Nin Andrews, from Son of a Bird

Summer days, I lazed in the tall grass and watched buzzards float overhead, wondering whose carcass they'd pick clean next. I listened to cicadas sing, pulled their hollow shells from the bark of hickory trees. I built hay forts, and once, stole the burger out of Bud's lunch sack, replaced it with a cowpie (this was the day after he gave me a fat mouth). And I got more whuppings than I could count. After a while I didn't feel a sting. I learned not to look my father in the eye. Not to beg. Not to cry. Before he even asked, I said, "Nope, I didn't do it. I wasn't playing in the hayloft. I didn't touch Bud's burger. I would never ever steal a lollipop from the candy jar," even if a chewed stick was hanging from my mouth. I said, "Penny Sue, gave it to me." Or "my swim teacher, Miss Patsy, said it was mine—for swimming the butterfly." "Is that why I saw you climbing on the stool, fishing in my sweets jar?" he asked. "Must have been someone else," I shrugged. "Must have been," he smirked, a way-off look in his eyes. Like he was trying to decide how much he wanted to smack me. Or how much he admired a liar like himself.