Furlong-Bolliger When it came to wicked stepmothers, Cinderella had nothing on me. My stepmother, Rose, was pure evil. That’s why, when I got the call about my father’s death, I knew she was somehow responsible. I just had to prove it. Since I hadn’t spoken to my father for years, I was wearing an abundance of guilt right along with my best dress when I slunk into St. Philomena’s just as his funeral service was about to start. I was surprised to see that not many faces had changed since I had been gone. I even saw Pinky Jones, dressed in his best department store suit, sitting in the third pew. I hadn’t seen Pinky since graduation, when we shared a fifth behind the bleachers and discussed our life goals—mine being to get away from Lake Loon and my stepmother; his being to play professional ball for the Bears. He never did make the team. I, however, achieved my goal that very night when I packed my bag and caught a Greyhound north. I hadn’t been back since. Something, that now as I gazed upon my father’s casket, I regretted.
