Educated

moment, then his eyes began to shine and he shook Papa Jay’s hand like they
were old friends.
I’d never seen this side of my father, but I would see it many times after—
every time I sang. However long he’d worked in the junkyard, he was never
too tired to drive across the valley to hear me. However bitter his feelings
toward socialists like Papa Jay, they were never so bitter that, should those
people praise my voice, Dad wouldn’t put aside the great battle he was
fighting against the Illuminati long enough to say, “Yes, God has blessed us,
we’re very blessed.” It was as if, when I sang, Dad forgot for a moment that
the world was a frightening place, that it would corrupt me, that I should be
kept safe, sheltered, at home. He wanted my voice to be heard.
The theater in town was putting on a play, Annie, and my teacher said that
if the director heard me sing, he would give me the lead. Mother warned me
not to get my hopes up. She said we couldn’t afford to drive the twelve miles
to town four nights a week for rehearsals, and that even if we could, Dad
would never allow me to spend time in town, alone, with who knows what
kind of people.
I practiced the songs anyway because I liked them. One evening, I was in
my room singing, “The sun’ll come out tomorrow,” when Dad came in for
supper. He chewed his meatloaf quietly, and listened.
“I’ll find the money,” he told Mother when they went to bed that night.
“You get her to that audition.”