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resentment I suddenly felt toward Bill shocked me. Where was that loving father I’d pictured? Not down there in that dictator, that was for sure.
    I got up and paced. When I calmed down I decided to write a list of arguments to convince Bill that it was okay for me to watch television after dinner. I jotted down a couple reasons, then felt indignation moving my pencil. Soon the paper was covered with a cartoon of a fire-breathing dragon, with hair and mustache remarkably like Bill’s. It was tapping a pencil and issuing the command, "No TV after dinner."
    I was getting a lot of satisfaction out of the way I drew the scowl on the dragon’s face, when I heard a door open. I shoved the drawing into my desk drawer.
    I heard quiet footsteps. It sounded like someone was going towards the attic.
    I went out in the hall and listened carefully. Mom must’ve come home , because she and Bill were talking downstairs. It had to be Pres going into the attic.
    I waited a minute then tiptoed up after him. I could always pretend I was looking for a book or something I’d packed away. I could ask him about Bill’s "house rules." Maybe I could persuade him that if we banded together and presented a logical and convincing case, we could make some changes.
    I couldn’t see Pres in the dim attic light, so I pretended to hunt through some cartons. As I rounded a pile of boxes I spotted him sitting on an old trunk.
    He looked up, startled.
    "Oh, excuse me," I said. "I didn’t know you were up here. Um, it’s pretty dark."
    The way he looked, I had a feeling I was intruding. "I, uh, was looking for my thesaurus. It’s probably in one of these boxes, but I can’t figure out which one."
    I started to leave, then hesitated. "You look a little upset, Pres. Anything I can do?"
    He shrugged and shook his head.
    I worked up the courage to sit next to him. "You sure?"
    "You must think I’m totally stupid, the way I’ve been acting."
    "What? Why do you say that?"
    "The way ... the way I’ve been treating your Mom. I haven’t been exactly nice."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Oh, you know. I’ve been rude, like snapping at her when she asks to help with dinner."
    "Pres, don’t worry." I couldn’t let him know I’d noticed his attitude. "You heard Mom. She’s glad she doesn’t have to rush home to cook any more. She’s just being polite when she offers to help."
    "Nice try, Rebecca." He patted my hand. "But I know she loves to cook. Dad told me that before they were married. He thought I’d be thrilled to let her do some of the cooking."
    "I don’t understand," I said. "You let me help you in the kitchen."
    "Well." Pres flashed a lopsided grin. "You aren’t old enough to be my mother."
    "It … it has to do with your mother?"
    "Yeah." Pres stared off into space. "My mother started teaching me to cook as soon as I was tall enough to see the top of the stove. She said everyone should know how to cook. And do laundry. And mow the lawn." He paused then went on. "Cooking together was special. As we worked I’d tell my mother about my day, she’d tell me about hers. I don’t know. It was just a nice time for the two of us ... ." His voice trailed off and he looked embarrassed.
    "You mother sounds like a very special person," I said.
    "She was."
    "You’re disappointed that my mom isn’t like your real mother." I stated it matter-of-factly. I wasn’t accusing him. I was thinking of how I was discovering that Bill was not like my own father.
    "That’s not ...." His voice faltered. "That’s not it. She’s great and I want to like her. But in a way I feel as though I’m betraying my own mother."
    I waited for Pres to go on. It didn’t seem like the time to intrude with more questions.
    He continued. "My mother died in a car accident when I was thirteen. I was pretty rebellious at that age and I know I hurt my mom. It—it just makes me ... sick to think how I acted toward her then, that the last time I saw her I was being obnoxious. To think