I leaned forward in my seat a little bit while the nominees for the Best New Artist Grammy were announced. I had one particular favorite that I wanted to win, a Latin chick that had already won an international award. She was only a few years older than me, and when she sang, she SANG. Her voice was all over the place.

I was almost falling off the couch in anticipation. I could see my dad out of the corner of my eye, also a little anxious, all though probably not so much as me. The presenter on the TV said, "And the winner is...Old Ship!" I sank back into my seat with disappointment. Old Ship was a grunge rock band that had more holes in their bodies than swiss cheese. The lead singer, the female lead singer has a mohawk. I'm all for women's rights and whatnot, but there's only so far you can carry the 'girls can do anything guys can do'. I ripped off my left cross trainer and threw it at the television set, hitting her in the nose. "Dammit," I said, frustrated.

"Katherine Elizabeth," my father admonished. "Watch your language."

"Sorry," I said. "But they don't deserve it."

"They deserve it as much as anyone else," he said. "They're perfectly nice people," he added. He should know, he's worked a mix board for them a couple times when they've recorded in Orlando. That's what my dad does now. Produces. I know that he writes, because I do some writing with him, when my muse is with me. But anyways, back to conversation.

I pulled my feet (one shoe on and on shoe off) up close to me. "I never said they weren't nice, I said that they don't deserve that Grammy."

"Why not?" he asked. I hate it when he plays Devil's Advocate.

"Because they're in it for the money, dad," I said. "They said so themselves. TRL, August 19, 2021." That's another thing. I remember the stupidest things when it comes to dates and numbers. I can tell you the exact time I was born (June 29, 2004, at 11:08 P.M.), and how much I weighed and how long I was (7 pounds, 3 ounces, 20 inches), the day my mother left (September 23, 2009), the day I lost my first tooth (July 4, 2010), the day I broke my wrist (August 20, 2015), my highest score on Pinball (46,569,395), but I think that you get my idea.

"So they did," he agreed. "Excellent point Kit Kat."

"Thank you," I said. "Of course I had an excellent point, what are you talking about?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, nudging my foot. We started to listen to their acceptance speech, which didn't really sound like an acceptance speech at all. "Rock is here to stay!" one of them declared after they were done.

"Rock has been here for fifteen years," I growled, trying to take off my other shoe, but being hindered by my dad.

"Simmer down," he said.

I settled back into my seat on the couch and sighed. The Grammys gave way to an M&M commercial. "That's what I want to do," I said.

My dad looked at me. "You want to be an M&M?" he asked, slightly puzzled.

I rolled my eyes. I love my dad more than everything in the world, but really. "No," I said. "I want to sing. I want a Grammy that I can put on my bookshelf between my seventh grade track ribbons and The Lord of the Rings Chronicles," I said, stretching out on the couch, putting my feet in my dad's lap. He pushed them off, but I just put them back on.

"Maybe you will someday," he said, smiling in sort of a wistful way.

I examined my now bare feet, the toenails laboriously painted by Rachel the night before, and thought. I wanted to say, "But I want it now!" but A, I knew that that was just not going to happen, and B, I knew that dad was going to say something anyway.

"Do you know where you're going to go to college yet?" he asked. He started to poke at my feet, which tickled a little, so I started to twitch my feet to thwart his attempts.

"I've told you," I said. "I would go to UFC if I knew what I wanted to do."

"So what do you want to do?" he asked.

"I just told you dad," I said.

"Ah yes. The first of the Chasez family to graduate with a degree of M&M-ology. You're going to have a hard time finding a college that offers that degree," he grinned.

I groaned. "Dad, that was bad. Bad joke, sit, play dead."

"Like yours was so hot," he argued.

"It was better," I said. "I want to sing, dad. Remember? Don't let the brains go, you're not old yet," I said.

"Yeah right," he stretched. "So you want to sing, eh?" he said.

"Yes I do," I said. I sat up at looked at him, blue gaze to blue gaze. It wasn't a mean gaze, it was just like he was trying to figure me out. "You know how you say that pop culture repeats itself? I think it's time to repeat the whole CD rather than just a couple tracks, if you see my metaphor."

"It's a tough business honey," he said. "Especially if you're trying to bring something new in. But if you succeed--which I think you can--than it's more rewarding than you could ever imagine," he said seriously.

"Dad," I said. "You're scaring me here."

