“No,” I say. Father Peter raises an eyebrow. “No, what?” My left leg is cramping. “No, I won’t struggle to catch up?” Father Peter shakes his head. “No, Father,” he supplies. My throat goes dry. I am not going to call this man with bitten-down nails and dandruff flakes on his sweater Father. I already have a father, even if I’m this close to filing for emancipation. Father Peter drums his fingers on his desk in a way that tells me I’m not getting out of this office with my dignity intact. “No, Father,” I say, with more breath than words.
