FOUR

Dee enjoyed midterms.

In the days following her visit to the registrar’s office, she listened to several freshmen quizzing themselves in the library, murmuring to one another in French; two boys Dee barely knew yelled algebra equations at each other until the dorm monitor told them off; a girl’s sobbing could be heard through a thin wall; a gaggle of haughty seniors flaunted their disinterest in exams by stripping down to bikinis and boxers and stretching out on the lawn, taking in the weak sunlight. Some of them read textbooks, but most had the latest gossip rags. Dee saw a picture of an actress with a prosthetic leg, decorated in tiny diamonds to match her dress. THE SECRET BEHIND HER OSCAR? went the headline.

Most of the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors looked at the seniors with resentful envy, then went back to desperate studying. When anxiety hung heavy in the air, people were their most honest—and terrified—selves. Dee enjoyed it because it was the one time she didn’t have to monitor her every word; with everyone on edge, no one noticed if she slipped up. Her own worry seemed natural when people could blame it on academic pressure rather than the constant thrum of nerves that seemed to never leave her. Her shoulders were drawn tight and her jaw ached from clenching it in her sleep. Old fear beat within her, as solid and familiar as her pulse, and for once she could blame it on the stress of tests, of papers, of final projects.

“What are you doing for spring break?” asked Gremma once Dee got back to the dorm. She slouched on a large green beanbag—a joint purchase of theirs—and a chemistry workbook sat open across her lap. “Got any hot parties planned?” She grinned. In contrast to her designer jeans and high-end computer, there was a slight overlap in Gremma’s bottom teeth. It’s not like she couldn’t have afforded to fix them. Dee wondered if Gremma had refused braces out of sheer stubbornness. It would be a very Gremma thing to do.

Dee set her backpack down and settled on her bed. “What are you planning?”

Gremma snorted. She sat up, the beanbag’s foam beads crunching beneath her. “Spend a week at my parents’ vacation house in Newport, hooking up with the girlfriends of the boys my parents try to set me up with. Probably drink lots of tequila, dance around bonfires, and run naked down the beach. Want to come?”

It was the first time Gremma had ever offered, and Dee considered it. Escape, if only for a week. She imagined some ritzy beach house, complete with cocktail glasses and mini umbrellas—but she would be somewhere unknown, at the mercy of strangers, and without an escape route. Her stomach twisted at the thought. “Doesn’t seem like my kind of scene,” she said truthfully.

“The house is nice,” said Gremma. “Plenty of room.” She paused, then added, “But, yeah, I can’t really see you running naked or getting drunk.”

Dee’s smile went brittle. “Not my thing. You have fun, though.”

“Oh, I will. So what will you be doing?”

Dee’s smile dropped entirely. A familiar hollow ache opened up inside her rib cage. “Maybe hang out with some friends,” she said. “Do some cooking with my mom.” The lies came easily, as they always did.

“So you’re going home, then?” asked Gremma absentmindedly.

“Yeah.”

Some part of Dee yearned for home. For the familiar smells, for the old furniture, for the overgrown yard and the television that only worked if you adjusted the coat-hanger antenna just right.

And maybe—just maybe—things would go well. Hope bloomed within her. Perhaps, when she went back, they would see how well she was doing. Her parents had to recognize she’d made a good life for herself. She’d come armed with a 3.65 GPA and the most responsible of requests. She would ask her parents if they could help out with her tuition. That’s what parents were for—in theory. To help their children be more. Other teenagers asked their parents for money for piercings or cars—and Dee had never asked for anything frivolous. At least not since she’d been ten and begged her parents for an Easy-Bake Oven, only to have her father snap that they had a perfectly working oven in their kitchen.

Gremma let out a sigh, as if she couldn’t imagine doing something so mundane as going home for spring break. “Well, you have fun with that.”

Home looked the same as ever.

