OCTOBER 11, 5:49 PM, THURSDAY

                                    

                                          


                          
       "When I was your age," Edward's father was bent, peering into the refrigerator. When he shut it, he heard the rattle of bottles in the side shelves. "I was a football team captain, for a whole season."
                          
	       Why not two? Edward might have asked, but didn't feel like ruining his father's decent enough mood on such an exciting day.
                          
       "Uh-huh," Edward sat at the kitchen table, finishing the day's homework. It had been an agreement between him and his father- if he was to go out on Thursday night for this play, he had to prove he "could". By completing the day's homework, which so wonderfully was the day the final draft of their essays were assigned. Edward had been sitting since he'd come home, determined to be ready as soon as Mary pulled up in his driveway.
                          
       His father stepped nearer to look over his shoulder. He had a presence that Edward was so cautious of, it made him want to recoil. Instead, he just tensed and waited. "What is this?" His father asked.
                          
       "Macbeth," Edward said. The final essay was nearly done. He'd left his homework an hour earlier to dress so that he was ready.
                          
        "Huh." His father scoffed, "School isn't fucking useful anymore. All they do is make you read this bullshit and regurgitate it." Edward thought he'd heard this same comment in reference to Lord of the Flies. He'd liked that book quite a lot.
                          
        "Macbeth isn't useful?" He asked absently. His father did not answer. Rapidly, Edward scribbled down the conclusion, Macbeth was a pushover and his wife should have been the king. Blah blah blah, Banquo was a good guy. Lady Macbeth was cool. The end, before he stood up, went to get his shoes. "My essays finished, on the table," He called. After he'd laced up, he returned to the kitchen, his father bent over the table to look over his work.
                          
        "You have shit handwriting, boy," He said. Edward flinched, wondering if this meant it'd need to be rewritten. He nearly jumped when he heard a HONK outside. 
                          
       "Mary's here," He said quietly. His father glanced up at him once, looked down at the paper again, before he waved him off.
                          
       "Good luck at your play," He said. Edward rushed to the door before he could change his mind, letting it almost slam behind him. He hardly had time to think that his father had never told him good luck before.