My dad left to go look for Sophia. He didn't tell me before leaving, which makes me mad. I wish he was more considerate. Doesn't he understand? Does he not understand that he is my person? That he's the only thing I've got left? That he's my home? I've got the right to know where he is and when he's leaving me.

He doesn't understand just how scary it is for me to go outside looking for him, wanting to proudly tell him how I ate almost all of those crackers and didn't even throw up, just to find out that he's missing. Then how panicked I feel as I search all over for him, only to eventually be told that he left without telling me.

I'm too sensitive. Merle always said that. He's right.

So, I try to distract myself. Maggie just introduced me to her little sister who is named Beth. Maggie had to go and help take care of something going on outside. I'm not sure what.

Beth's leading me up to her bedroom right now. She says she's got lots of old clothes lying around that she was planning to donate, but never got them packed up. So now they're mine for the taking.

"It's this one. On the right," Beth tells me, pointing to her bedroom door. It's got a sign on her door with her name on it.

People in movies and on TV always had signs on their bedroom doors with their names on it. When I was little, just after I had learned how to write my name, I wanted my name on my door. So I took one of my Crayola markers and wrote my name on the door in pink.

Dad got sooo mad because, God damnit, Juniper! You don't write on the fuckin' walls!

Momma was there, too, and she was crossing her arms and saying, Don't swear at her, Daryl. She's four. But she was mad, too. She was giving me that stern look that all mommas have.

And of course, the first thing I thought to say was, It ain't a wall, Daddy. It's my door.

Surprisingly, that made Mom and Dad start laughing at me. I didn't even know what was so funny, back then. I was just glad that I wasn't in trouble no more, so I started laughing with them. That marker is still on my door, and the J is backwards, but I never got in trouble for it.

"I like your sign," I tell Beth shyly.

"Thank you. I made it myself, with my daddy," Beth tells me, smiling.

Her daddy is Hershel. I wonder if my daddy would've helped me make a sign for my door if I had asked. Doesn't matter now, though.

Beth ushers me through her bedroom door. "I've got the clothes all separated in my closet already. I just never packed them up. What size are you?" she asks.

Truthfully, the answer is I don't know. So I shrug. "My dad always gets clothes. Guess he never told me what size I am," I say.

Sure, I got to pick out clothes at Goodwill, but I didn't know what size to look for. I'd ask Dad and he'd either say, Nah, that won't fit or, That'll fit. How much is it?

"You never went clothes shopping with your mom?" Beth asks, raising her eyebrows.

I don't feel like telling Beth all about my family's business just yet, even though I really do like her. So I just shake my head. "No. I always went with my dad," I tell her.

"Oh. That's alright. You can just try everythin' on. It'll be fun. Like a fashion show," Beth tells me, wiggling her eyebrows up and down and smiling at me. I can tell she's trying to get me in a better mood after my dad left so abruptly. She pats on the edge of her bed. "You sit here and I'll get out some stuff that might fit you."

"Thank you," I say quietly, sitting down right where she told me to.

Beth gets out a whole bunch of clothes. When she said she had some stuff to donate, I thought she meant some stuff. But she had whole trash bags full of clothes and shoes and all sorts of stuff.

It takes a long while, but eventually, we get through all of it. Some of it I reject just by looking at it because I can tell it'll be too big or too small or too itchy. Others I gotta try on to see that it don't fit. Some pants are too long, and some are way too loose around my waist. The only ones we could find that would fit me were sweatpants.

And also a pink tutu. It's not the type of tutu that professional ballerinas wear that sticks out and is real short. It's the type of tutu that goes down to my knees and flows around me whenever I spin. I know for a fact Dad's gonna hate it, but he's not here to tell me no.

I can hear him now. It ain't practical, June. Ya look like a Disney princess.

But I already thought of what I'll tell him when he tells me that. I'll say, Rapunzel from Tangled wears a dress, and she's still strong. And then I'll have him beat.

The Tangled movie never even came out, but when I saw the trailer I knew she'd be my favorite. She ties this brown-haired guy to a chair and hits him with a frying pan and she's got a pet chameleon.

Dad promised he'd take me to see that movie in theaters because I was so excited. I've barely ever been to the movie theatre because it costs too much, but Dad said we could go to that one. I bet he's glad my favorite princess isn't just some singing bird lady who is obsessed with a prince. I think he secretly likes that I like Rapunzel.

Anyway, that doesn't matter now because the movie won't ever come out. It was supposed to come out in November, I think. But now no movies are showing anywhere. The point is, I'm gonna get Dad to let me keep the skirt even though he thinks it's impractical.

Along with the pink skirt, I pick out a cool Metallica shirt. Beth says it used to be her brother's shirt. I picked it mostly because I know Dad will think it's cool, which might sway him towards letting me keep the skirt. But also because I liked listening to Metallica songs in the truck with Dad and Merle

For shoes, I pick out the greatest pair of cowboy boots I've ever seen in my whole entire life. They're brown, just like most other cowboy boots. But- listen to this- they've got Woody and Jessie on 'em. The left boot has got Woody and the right's got Jessie. Beth says they used to be her favorite boots, too.

