Don't Vote for Me by Krista Van Dolzer

said. These cowboy shirts were itchy, and at least one of them smelled like the inside of a barn.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the man said. “Sorry I can’t take you to—”
    â€œYou don’t have to apologize. It is what it is. There’s no sense jawing about it.”
    There was an uncomfortable pause before the man finally said, “Your mother says that.”
    â€œYeah, well, she says lots of things.”
    This conversation might have gone on indefinitely if it hadn’t been for the Almighty Sneeze. I tried to hold it in, but this sneeze was so almighty that it came out, anyway. It rattled the whole rack of cowboy shirts (which promptly spit me back out).
    The man swore under his breath, but it was Veronica’s response that made me want to shrivel up and die: “David, is that you?”
    I pushed myself back to my feet, caking my hands with dust and grit. “I guess there’s no denying it.”
    She drew herself up to her full height. “Were you spying on me?” she asked.
    â€œOf course not,” I replied, brushing the grit off my hands. I pretended to inspect one of the cowboy shirts “Yeah, I’d say this blend is sixty-three-percent fake.”
    Veronica wasn’t impressed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
    I thought about telling the truth, then immediately thought better of it. “It’s probably better if you don’t know.”
    My eyes flicked to the man who was standing beside her. I started at his shoes (steel-toed work boots that were slightly smaller than huge), then worked my way up to his hair (thinning, light brown, and greasy). He had to be seven feet tall—which made him Veronica’s dad.
    â€œWere you in the NBA?” I blurted.
    â€œWhat’s the NBA?” he asked.
    I scuffed my foot. “You know, the National Basketball Association?” Or at least that was what I thought it stood for. Elias, my oldest brother, would have been able to say for sure. “Did you used to play?”
    The man sniffed. “I don’t play anything—not tiddlywinks, not board games, and definitely not basketball.” He sent Veronica a sideways glance. “Games are for fancy folks who want to get into important schools, and fancy folks and Pratts have never mixed and never will.”
    â€œOh,” I mumbled lamely. But maybe he wasn’t her dad. “So you aren’t Mr. Pritchard-Pratt?”
    The man gritted his teeth. “No, my name’s Mr. Pratt. Ms. Pritchard is my…wife.”
    â€œOh,” I mumbled again. I’d thought that moms and dads had to have the same last name.
    Veronica grabbed her dad’s arm. “We should go,” she said bluntly, tightening her grip on a purple shirt that Mom probably would have called a blouse.
    â€œAre you gonna buy that?” I replied.
    She glanced down at the shirt like she couldn’t remember how she’d ended up with it, then returned it to its hanger. “Of course not,” she replied. “I’ve seen better tunics at the mall.”
    Mr. Pratt’s eyes hardened. “Ronny, you know we can’t—”
    â€œI know .” She gave her dad the stink eye. “I just don’t want this one. Can’t a girl change her mind?”
    We both knew better than to answer that question.
    â€œCome on,” she told Mr. Pratt. “Mom’s probably home by now.”
    She didn’t look back as she strutted away, long, blond hair swinging behind her. Mr. Pratt gave me one last look, then raced to catch up with his daughter. His steel toes tapped indignantly across the linoleum.
    Mom passed them on the walkway. “Finished?” she asked blithely.
    I swallowed, hard. “Sure.”
    She motioned toward the purple shirt. “Were you going to get that one?” she asked.
    I made a face. “Give me a break.”
    â€œHey, it’s your loss,” she said (though she