It was a pale green, and in the dim evening light she almost didn’t notice the peeling paint. Two stories high, with an obligatory attempt at a garden. Dee knew the backyard made no such effort—behind the tall fences and trees was a tangle of overgrown blackberry brambles and a graveyard of abandoned home improvement projects. She’d played in it as a kid, taking plastic dinosaurs through the overgrown grass.

Gremma’s shiny black Camaro couldn’t have been more out of place. “You sure you don’t need help with your bags?” she asked. She’d already dressed for spring break—in high-waisted shorts, a crop top, with her hair twisted into some elaborate knot. She looked effortlessly confident and Dee both loved and resented her for it.

“I’ll be fine,” said Dee. Her insides clenched at the thought of Gremma following her.

“See ya in a week,” said Gremma brightly. Dee pulled together a smile and waved.

“Don’t break too many hearts,” she said, and Gremma laughed, revving the engine. The high beams swept away, and for a moment Dee stood in complete darkness. Her fingers gripped the worn nylon handle of her duffel bag, stuffed full with dirty laundry. She hesitated, rummaging around in her pocket for the worn house key. Should she knock? Or just walk in? But before she could make the decision, she heard footsteps on linoleum and the door was being pulled open and she found herself being swept up in a hug.

Mrs. Moreno looked nothing like her daughter. Blond and wiry-thin, with worn edges around her lips. Dee always thought they looked ridiculous in pictures together—even their smiles looked nothing alike, with Dee’s tight-lipped little mouth and Mrs. Moreno’s exuberant grin.

“Deirdre,” said Mrs. Moreno, arms tight around Dee. Dee didn’t bother to correct her. “How are you? Was that your friend driving away? You should’ve told her to stay—we have plenty for dinner.”

That was something, at least. There’d be fresh food in the house.

“She’s meeting her own parents,” Dee lied quickly. Her heartbeat quickened and a sweat broke out along her back. The sweet scent of her mother’s rose-and-amber perfume barely covered the dry smell of ashes. When Mrs. Moreno released her, Dee felt a moment of both relief and yearning. That small, young part of her longed to step back into her mother’s embrace, to take refuge there.

“Your father is just putting on a roast,” said Mrs. Moreno, guiding Dee into the house. As if she didn’t know how to walk inside. As if she hadn’t lived here since she’d been born. “He’ll be so glad to see you. How’s school?”

Stepping over the threshold took effort. Dee resisted the urge to scratch at her neck. She did that when she was nervous. She’d spent most of the seventh grade wearing scarves to cover the marks.

Old habits, she thought, and forced her hands into her pockets.

“School’s fine,” she said. “I think I did well on my midterms.” Already, she could feel herself falling into her role—trying to be the best possible version of herself, as if she could keep anything bad from happening by simply being cheerful. “Mind if I drop this stuff off in my room?”

She’d learned this dance long ago; the steps were polite and careful. Smiles and nods. Take luggage to room. Spend five minutes in room staring at one’s self in the mirror and trying to perfect a realistic smile. Go downstairs. More hugs. More pleasantries. Dinner. Maybe a movie. Spend entire movie staring at the screen instead of the other people in the living room. Claim early bedtime.

Dee knew her role—be quiet but not too quiet, smile until her cheeks hurt, gently steer the conversation to casual, light things. She would spend the next few days working on the house; her parents would expect it. Well, actually, her mother would tell her to stop fussing with the fridge and tell her all about the boys in her classes and had Dee met anyone nice? And how was that roommate of hers, the one with the red hair and all those adorable teddy bears? Her father, on the other hand, would probably hand her a scrub brush and say something about finding mold in the bathroom.

She dropped her bags onto her bed. The air was stale, still, as if no one had opened the door since she’d left after Christmas break. The room held all the trappings of her childhood—toys crammed in an old chest, clothes hanging in the closet, ticket stubs from movies she’d thought she might put in a scrapbook. But she had never ended up making that scrapbook, so instead the papers cluttered together on the edge of her desk. There was a daddy longlegs perched on a cobweb in the corner.

Dee gazed up at the spider for a long moment, then decided to face the inevitable. She drifted down the stairs, feeling aimless and uncertain.

