“How about I take you to dinner before the dance too. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Running around the counter, I gave my dad the biggest hug I could.
The dance starts at eight o’clock,” I replied, hopeful. For Dad, I was always his Lani Girl, no matter how much he loved my name Alana Rose. I loathed nicknames, especially the horrendous “Al” Aaron kept insisting on calling me. “What day is it, Lani Girl?” Dad was the only one to call me Lani Girl. Usually, it ended up with one of us in trouble or disappointed, unfortunately. Aaron and I had dubbed this Dad’s “deep thought” expression. He looked up from his laptop, eyebrows drawn and a faraway glaze to his eyes. Can you get away from work for a few hours and go with me?”
This year, I wanted to be the same as the rest of the girls I wanted him to choose me. Me? I got to wait for the dad who never came.
The dance was the talk of the town as the girls ran out to buy their dresses and make appointments for hair and makeup. Every year, Northside Prep held its annual dance to raise money for the after-school programs. As I waited for them to finish, I figured I’d broach the topic of the father-daughter dance with Dad. I raided the cupboards for something quick and easy to make and grabbed a package of blueberry Pop-Tarts to throw in the toaster.
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