As well as the outfit I picked to change into, I picked a few other things. I got a pair of sweatpants and one pair of jeans. The pair of jeans is the closest to my size, and Beth gave me a belt, but it doesn't go tight enough so Dad's gonna have to poke a new hole in it. I also get a few other shirts and tank tops, and even a starry hoodie for when it gets cold out.

Just as soon as I finish shoving those clothes in my backpack, Dad finally, finally comes back. Bad news is, Sophia ain't with him. But he's got something small in his hand and I can't quite tell what it is. I can tell there's a beer bottle, but something's in it. He's heading straight towards the RV without even looking at me, so I start following him.

As I get closer, I can that it's a flower he's got in that beer bottle. A Cherokee rose. He used to tell me a story about those, whenever we saw 'em. About the Native Americans who lost their babies on the Trail of Tears.  And the roses grew right where the mommas' tears fell.

He's much smarter than he lets on, my Dad.

Anyway, I start talking at his back because, even though I know he can hear my footsteps, he's still not looking at me. "Hey, Dad, guess what," I say.

"What?" Dad asks, still without looking back at me.

"I ate almost all of them crackers and I didn't even throw up after," I tell him, somewhat proudly. I know it's stupid to be proud of something like that, but it feels good after struggling with it so much.

Feels good to finally be able to do something right after hearing my dad say there's something wrong with me.

"Good job, baby," Dad says. He's been calling me that so much more, now. I'm trying to get used to it, but it's hard because he only used to call me that when I was crying and he wanted me to stop. But now he's just saying it to say it. Maybe 'cause Merle ain't around no more.

"Thanks. And also, Beth said they've got horses in the stables. We can go see 'em. She said I could try ridin' one, too, as long as you say it's ok," I tell Dad. He just hums to let me know he's listening. But I know that hum. It's the I don't give a shit, but I'm tryna be nice about it hum. So I switch the subject to something about him. "Why've ya got that rose?"

"For Carol," Dad says.

"That's nice, Dad. I bet she's gon' like it lots. She's been in the RV. I think she's prob'ly been cryin'. I feel bad for her. I'd be cryin', too, I bet," I ramble. I just wanna keep talking to him because he's been gone all day and I think he's in an ok mood and I just want him to look at me just once because there ain't nothing wrong with me- "Hey, guess what, Dad."

"Jesus. Eatin' really gave you some energy, huh?" Dad mutters.

He knew I could hear that. I don't think he meant for it to be mean. I'm just too sensitive. I try to ignore the little pang of hurt in my chest.

Finally, finally, Dad turns around to look at me. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but when he sees me, his mouth snaps back shut and he gets this strange look on his face. It's like a mixture of amusement and disapproval.

"The hell you wearin'?" he asks. I can't tell if he's annoyed with me or if he wants to laugh at me.

"Told ya. Beth gave me clothes," I say, shrugging my shoulders. I grab the top of my skirt with both of my hands and do a little half spin, showcasing how the dress twirls.

"You can't wear a dress, June," Dad tells me, raising his eyebrows. I think he's chosen to be annoyed instead of amused.

"It ain't a dress. It's a skirt," I correct, raising my eyebrows, too. He always gets those mixed up.

"Skirt or dress, ya can't be runnin' around lookin' like a Disney princess no more," Dad tells me. I knew he'd say that. I know him well. "It ain't-"

"It ain't practical. Knew you'd say that," I say, crossing my arms.

Dad smirks, and he tries to hide it, but I catch it anyway because I know him well. Then he presses his lips together and gives me a stern look. "Watch your tone, missy," he says.

"Rapunzel wears a dress. She's tough," I tell him.

"Rapunzel ain't real," Dad scoffs.

"So?" I say. Dad looks at me up and down, taking in the boots, and the skirt, and the Metallica shirt. He wants to laugh at me. I can see his mouth twitching. I make my eyes extra wide. "Please, Dad? I just wanna keep it. I don't wanna wear it all the time. Just sometimes. Please, Daddy?" I plead.

Rolling his eyes, Dad huffs out a big sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and he presses his lips together again. He really wants to laugh. I can see it.

"Daddy."

"Fine. Only 'cause that shirt makes it look kick-ass," Dad says, pointing at me. I smile wider than I mean to. Dad lightly knocks my shoulder with his fist. "Go on and check out them horses. I'mma talk to Carol," he tells me, turning around again.

I'm about to say, yes, sir and go on about my day to look at the horses. But then I suddenly get another pang of hurt in my chest as I remember that Dad left without saying a single thing.

"Dad," I say.

He turns around again, but I can tell he wants me to shut up so he can go and talk to Carol. But this feels important. It's feels important to me.

"What, June?" Dad asks, sounding exhausted.

Another pang of hurt. I want to say it. I want to tell him why I'm getting these pangs of hurt. But Merle's right. I'm too sensitive.

So, "Never mind," I say.

