With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Emily Rinkema is terrified of sinkholes and spiders. She has chosen to live in northern Vermont, where both are usually on the smaller side. You can follow her on Twitter: @emilyrinkema.
I add thirty-eight points to Dad’s side of the scorecard. “You’re kicking my ass,” I say. He gathers the cards and begins to shuffle, his hands clumsy, the cards slipping out onto the table. “Let me,” I say, but he says he can do it, that it’s his turn.
The phone rings during dinner. The break in the silence is a relief, but I don’t move. In fact, I pretend I don’t even hear it. I’m fifteen and angry at my father for making me stay home again on a Friday night. He pretends not to hear the phone either.