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whatever the heck your mom and Laura Grace think you two should be.” He winces, and I realize with a start that maybe he’s onmy side, after all. “But you could at least be civil to each other, couldn’t you?”
    â€œDad, stop. Please? I don’t want to talk about Ryder, okay?”
    He holds up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Just make sure you’re ready to go at quarter to six.”
    I nod. “Fine.” I reach for my headset, then stop myself. “Oh, wait, I meant to ask . . . What were you and Patrick Hughes talking about last night?”
    â€œOh. That. Patrick was ‘jokingly’ ”—he makes air quotes around the word—“asking for your hand in marriage. I ‘jokingly’ ”—those air quotes again—“told him that he better get his act together or stay the hell away from my daughter.”
    I just stare at him, my mouth agape in horror.
    â€œHe assured me that he’s seen the error in his ways and is on the straight and narrow now.”
    â€œPlease tell me you’re joking,” I say with a grimace.
    He shakes his head. “I wish I were. Your mama’s not happy, by the way. Seems to think the two of you were way too cozy last night. Apparently, Cheryl Jackson said something to her.”
    â€œOh my God! Cheryl Jackson?”
    He shrugs. “You know how she is.”
    â€œOh, I know, all right.” That woman needs to learn to mind her own damn business.
    â€œAnyway, I’ll let you get to it,” Daddy says, pointing to Delilah.
    I nod, slipping the headset over my ears, effectively ending the conversation. Delilah is heavy and cool in my hand, the familiar weight comforting. It takes me only a couple of minutes to get her locked and loaded, and then I move toward one of the stalls and pick up a pair of goggles.
    I shoot for close to an hour. At some point, my dad slips out with a wave, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the target in front of me, the center bull’s-eye blown to bits. Daddy thinks I’m good enough for the Olympic trials, but for women it’s just air pistols or skeet, which isn’t nearly as fun. Air pistols seem like playing with toys, whereas .22 calibers like Delilah are the real deal, you know? Anyway, I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, what with college applications and senior year in general. Which reminds me . . .
    I need to sit down and talk to my parents. I can’t put it off any longer. With a sigh, I set down Delilah, then slip off my goggles and headset, swiping at the sweat on my brow with the back of one hand.
    Here’s the thing. My parents expect me to go to Ole Miss. They talk about it as if it’s a done deal. “Next year, when you’re in Oxford . . .” and “You’ll probably live at the sorority house, but . . .” They’ve got it all planned out. I’ll pledge Phi Delta, just like Mama and Laura Grace did, date frat boys, cheer for the Rebels if I’m lucky enough to make the squad. It doesn’t really matter what I major in. All that matters is that I get adegree, marry a good ol’ southern boy—you know, someone like Ryder—and raise my family right here in Magnolia Branch. That’s the only future they’ve imagined for me, the only thing that makes any sense to them.
    But . . . I’m not sure that’s what I want.
    Ever since that film class last year, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. I’d requested information packets from several film schools, ruthlessly checking the mail each day before my parents got home from work and stashing the brochures in my desk drawer. Late at night, after my parents went to bed, I’d read them cover to cover and then check their websites for additional information. Ultimately, I’d narrowed it down to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. Only