
    The door opened and my dad peeked around the corner, giving me a funny look as he saw the devastation of outfits that hadn’t made the cut for tonight.
    “Your gig was last night, you wore the sparkly skirt, remember?  Here, I have proof.”
    He held out the article from the newspaper and I took it, setting it down on my desk to deal with later.  I had a sudden thought that shot through me like an electric shock, I’d never been on a proper date before… would my parents even let me go?  I gulped and turned back to him.
    “Dad… uh, can I go out tonight?”
    “On a school night?  Where to?”
    “It’s Blair, he’s… asked me out.  On a date.”
    My Dad’s eyes widened for a moment in silence before he took a deep breath.  It felt like a million years before he said anything, during which time I felt what