Chapter One

I woke up this morning with a chip on my shoulder. Quite honestly, it's nothing new.

I sit up in bed. My sheets scratch up against my skin, like they always do. I look out my window, which is shaded by these filmy white curtains my daughter bought for me at some furniture outlet the next time over. They're nice, I guess, but they let too much sunlight in my room in the morning. I have to blink a few times before my vision focuses, but the numbers on my alarm clock become clear rather quickly. It's seven thirty. I overslept by half an hour, and now I'm going to be late for my meeting. I throw back my covers and look at my legs.

 I swing myself over the side of my twin sized cot - that's really all it is. There's no frame, just the mattress and sheets smack dab in the middle of my floor. I stand up, and stretch. My vertebrae seem to pop back into place. I push my hair out of my eyes. My gaze flicks to my desk, piled high with papers, and shoved in the corner of the room. Draped on the back of my desk chair is a red wool turtleneck sweater. The sleeves hang down towards the ground. 

There's a knock at my door. 

"Come in." I call. My voice is hoarse and my throat is dry. The door opens, and standing in the doorway is my daughter, my Minerva, Minnie. She's tall, much taller than I am. She's thin, and lean. Today her frame is covered by a red wool turtleneck sweater, one that's identical to mine. Right by the collar is a little embroidered pink heart. She runs a hand through her short brown hair and she smiles. Her hazel eyes sparkle as her lips stretch wide. 

"Good morning." She sings. 

"Hello, dear." I say. I'm not in the mood for singing. "It's that day again."

"Every Tuesday." She says, tone waning. The heels of her boots click against the floor as she walks back down the hall, towards the kitchen. Whatever she's making smells like cinnamon and butter. Maybe it's French toast. I feel my mouth start to water. I shuffle towards my wardrobe. It smells like mothballs, and it's one heavy piece of furniture. It came with the house, but only because the moving guys couldn't get it out of here. I open the door and survey my outfit choices. It's down to a couple faded t-shirts from Wal-Mart, a sweatshirt or two, and seven pairs of jeans, all with ragged hems. I pull out the ones with the least holes and put them on. I look over at the sweater and know that I can't get away with not wearing it. I put it on, and its snug in places it wasn't snug in last year. 

I walk out in my bare feet. The uneven slats of hardwood creak with each step I take. I head into the kitchen, and sit down at the table. I let myself sink into the cushiony seats that are at the island my ex-wife had installed before she moved out. She said it gave the place a modern touch. I disagree. 

Minnie's standing at the stovetop, pushing pieces of French toast around a skillet with a rubber spatula. She's dancing about to some pop song that's all autotuned. She makes it a little better with her voice. She slides a piece of browned toast on a plate and serves it to me with a glass of orange juice. 

"Aren't you going to eat?" I ask her as she turns around to turn off the burner. Someone else walks in. It's a boy, the boy I hate. He's only wearing boxers and wife-beater this morning.

"Hey, Adam." He says gruffly. He scratches at his stubble-covered chin. 

I grunt in response. That's all he deserves as a greeting. 

He was the quarterback of the high school football team last year. Minnie was a journalist for the school paper who was told to write a two page feature about him last year. The rest is history, or at least it seems that way. He wraps his muscular arms around her waist and presses his lips against the back of her neck. 

"In a minute," She sighs and drops her spatula. She turns to face the boy, and they lock lips. I eat my breakfast and shuffle out to the mudroom where my shoes sit in a row. Each pair is the same as the last. White New Balances with navy stripes running down the sides. I slip them on, my feet still bare and cold. I double knot the laces. I sit on the bench beside the row of identical pairs of shoes and wait for my daughter to appear. Her lipstick is smudged around her mouth. She grabs her keys off a hook and tells me that we're going. I suppress a little groan.

Did I fail to mention that I loathe Red Sweater Day?

Well, now you know.