"You better ask him," I whispered. "Why me?" "Because he won't let me if I ask." "He's your father--you better ask," Charley said. "Shhh," I hissed, stepping around Charley as we approached the driveway to the house. I was reminded by his high cheek bones and the way his black hair flew in the wind what a strange pair we must look--his rich brown skin, like that of a catfish, contrasting with my untanable hide, gleaming and freckled like the speckles of a brook trout. Though we were the same age, I topped him by four inches.
"Charley in the Wind,"
Inscape: Vol. 5:
1, Article 4.
Available at: https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/inscape/vol5/iss1/4