Dad "Is he in love with you?" he asks her. His brown hands fold the newspaper; he's not hiding behind it tonight. "No," she answers, eyes averted. "He isn't." "She wishes he was." Mom's intrusion. She knows too much. She's in her element. He is not. "Do you?" he asks. "Sometimes." "Has he ever kissed you?" "Dad!" It's not like him, this interest, this boldness. She's surprised; he thinks he's offended her. He unfolds the newspaper again, hides behind it. Afraid he's said something wrong that she is angry. She wants to tell him That shes not angry. She wants to say, Dont stop. We havent talked truly talked since before I hit puberty. Most of all, she wants to say "Thank you," but she doesn't know how.
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