The waitress gives us a booth. Once we're all settled on the dark green vinyl I tell him my Hannah Dustin theories. I tell him that I think she liked it with the Indians, but got scared about going to Canada. She didn't know what would happen and Canada just seemed impossibly far away.

"I think she regretted killing them," I say. "Even though they killed her baby."

"I can't imagine killing anyone," my father says. "I'm pro-gun control, you know."

"And pro-choice," I say because I know his political litany by heart, having heard it every election year just like we always do. It sounds a lot like Sasha's. "Pro-environment. Pro-the middle class. Pro-equal rights. Pro-blue socks. Pro-union. Pro-ankle bracelets."

He holds up his hands, laughing. "You've got me. You've got me."

"You know, in my Hannah Dustin report?" I eat a French fry, smoosh it around in the ketchup. "The father, Hannah Dustin's husband, he left her in the house."

"Wasn't he protecting the children?"

"That's what they say, but how do we know it's the truth? That he wasn't just running away?" I ask.

"That's always hard to know." He gulps his iced tea. I watch his Adam's apple slide like Jessica's does.

All of a sudden, halfway through the food, I push aside my French fries, just inhale real deep. And since it's the day for saying things, just laying it all out there like John Wayne does, like the way you always used to, I say, "What if you aren't my real father?"

"What if I'm not what?" he says and then gestures with his fork for me to pass the salt.

"My real father."

He holds the plastic saltshaker in his hand in mid-air above his plate. He doesn't even tip it. "Where did you get that idea from?"

Slowly, he comes back to life and starts shaking the salt over his New England Country Thanksgiving Dinner, which is sliced turkey and Stove Top stuffing, I think.

"Mike O'Donnell."

"That man's a drunk, Lily. Plain and simple. We've seen that man's a lying drunk."

He looks at me and I try to keep my face all blank and innocent like I don't know anything in the world.

"I wouldn't trust a thing he says." He's not angry and I don't want to be, but I have to know. I just have to, and I'm afraid he'll turn mean like men sometimes do and kick me out of his house because I'm not his real daughter, and I'll have nowhere to go.

But I need to know, because it's just like Mr. John Wayne used to say: When you come slam bang up against trouble, it never looks half as bad if you face up to it.

So, slowly, I say, "Are you sure?"

He gazes up at me and I just stare at him because maybe this is the last time I'll ever see him in my whole life.

"How could you not be mine?"

All the breath I've been holding inside of me rushes out and flows across the table. It whirls around the restaurant and out the door, free.

He eats the rest of his meal, even the cranberry sauce, but we don't order sundaes, which are the best part of Friendly's. I don't know if you remember this about him, Daddy, but my dad will come here just for the sundaes. He's such an ice-cream-aholic. The way you were addicted to cashews.

In his eyes is the glimmer of doubt, and I think of how this wasn't really my secret to tell, was it? When secrets are so strange and full of deepness we forget who they belong to.

We go out to the parking lot and get in his tiny beige car, and he says, "For years I've thought you were mine. That means you are. There was never any question."

"Uh-huh," I say and everything inside me breaks, because I miss you, Daddy, and I miss my father being my father and everything being simple. So I do a very unJohn Wayne thing and start crying. I'm so ashamed, I put my face in my hands.

"I think he's lying," my father says. He rubs my back in little circles.

"Why?"

He takes his hand away and puts the car in reverse to get out of the parking space. "That I don't know. But you are my daughter, end of discussion."

"End of discussion?" I ask, looking up and trying not to laugh at him suddenly being all parental. He notices.

"What?" He lifts his hands off the wheel, waving them around. "Isn't that a good-father thing to say? I'm trying to be a good father."

I grab his hand, hold it and say, "You are."

He blinks. "What?"

"You are a good father," I say.

And then it's his turn to cry.

Acknowledgements.

Dear Mom, Dad, Debbie, and Bruce, You are NOTHING like the family members in this book. You are actually a million times better. Thank you.

Dear Doug Jones, You are always being a hero in ways large and small. You have literally saved lives.

Dear sweet Emily, You are the best kid ever. Thank you for being so brave and so cuddly and for always speaking out for others all the time, even when it's hard.

Dear Rob Eaton and Shane Lowell, Both of you guys have rescued me when I needed rescuing. Thank you. I know you don't think you are, but you are absolutely heroes.

Dear editors, Andrew Karre and Sandy Sullivan, You truly are heroes in the word world. Thank you for doing so much to make stories into books.

Dear Entire Flux Crew and especially Brian Farrey, Thank you for being so darn brilliant, and for working so hard to get this book out there. You make me proud to be a Fluxor.

Dear agent gurus, Edward Necarsulmer and Cate Martin, You guys are superheroes. I've said it before. I'll keep saying it. Thank you for saving me from many free-falls.

Dear Tim Wynne-Jones, Sharon Darrow, Louise Hawes, and Ellen Howard, You all inspire and give every day. That's what being a hero is about. Thank you for helping me with this book.

Dear Jackie Ganguly, Jennifer Osborn, Meloyde Shore, and Laura Hamor, Thank you all for being woman heroes. To Mary McGuire, Dottie Vachon, Doris Bunker Rzasa, Gayle Cambridge, and Alice Dow, Thank you for being awesome friends and for being mother-crusaders. And to the Whirligigs of Vermont College, the Schmoozers, the LJers and the PWs, You give me so much. I can never thank you enough. I love you.

Dear Will Rice, Bethany Reynolds, Phil Bailey, Dexter Bellows, Heather Martin-Zboray, Evelyn Foster, Kate Simmons, Hannah Pingree, Sean Faircloth, Howard Dene, Starr Gilmartin, Cliff Vaux, Don Radovich, and the rest of my campaign crew, Putting your faith in someone else is not only heroic, it is beyond brave. Thank you for all you do to make the world a better place. You all prove that politics isn't just about power. It's also about people, compassion, and caring.

Dear people who know how Lily feels, Thank you for surviving and thriving. You are all the biggest heroes of all. Thank you for being such great people. The world is better because of you.

Dear John Wayne, Thank you, too. The entire time I wrote this book I imagined you giving me that look ...Wagons forward!

DOUG JONES.

About the Author.

Carrie Jones likes Skinny Cow fudgicles and potatoes. She does not know how to spell fudgicles. This has not prevented her from writing books. She lives with her cute family in Maine. She has a large, skinny white dog and a fat cat. Both like fudgicles. Only the cat likes potatoes. This may be a reason for the kitty's weight paroblem (Shh . . . don't tell). Carrie has always liked cowboy hats but has never owned one. This is a very wrong thing. She graduated from Vermont College's MFA program for writing. Along with several column, editorial, sports writing, and photography awards from the Maine Press Association, Carrie has also been awarded the Martin Dibner Fellowship and two Maine Literary Awards-the most recent for her YA debut, Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend.

end.