When I was 11 years old, I made my dad sign a contract. I, [Dad’s full name goes here], promise not to buy any more dead animal parts. Then I drew two horizontal lines, the second below the first, with little X’s at the left end. Because that’s how they mark where you’re supposed to sign, in movies and stuff. We both signed and dated it the white index card in green ink. He has broken the contract many times over in the past 11 years, most recently with the purchase of a leather-bound arrow from Arizona. But the fact that he signed it at all still means something. As the brainchild of an indignant girl at the start of her double-digit years, the contract remains in a drawer, underneath my Life To Do List, which is titled in cursive.