His jaw muscles bulge as his expression hardens. “Unless you want to be grounded until you go to college, you will do as I say.”
The threat makes me bristle. “What if I apprentice with that photographer we met at Polly’s wedding last summer instead of going to college? When I get good at it, I can work for a magazine and travel.”
He slaps his forehead. “Not this nonsense again.”
“It’s not nonsense, Daddy.”
“You’ll give your mother fits if you keep this up.” He stops himself, holding his hands out. In a condescending tone, he says, “At university you’ll meet a lot of interesting people. If you want to work for a while, you can become a teacher.”
“I don’t like kids.” I fold my arms beneath my chest, aware that I’m pouting like one, but that’s how this subject makes me feel.
“You will someday soon.”
Most women do, but I’m not convinced. “What if I don’t?”
I so need for him to hug me and tell me that he’ll love me no matter what. That he believes in me and wants me to be happy, however that looks to me.
“Enough, Marie. It’s late.” He points toward the stairs. “Go to bed. We can talk about this more in the morning, but not in front of your mother.”
“Yes, Daddy.” I hang my coat in the closet and lug myself upstairs to my room as if my body weighs twice as much as normal.
The whole time I’m washing my face and brushing my teeth, I think about those few minutes on the back of Billy’s motorcycle. The heat of his body still makes me warm, then I shiver at the recollection of his arms around me as he helped me steer, and the thrill of the wind on my face.
I hide the nail in my jewelry box. If Billy Tyler calls me, I will find a way to see him again, no matter what my father says.
CHAPTER SIX
KATY
“Where are you going, Katy?” Libby asks me when I turn in the opposite direction of the cafeteria on our way out of AP Physics.
She’s a senior and the captain of the girls’ varsity soccer team. I should make fast friends with her to get my mom off my back, but it makes me uncomfortable to be treated like a BFF by someone I hardly know. It’s barely the second week of school. The most anyone can feel about me at this point is curiosity.
Not even about me, actually. More like my car, Apple Watch, and Hermès Clic Clac H bracelet. Then they seem surprised by my neighborhood because the old side of town is not where “rich” families live.
“Bathroom,” I say.
“Cool. Find us in the cafeteria.” She trots ahead to catch up to someone I don’t know.
I duck into the girls’ room, passing by all the students fixing their hair and putting on lip gloss, and shut myself in a stall.
After I drop my backpack on the ground, I sit on the toilet and breathe through the tightness in my chest. With my eyes closed I picture the table by the window in my old cafeteria, where I always ate with Jen, Kelly, and Jo. I miss them, but Maisy White is constantly in their Instafeed now. They replaced me as fast as my dad has.
Maybe “replaceable” should be my middle name.
It hurts so much. Confirmation that people can’t be counted on. That everything is bullshit.
I miss my old house and pool. I miss hugging my dad good night. Brody and Zoe get that from him now.
I drop freshly plucked hairs into the toilet bowl. Lately I can’t focus half the time and don’t want to the other half. Whenever I think about how my mom let Dad go without a fight, I want to hit something or cry. It’s like both my parents have gone crazy.
Screwing up my grades would teach them, but it’d also be a huge waste of all the work I’ve put in the past two years. It sucks so bad to be pissed off and powerless.
My dab pen would take the edge off now, but the girls at the sinks might report me. There’s still lunch, two more periods, and practice to endure before I can lock myself in my bedroom with the window open.
I pat my damp forehead with some toilet paper.
It’d be easier to navigate this place if I knew the pecking order: which cliques to avoid, what teachers to look out for, what kids to trust. The only certain thing is that I can’t stay in this stall all period, so I flush the toilet, grab my backpack, and open the door.
As I stroll through the hall toward the cafeteria, kids are joking and running all around me, but I keep my eyes forward and slightly downcast. Once I breach the cafeteria doors, it’s utter chaos. Groups of friends have claimed their regular tables. Kids are yelling to be heard over the din. The lines for the decent food stations are as bad as the ladies’ room line at a Post Malone concert.
My appetite is nil because my stomach is in a vise. While alone in line trying not to look at anyone in particular, I’m so hot I could throw up.
I swallow, swipe my lunch card, and take my premade salad and ice cream sandwich to look for Libby, but it’s like a game of Where’s Waldo? in the massive dining hall. The one thing I’d thought might be cool about public school was ditching a uniform, but apparently Potomac Point doesn’t do fashion. All the girls look the same. Long hair, gray hoodies, gym shorts.
As I make my way past some tables, I see Tomás London sitting alone. He’s in my photography class.
A loner—but not goth or emo. He doesn’t dress like the other boys—no sweats or khakis or gym shorts. His basic uniform is more hipster—fitted faded black jeans with a striped or printed shirt—although one day he wore red pants and a red-and-white-checked shirt. I didn’t laugh out loud, but the rest of that day the Elmo song played in my head, so I’ve mentally nicknamed him after that Muppet.
He’s not handsome, per se, but he’s got an interesting, sad look, sort of like a darker-skinned version of that actor Timothée Chalamet. Rich brown hair with auburn highlights and greenish-hazel eyes that tip downward at the outside edges.
He glances up and catches me staring at him. We haven’t said much to each other all week, but he nods toward an empty seat at his table. I almost glance around to see if he means me, but don’t. After a second, I join him rather than spend the next fifteen minutes searching for Libby.
When I sit across from him, he turns his phone upside down and sports a friendly expression. The silver cross hanging around his neck glints. “Hey, new girl.”
“Hey, Elmo.” I cock a brow.
He tips his head. “Why ‘Elmo’?”
“The red duds.” I squeeze low-fat balsamic dressing from the little pouch. “Never seen an outfit that loud in real life.”
He rests his chin on his fist, smirking. “Probably because whatever prep school you blew in from made you all wear uniforms.”
Points to Elmo.
“Fair enough.” I can’t help smiling a little, despite my promise to hate every bit of this school so that my mom lets me go back to Prep next semester.
“Where are you from?” He drags a french fry through a mountain of ketchup and shoves it in his mouth. He’s got a cool voice . . . sleepy. He seems so relaxed and wise, like he’s been through this all before and nothing will surprise him. I decide he must have older siblings, and then I’m jealous.
“Arlington, Virginia.”
“I hear it’s nice up there.” He repeats the same methodical drag with another fry. “You miss it?”