She lay in bed staring at the dust particles shivering in early sunlight through her window. If she didn’t move, nothing would change.
Her father lightly tapped a knuckle on the partially open door and came in. He was well dressed with the scent of Old Spice evoking guilt that if he could go to work surely she could go to stupid school. She resisted, hated that place. High school. What was “high” about it. Except half the students.
“Hi hon, not feeling so good?” She shook her head. Words would have opened the flood gate of impossible tears. His palm and fingers were so large that it covered her eye along with her forehead and across her hairline. Felt like he had her whole head nestled in the palm of his hand. “Hmmm, don’t feel feverish.” She tightened her lips; she wasn’t “sick.” He lingered there with his hand on her head a moment, then gently smoothed her hair. “I might know how you feel. It’s better once you get there. Anticipation is always worse.”
The weight and warmth of his hand sustains her still.
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