Friday night the big group message lights up with the name of the plan maker, Randall. I reluctantly picked up my phone and opened snapchat. Sinking into my couch, I read, “Guys I really want to go see It this weekend, and I was thinking we could go Saturday night at 7.” Guilt consumed me as everyone excitedly agreed to go. I had already made plans with my Dad to see the movie, and I knew the group plans were inspired by me because in a rush of excitement, I told all of my friends my plans and the movie in general. I wrested between going with my friends or my Dad; I did not want to miss a fun experience with my friends, but how could I back out on my Dad to see a movie he had been waiting for? 

Defeated, I looked up to my dad and relayed the plans. His face did not change as he picked up his head from his phone and said, “Go with your friends because I’ll take your mom. I am not high maintenance,” ending with a wink. At a loss for words, I stared blankly at the wall completely frozen.

In the midst of my stupor, I strung together the words, “I am in,” each letter increasingly harder to type. Those three words signified that I chose my friends and left my Dad behind. Growing with anxiety, guilt, and anticipation, the events are clearly laid out for the night after a headache inducing group text; we would eat at Canes promptly at 6, go to the movie theater for the 7 o’clock show, and then reconvene at my house. Randall booked the seats in advance with the 11 tickets split between 2 rows, 5 seats directly in front of the remaining 6 seats. Normally I would plan out who I would sit by, but instead, I sought comfort in getting ready after my seeming betrayal of my Father.  The hum of the blow dryer, smell of pink, magnolia lotion, and the step of makeup all seemingly made me forget for a small while of what I had done.

With the swipe of a card, the tickets spit out of the machine on receipt paper, and Randall thumbed through the eleven tickets intensely examining each one. He pulled out one ticket and handed the crinkled paper to me whilst saying, “You look the youngest, here.” Puzzled, I looked at the wrinkled ticket and tiny letters spelled out the child’s ticket. My eyes dilated as I blurted out, “They check I.D.s. What are we going to do because no one here is old enough to get a kid in!” Collective panic ensued as we walked up to give our tickets to get inside the theater because the movie is rated R.

The lady reached for my ticket, and sheepishly placing the ticket in her palm, she griped the ticket, looked at me, and tore the ticket in half then returned the torn ticket to my hand. Never in my life had half a slip of paper given me such a sense of accomplishment. About to walk into the movie, a man guarded the entrance with a flashlight to check I.D.s. My heart sank because there was now no escaping my fate; the only thing standing between me and the reclining seats of the theater was a short man with a sparse goatee checking I.D.s.

A familiar voice struck my ear spilling movie facts about the exact movie I was attempted to see. I spotted my father a mere twenty feet ahead, and I sprinted ahead mumbling out the words, “Can you get me into the movie?” With knit together eyebrows and a smirk on his face, he simply responded, “Of course.” Despite me not winning the best daughter of the year award, my dad pulls out the win every single time.