Her mother was nowhere to be found, but her father was in the kitchen.

People always said that Deirdre must be a daddy’s girl because she looked so much like her father—light brown skin, dark hair, a tendency toward stockiness. But Dee couldn’t see it herself. She was all those things, yes. But she had none of her father’s hard-earned strength, the scars on his hands from years of handling lawn mowers and shovels. He had begun his own landscaping business when he was in his twenties and worked his way into a decently comfortable life. Now he had employees (whom he constantly complained about), an office, and better health insurance just in case a weed-whacker tried to take a finger.

He always put her in mind of one of those bulls from the rodeo—thick through the shoulders and waist, all corded muscle and huffing breaths.

Mr. Moreno stood by the stove, hovering over a steaming pot. “Broccoli?” asked Dee.

“Potatoes,” said Mr. Moreno. He glanced up. “It’s been a while.”

He hugged her. This time the hug smelled like sweat and cut grass. At the scent, that knot in her chest twisted a little tighter. Mr. Moreno released her and took a step back, surveying his daughter with a keen eye. Dee held herself rigidly—shoulders back and chin high. Her best self, she thought. Strong and smart, still wearing her Brannigan shirt with the logo on it. A good student. A successful daughter. Someone a parent could be proud of.

“You’ve gained weight,” he said. “You aren’t taking a PE class this semester?”

Suddenly, she felt heavier—and she couldn’t be sure if it was because she had gotten fatter or if it was disappointment weighing her down.

Dee looked at the linoleum floor. “No time in my schedule.”

“You should make the time,” said Mr. Moreno, and Dee didn’t argue. She opened the cupboard and withdrew three plates, carrying them to the dining room.

Dinner was its usual affair of sitting around a dented wooden table. The roast was well seasoned and Dee cut into it with the care and intensity Gremma used while vivisecting her teddy bears.

“Are you still taking that advanced history class?” asked Mr. Moreno. Dee’s heart leaped.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I—I think I’m getting an A in it.”

Mr. Moreno bit into a large mouthful of roast, chewed, then swallowed. “It’s a waste of time. You should be taking classes that’ll be useful once you graduate. Something that would help the business—accounting or mechanics.”

Never mind the fact that Dee hadn’t ever shown the slightest inclination toward accounting and had once managed to break a miniature helicopter at school.

Dee’s gaze went back to her plate. “I like history,” she said, very quietly.

“You like sitting in class listening to someone tell you stories rather than learning how to fix things? How to be useful?” There was no mistaking the edge of scorn in his voice. “Of course you would.”

“Are you thinking about next year’s classes?” Mrs. Moreno chirped.

Dee’s fork froze in midair. She forced herself to eat the bite of roast; it gave her a moment to gather her thoughts.

Might as well tell them. It would be like pulling off a Band-Aid, she rationalized. Best to get it over quickly. She set her fork down and placed her hands in her lap so no one could see her fidget.

“They’re revoking my scholarship,” she said.

Mr. Moreno’s fingers went tight around his beer bottle. “What did you do?”

A shiver of adrenaline passed through her. “Nothing,” she said, too sharply. “It was something to do with budget cuts. It was the scholarship students or the art program.”

“Like they need a fucking art program,” muttered Mr. Moreno.

Mrs. Moreno’s hands shook slightly as she pressed a napkin to her mouth. “Well, it’s not the most horrible thing that could happen,” she said, offering up a smile. “We’d be glad to see you more often.”

As if there was nothing to be done—as if Dee coming home was a certain thing. Her stomach turned over. She had thought if she told them tonight, they might spend the rest of the break trying to figure something out. Perhaps see what kind of money they had in savings, research if they could take out a small loan. It was what parents were supposed to do.

“We’d be glad to see you at all,” Mr. Moreno said under his breath.

Dee’s fork slid through her potatoes with a little too much force. It dinged against her plate. Because passive-aggressive comments make me want to spend more time here, she almost said, but managed to hold the words in her mouth through the rest of the meal.

