My father came home early today. Well, at least, earlier than he usually was when a machine broke down back at the lab.

Out back, we have a mutant plum tree. Not because it gave technicolor hot pink plums or anything, but because it had the equivalent of an oversized thyroid gland. Non-medical terms, it was a freakin' giant. Since the sun still floated a bit above the backyard fence, my dad took the time to take me out and try to bond over some yardwork. We actually bonded. Imagine that. Skip ahead past play-fighting and semi-silent menial work.

So we get inside, sweaty, tired, a little grim. It feels as though both of us should be wearing gritty collar shits with our sleeves rolled up, five-o'-clock stubble, and hats crumpled and floated back on our heads. Men doing manly things. Things were going so well.

My head's down a little, and my dad asks, jokingly, why the long face. Too bad I didn't catch the playfullness in his voice. I shake my head. He knows that I've been off-kilter and distant for the past month. A look flashes across his face, the look that meant he disliked rather intently what he saw before him. Disgust, perhaps. I hate that face. He pushes the subject, and I spit out that between feigning normality so that my grandmother won't worry and surpressing reality while my mom berates me about why I sit around all day in my room (tired, I say), I've been pushing the end of my sanity. He asks me why I'm still depressed. I say nothing. He asks again. Then again, irritated that his son is so moody. The look again. He barks at me that the girl ain't worth my time, my emo- It's not the girl, I sneer. So what is it then? The house rattles a little, or at least in my mind it does. I look at him. One minute, two. Seven. Twelve. And that look that he throws around with impuntity.

Outside, a block away and sitting at the curb, breathless and cold from the sweat, I stare down with my feet. Okay, so I lied.

It's always about the girl.