I WAITED, HOPING Dad would say something reassuring, something that would make me believe him, but instead he said, “Hey, what about Sarah Lawrence? Wasn’t the interview this morning?”

“It was okay,” I said. “I still—”

Before I could finish, Dad interrupted. “Hold on a second?” He was gone, then returned. “They need me in the studio, sweetheart. Talk later?”

“Sure.” I made no effort to hide my frustration and disappointment. If he didn’t have time and wasn’t going to be completely honest with me, I almost didn’t want to speak to him.

Feeling upset, I headed back into the cafeteria. I’d always felt closer to him than I had to Mom. Closer to him than anyone else, period. My earliest childhood memories were of him tucking me in every night. Sometimes Mom came into my bedroom, but sometimes she didn’t. Even back then, I sensed her absenses had something to do with my little brother, who’d died of pneumonia when he was only six weeks old. But I could always count on Dad being there every night. If I couldn’t trust him, who could I trust?

“Uh, excuse me. Hello?” I was passing a table when a voice stopped me. It was Tara Kraus, a loud, aggressive, politically active type. The other girls at the table were sort of emo-punk, with an emphasis on black mascara and piercings.

“How does it feel to have a creep for a father?” Tara asked.

To say I was flabbergasted was an understatement. I was blown away. It was such a nasty, bizarre, and unexpected question that I couldn’t even begin to figure out how to answer it. Instead, I went around them and back to my table.

“What was that all about?” Roman whispered when I sat down.

I told her what had happened.

“You’re shaking,” Roman said.

She was right. I hadn’t realized it, but I wasn’t surprised. Only now, shock and outrage were giving way to the emotional turmoil that always spelled tears. Thank God my back was to those girls.

Getting through the rest of the day at school wasn’t easy. There were moments when I felt angry, others when I felt scared. Mostly, I just couldn’t wait for the day to end so that I could be alone. Finally, the last bell rang, and I rushed toward freedom.

In the car, I thought about stopping by the studio, but I decided against it. I was too upset by Dad’s evasiveness. When I turned onto my street and saw cars and vans parked along the curb, it didn’t register. Sometimes people had parties, and caterers came with vans. And there were always workmen around who drove vans, too. It wasn’t until I was in front of my house that I realized they weren’t caterers or workmen. They were journalists and camera people hunting for a story.

And I was their prey.