“I’ll do the dishes,” she said once she was done eating. She pushed away from the table and her father made no comment.

Carry plates to sink. Fill sink. Add soap. Scrub plates. There was almost a meditative rhythm to it. There were no dishes to wash at the dorms. The most cleanup she did there was keeping her side of the room neat. Here, the state of the house gave her something to do.

Maybe it was because she hadn’t seen it in two months, but the place looked worse than she remembered. She hadn’t been here to scrub away the mold taking root near the toilet or the smell of stale milk in the fridge. She wondered how long it had been since they shopped and, absurdly, she felt a swell of protectiveness. This used to be her job, making sure everything ran smoothly. She shook herself and tried to push away the thought.

Mr. Moreno sidled into the kitchen and stood perhaps two feet away. Dee felt her body jump, quivering like Gremma’s Camaro when she shifted gears too quickly.

For a long minute, he didn’t say anything. Dee continued to wash the dishes, adding in the cups and cutlery, going to work on them with a sponge. Maybe it would be different this time. Maybe he would comment on her willingness to work hard, to try to stay at school. Maybe—

“You think you’re too good to come home?” he asked.

His expression had changed. Gone was the semblance of control. It had been replaced with something sloppy and ugly and terrifying. Suddenly, she was all too aware of his nearness, of the heat coming through his cotton T-shirt and the sheer size of him. She held a breath until she felt it burn in her lungs, held it until it wouldn’t look like retreating when she took a step back. She reached into the soapy water, eyes on the reflection in the kitchen window. Her fingers touched the edges of a serrated knife and she skimmed downward, finding the handle.

Mr. Moreno leaned against the fridge. “Don’t see why the school here isn’t good enough for you.”

“It’s not about it being good enough,” said Dee. She tried to talk calmly. “It’s about the best shot for my future, for getting into a really good college—”

“Don’t see why your future requires you to spend so much time away from your family,” said Mr. Moreno. His voice had roughened into a familiar tone, one that set Dee’s teeth on edge. She spoke more quickly, voice low.

“It’s a good school.” Less calm this time.

“That good school doesn’t teach you anything you need,” he scoffed. “Shakespeare and drama and philosophy. You think that’s gonna help you get a job? You think you can survive in the real world?”

It felt like a fist was squeezing her insides; if she were being honest with herself, the real world terrified her. With its unspoken rules and paperwork and threats of never finding a real job. That was why she’d gone to Brannigan—because graduates always went to a good college, any college of their choice.

“It’s what I want,” she said in a thin voice.

“Daughters don’t abandon their families,” he said.

Dee looked down at the gray, soapy water. “Fathers don’t guilt their daughters over wanting a better life.” She spoke the words without thinking. There was a moment of heavy silence, and Dee thought the tension might pass.

Something hit the floor and shattered. A beer bottle or a glass. Dee didn’t look. Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt. “Better?” snarled her father. “Better than this? You think you’re better than us? We’re not good enough for you anymore?”

“Mark?” Then Mrs. Moreno was there, warily edging into the kitchen. “Dee, did you drop something?”

Dee released the knife and it sank beneath the dirty water. Keeping her gaze averted, she said, “Sorry, need to use the bathroom,” and hurried out of the room. She strained for any sound to indicate she was being followed, but there was nothing.

Going to the bathroom was an easy choice. It was the only room with a working lock.

Coward.

She was a coward.

She shut the door behind her and sat on the toilet lid. Already, her mother was picking up the thread that Dee had left off.

“—Fucking stuck-up school—”

“—Mark, you cannot tell her she can’t go there—”

“”

“—”

“”

The words blurred in her ears, became familiar chords in a song she knew all too well. She knew where this would end up, with her father ranting about how hard he worked and how grateful they should all be, about how he never had this kind of life growing up, about respect and family and how spoiled his daughter had turned out, and with her mother eventually going to the backyard, pretending to get some air but smoking hard out beneath the walnut tree.

Dee turned the shower on and let the sound of the water drown out everything else.