He used to chase us around the schoolyard, stomping like a giant and hollering like a madman.

He’d pretend he couldn't catch us, despite having double our speed and being triple our size.

Benny used to say he was the only cool dad in Beverly Elementary. I wore that praise around like a badge of honor.

A badge that weighed me down, and singed an aching hole into my chest. Because if that were true, I was the madman.

If a tree falls in the forest, and only you can hear it, how can you tell if the crash came from the tree and not your own head?

Because if nobody saw the empty bottles, and nobody heard the stupid names. Did it make a sound?

Because in the schoolyard, he pretended he couldn’t catch me.

Because it always seemed to be me who was stuck having to pretend.