Maybe I should start another novel. A less ridiculous one. Prove to him I’m smart enough. I could write it about Jasper Jones. And it could stand alone as he does; shoulders squared, spine straight. And I could throw it on my father’s desk one day, after it’s been published and he still has no idea. Casually, like it’s nothing. And I’d tell him that life might be easier if you give in a little, but it’s better if you hold on to something so hard you can’t give it up.
