All that art was too much. I hated having to make room for it. I hated feeling guilty about it. I hated that all of it, even the lone scribbles done in haste to rationalize her request for a new piece of paper, meant so much to me. I hated that I... was afraid, in fear of what could happen if I threw it away.
While we were in the United States pavilion, I would look over at Daddy and see him grinning and looking at me. It was his silly grin -- at least, I always thought it made him look silly. I knew he hadn't had anything to drink, so I suppose he was trying to see all the things in the pavilion through my eyes.
We had to make sure Daddy didn't get drunk and belligerent and abusive because then the fun would end. So we had to decide who would be in charge of him. Would we take turns? Was I old enough to have such a delicate responsibility thrust upon me? At the tender age of 15 should I have had to be my daddy's keeper?