On the Way Home From the Convention

    Dad was mad again. He didn't say anything, but everyone could feel it in the car. The rain on the windows brought a welcome interruption; something to listen to as we tried to remain silent and perfectly still. None of us wanted to go with him, but we knew it was either make him mad then, or wait until he was mad later, and while later was usually worse, at least there was a chance it wouldn't be directed at you.

    We all knew the code, so without arguing we all got dressed and into the car. The three of us in the back were able to secretly confide in each other in the brief time while mom was finishing the last touches on dad's outfit. Dad was in a good mood in his anticipation of the day, so as long as he didn't overhear us, we were safe. In the car though, he'd hear everything. Or at least he'd hear us whispering, and that would make him mad. So, silence it was.

    Now we're driving back home, and of course he's mad, but at least once we're home, we can escape to our rooms, go to sleep and try again tomorrow. I don't know why this convention is always so important to him, all the entrants look exactly the same; the ones done well anyway. The ones done poorly are at least something to laugh about between us three. But every July, dad gets his hopes up in winning the contest, and every year there's apparently someone dressed redder, and with a whiter beard than he. I don't get it, but at least we're almost home.