We started stealing her dad's beer, sharing the bottle in a corner of the hayloft. She would hiccup and I would plug my mouth. "My dad's a dickhead," she said once. I had no idea what a dickhead might be. We wandered and found a bull. It had horns. I stood there looking.
We Were Ready for a Ballroom
Sometimes after church on Sundays, we would drive an hour into town, where we would find McDonald's, and my dad would order groups of fries and burgers, and we would grab what we wanted from the tray. My sister liked picking off her cheese, and my mom preferred a lot of catsup, dipping what she'd eat into a little saucer, and my dad loved everything it seemed, devouring as if he were somebody homeless. I picked off my bun, only eating that and watching mostly, sipping on my Diet Coca-Cola. Nobody said a thing, and I would stare at the statue of Ronald in his hat and his big shoes, pretending we were ready for a ballroom. On the way back home, my dad would burp, putting on his blinker. When I looked over at my sister, we'd smile. After we got home and we knew our dad was in the barnyard, my sister and I would jump into our bed, crawling under covers. We talked nonstop, holding each other until suppertime.