Dad's quiet for a second, doing the thing where he stares at me, thinking real hard. I turn and start walking back towards the house.

"June," Dad calls after me, making me stop and glance back at him. He's quiet for another second. He opens his mouth, he hesitates. Then, "Come back here when you're done. Gotta put up the tent before dark. Hear me?"

"Yes, sir," I say with a nod. He nods, too, and goes into the RV. I turn and keep heading back to the house. 

I go all the way back to the house and start looking around for Beth. Before I find Beth, though, I run into Maggie. A smile grows on her face. "Well, look at you, all dressed up. You look adorable," she tells me. 

I'm sure my cheeks go a little bit red, so I look down at my boots. "Thank you," I say, wringing my hands together behind my back. 

"Of course. You lookin' for Beth?" she asks next. I nod because, yes, I am lookin' for Beth.  "She's helpin' my daddy with somethin' right now. Can I help you instead?" Maggie asks, raising her eyebrows. 

"Oh. Um, Beth said she could show me the horses, but I can wait for her if you want. I don't know if she wanted to show me or if it don't matter," I say. I don't want Beth to feel sad that she didn't get to show me the horses.

"I bet she does wanna show you. She loves the horses. She'll tell ya all about 'em. For now, d'you wanna help me cook some dinner?" Maggie asks me. 

I don't like cooking all that much, but I say yes, anyway, because I don't wanna be rude. I'm not that good at cooking in a kitchen, but I know how to cook meat over a fire. Whenever we went camping, I had to help cook the food we caught, but when we were at home, Dad usually just made it on his own while I sat at the kitchen table trying not to cry about my homework. 

Sometimes I helped Dad cook. Just sometimes. But cooking with Maggie is way more fun than cooking with Dad. No offense to my dad, of course, but he gets annoyed real easy if I mess up. Plus, if he asks me to cut up a fruit or vegetable or something, he barely even lets me do it. He hovers over me the whole dang time because he doesn't trust me enough not to cut off my own fingers. 

Maggie, though- Maggie lets me do it all on my own. She keeps an eye on me, of course, but she's letting me do it myself while she's cooking whatever is in the pot on the stove.

This house is much bigger than mine and Dad's house. When I was little, me and Mom and Dad all lived in a trailer at the trailer park, but when I was about seven or eight, Dad got enough money and now we got a real apartment. Or, I guess, we had a real apartment.

It was one of those apartments where it's not like a big building with a bunch a' small little house-things inside. It's one of the ones where two houses are connected to each other, and across from those two houses are another two houses connected to each other, and in between is a big long path that leads to a little parking area. I think it's called a du-somethin'.

Our neighbor across the way was crazy. She was always outside shouting at the sky and saying a ton of words that I'm not supposed to say. 

Dad said not to talk to her. I did once because she said hi to me and I didn't wanna be rude. She told me she'd buy me somethin' from the gas station and I told her no thanks. She did, anyway, though, and when she got back she started banging on the front door. She was shouting for me, saying she got me a treat.

I wasn't supposed to talk to her, obviously, so Dad got mad at me. He told her to go away, except he didn't say go away. Really, he said, Fuck off, lady! 

I've got a lot of weird stories like that. I even tell Maggie some of 'em. I tell her about the time an older boy stole my bike from right in front of my eyes and how Dad chased him down like a crazy person. 

"Dad was sooo mad 'cause he saved up to get that bike, and that older boy got sooo scared of him. He'd always keep his head down when he walked past our house, from then on. I don't blame him, though, 'cause my dad is scary," I explain to Maggie. 

"Oh yeah?" Maggie says. I can tell she's a bit amused by my storytelling, but that's ok because at least she's smiling still. 

"Yeah. My momma, too. But Mom's nicer than Dad. Dad says it's 'cause-" I pause because, suddenly, I'm remembering that this ain't Maggie's business. I'm not supposed to go 'round telling everyone our business, 'cause if I say the wrong thing, then I'll get taken away again. "Well, never mind. She's tough, too, my momma," I murmur.

Maggie gives me a strange look, and I can tell she wants me to say what I was gonna say. But if I go telling her our business and my dad finds out, he's gonna get real mad about it. 

Sometimes I do that. When someone's listening to me- like really listening, not just nodding their head and saying mhmm- I start rambling and I forget what I'm not supposed to say. I just keep going and going 'cause I'm just glad that they're really listening. 

"Well, I bet you're tough, too. Just like your mom and dad," Maggie tells me, nudging my shoulder. 

I shrug. "Not really. My uncle Merle always said I'm a wimp... 'cept he didn't say wimp. He always said a word I'm not allowed to say. But he's right, 'cause I cry lots more than I gotta, and I'm not that strong."

"You're plenty strong. Maybe not in the same way your daddy is, but you are. You're still smilin', even after all that's happened. That's not easy. You gotta be strong to be able to do that," Maggie tells me. She's giving me this stern look that's not really mean like my dad's. It's nice and kind, but it's still firm. It still means I mean it.

So, "Guess you're right," I say, shrugging once again. I'm not so sure I believe it, though.