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you out for dinner once you’re a little more mobile.”
    â€œGreat,” I say. “That sounds great, Mr. Morrison. We’ll be sure to keep you posted.”
    Clara and her mom disappear again into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Don. There is suddenly a thick silence between us, and I flounder in it, trapped. I am afraid to look directly at him. It freaks me out to be alone with a father, anyone’s father. I am suddenly soaked in sweat. I wonder if he can smell my fear.
    Clara comes back into the room after an eternity with a platter of sandwiches, announcing that we are going to eat lunch in the living room because that’s easier for me.
    â€œFine with me,” Don says agreeably.
    â€œGood thinking, sweetie!” exclaims Susan.
    Then we are eating the sandwiches, Clara’s parents treating her like she is a total genius for having the idea to eat in the living room. It is easy to see why Clara is so positive. Her parents are in awe of her. They must be wondering as they eat what right I have to be under the same roof as her.
    Still, they were trying. They leave an hour later, Susan insisting that they don’t want to tire me out too much. Like it matters. Like there might be some other project that I will soon begin. When, actually, I am finished for the day.
    Clara gives me a big hug when they have driven away.
    My mom told me she thinks you’re adorable.
    â€œI need a nap,” I say, hiding the fact that I am on the verge of total collapse.
    Shall I open the sleeper?
    But I had already settled myself on the sofa and tipped sideways, sprawling lengthwise end to end. I am seconds from sleep. The minute I let go, my brain helpfully provides me with this:
    I know that the beetle has climbed into my father’s double bed in the Grove Street apartment; I hear the mattress rustling from my own bedroom. I hear its wings crackle and scrape together as it settles itself down. I am afraid of what will happen when my dad comes home from his date. I know I have to warn him, but I am afraid to leave my room, afraid the beetle will scuttle off Dad’s bed and attack me. But I have to try.
    So I move fearfully in the dark and find myself at the door of the apartment, where I hear that someone is outside, about to come in. A key turns in the door, and there is Dad—or is it Dad? It is Dad, but he has two beetle claws instead of hands, and in one claw he’s holding an open can of Bud and there is lipstick all over his face, and through my fear I manage to warn him in a strangled whisper that there is a big beetle waiting for him in his bed.
    â€œIt’s not in my bed,” Dad says, chuckling. “It’s right there behind you, Charlie-boy.”
    He laughs harder, and the whirring starts up and I cover my eyes, afraid to turn around. Something pokes me, hard, on the back of my right leg. I want to scream, but I don’t—I keep the scream silent so that Dad won’t hear it. He comes inside, unafraid, and I run past him, out the door into the darkness. I stumble blindly down the metal stairs, leaving him to fend for himself with the beetle that wants his bed.

SIX
    Dad never got anywhere with Liam’s kindergarten teacher. Apparently, she was a newlywed. She appreciated Dad’s willingness to meet her after school, but he came back to the apartment from his meeting telling us that she had “a bone up her ass” and was “too strict,” “too picky,” and even “prejudiced against boys.”
    â€œDid you talk some sense into her?” Liam asked hopefully.
    â€œTry not to piss her off for a few days,” Dad instructed. “I don’t want to talk to her again. She gave me a headache with all her whining. She did admit that you’re smart, Leemster. We both know who you get that from.”
    Later, I approached him while he was grinning at the television and watching his favorite team win—the Oakland Raiders.