He laughed. "Getting too serious for you, am I?" he said.

I yawned. "You could say that." Before we could initiate anymore conversation, the Grammys came back on, and we settled back into the program.

"Kat? Katherine? Casper?"

"What?" I asked, startled that someone would be asking for me.

"How does this one look," Melissa said, showing off Jessica. Woe as me that I agreed to go with Melissa and Jessica to "help" them select the dance team's next costumes. What on earth was I thinking? They both could have easily bought out The Dancer's Closet, the store, had the dance team's budget allowed it.

"How come I have to model the outfits?" Jessica asked, a hint of a whine to her voice.

"Because they look better on you than they will on me," Melissa said. "Now shut up and model."

Jessica rolled her eyes and did the runway strut down the center of the store. She was in a pair of black dance pants and shoes, with a bright tank top and a matching kerchief. "It's nice," I said.

Melissa sighed. "Kat, you've said that about every other costume that Jessica's modeled. What's up?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just thinking," I said with my finger in my mouth, chewing on it. I swear to God that I will never get rid of that habit. I actually have dents in my finger from chewing on it. I've lost more blood that way than regular scrapes and cuts.

"Don't think too hard," Melissa said, adjusting Jessica's dance pants. Jessica gave me a pained expression. "I wouldn't want you to sprain anything."

"Ha. Ha," I said drolly.

"So do you like this or not?" Jessica piped upl

"Yeah, I like it. I say that's a go," I said, giving them a thumbs up.

"That's good," Melissa said. "Because everyone has dance pants and shoes anyway. All we have to buy is the tank tops and the kerchiefs."

I rolled my eyes. "Good. I'd hate to comlicate your life any."

I had done way too much thinking the past two weeks. That bottle of tylenol usually reserved for my dad was being infiltrated by, well, me. Thinking gives me headaches. Or at least the kind of thinking I was doing. I wasn't doing the sitting-in-the-middle-of-math-class kind of thinking. I was doing the Freud-and-Socrates-you-better-watch-your-butts-because-here-I-come kind of thinking. I'd thought long and hard about what I was about to do, and I decided go for it.

I'd found my dad home one night (well, as he is every night, but at any rate) sleeping on the couch. I swear that he sleeps more than my cat (My cat is dead, but that's besides the point). I sat on him to wake him up, and he groaned. "Whaaaaat?"

"Daddy, I've made an executive decision," I said. "Are you up?"

"I'm up," he said and I got off his chest (literally). "What kind of executive decision?" he asked in the middle of a yawn.

"A big one," I said.

"How big?" he asked.

"Big."

"What kind?"

"The most important kind."

"Oh really." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"Yes really," I answered. "I know what I want to do," I said. He probably already knew what I wanted to do, but he was going to ask me anyway, just to hear me say it. And I would tell him, and he was going to go along with it.

"You're going ahead on the M&M deal?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Dad that joke is old. Let it rest in peace!" I begged. "No. I want that Grammy and it's going to be mine." So it wasn't directly what I wanted to do, my my father is a smart person. He could figure it out.

"I figured," he said, tracing the plaid pattern on the couch. He didn't say anything, but what did I tell you? Parents are so predictable.

"I'm going to do this with or without your help," I said (even though I knew he would), "If it doesn't work I could always apply for second semester."

"So you're seriously going to do it?" he asked. "You're going to bring dance pop back?" he said. I've known my dad long enough to know that there was a shadow of a doubt in his voice.

"Well," I said. "You've always said that I was leadership material. And I figure, if it works out then people will be following me, right?"

He looked at me. "I think you can do it," he said honestly.

"But will you help?" I asked. I had him right where I wanted him. I needed to see if this would work. If it didn't work, it didn't work. But if it did work, things would rock and life would be awesome.

He stood up. Oops. Usually when he stands up to tell me something it's not good news. That's what he did when my cat got run over by the mailman, and when I failed Language Arts in the sixth grade. So you see, it's never good news. "Katherine Elizabeth," he said. It's even worse news when he uses my full name. "You know me."

I know that when you stand up just to talk to me it's NEVER good news I thought. I flinched, waiting for the awaited speech.

"If you want to do it, I'm behind you every step of the way."

I opened my eyes. "What?"

He grinned. "I had you that time."

"Oh you did not," I said.

Like I said, parents are so predictable.