Do they slaughter, pluck, and stew chickens? I know all about that. But I smile back—normal—as she says, “We’ve heard good things about the high school, too.”
Dad clears his throat. “Not that you’ll be going there. I assume you brought your study materials.”
Fortune favors the brave, right? “I’d love to try out regular school, actually. I’m curious about AP classes.”
Dad looks confused. “Jane said—well, you did bring your homeschooling stuff, right? At schools around here, kids use computers, and—”
“You can get special accommodations to learn however you need to. I read that in the New York Times.”
The doorbell rings, and Erika springs out of the kitchen.
“You’d really want to enroll in school here?” Dad asks.
I feel light-headed, like I’ve snuck beer from a discarded can at the fair. “It’s just an idea. That way Mom could stay in Australia as long as she needs to. And it wouldn’t cost you anything if I went to public school, right?”
“Cost’s not the issue.”
But before he can continue, Clint shuffles into the kitchen. He looks like a mini Erika with Dad’s wavy, tousled hair, and his eyes are glued to his phone.
Erika whispers in his ear. Clint lowers the phone and solemnly says, “Hi.”
“Hi.” I grope for something he and I could have in common. “Is that your bike in the garage? Pretty cool.” My own rusty bike was barely adequate for getting around the ranch, but it gave me distance from Mom when I needed it.
Clint speaks in a drone, eyes back on his screen. “It’s a mountain bike. I got it for my birthday, and I can’t ride it yet, because we don’t have time to go to the mountains.”
When his mom releases his shoulder, he bolts, his footsteps pounding upstairs.
“He’s shy,” Dad says.
“We’re working on his social anxiety.” Erika clears her throat. “Maybe we can hit the trails before school starts. You could help teach him.”
If Mom were in Erika’s place, she’d keep Clint close and not let me near him. Erika’s shy, too, but she’s reaching out, almost like she’s lonely. I feel a sudden rush of gratitude toward her.
She follows Clint upstairs, and my dad excuses himself to make up my room, so I set out to see how much of the house I remember. The living room has been renovated into magazine perfection, but I recognize the narrow, sun-flooded passage running along the back of the house, and the little room beyond—Dad’s study. Once his sacred domain, now it’s a storage space crammed with packing boxes. The desk is dominated by a giant flat Glare-screen, but it’s not lit up.
The walls are clean and white, yet half-formed memories darken them like smoke blurring a landscape. I wasn’t supposed to go in here. I did something bad—what?
I bend over the desk, where Dad has lined up framed photos: Mom and me, just me, him and Erika, him and Clint and Erika. None of him and me. Those two sun-faded people must be his parents, whom I’ve never met. They’re barbecuing on a cement-block porch, the man raising a Budweiser. Beside that is a photo of a small boy, fishing pole in his hands, caught in the glitter of sun off a lake. A hand rests on his shoulder, but the rest of the image has been sliced away. I lean closer.
“Hedda?”
I back away like Dad’s caught me at something. “I wanted to see how much of the house I remember.”
“Let me show you the rest.”
He shows off the tiny but breathtaking bay view, then ushers me up the majestic, dark-paneled staircase. “Your stuff’s already in your room.”
Fizzy sounds echo in the hallway, and Clint’s half-open door reveals an enormous Glare-screen. Bizarre shapes in wild colors flit over it, making me blink but not look away. That’s control, too.
Dad pulls the door closed. “He’s in a pretty serious gaming phase. Erika was worried about his screen time, but the one he’s most hooked on is recommended by his school for the educational content, so we’re letting it slide for now.”
Hooked. Addicted. I want to tell Dad I understand what he’s talking about, having read newspaper articles on the “screen time” debate, but before I can find words, I’m standing in my room. My room.
It’s different. The toys that used to cover the floor have given way to the staid maturity of a guest room. The princessy purple-and-gold bedspread and curtains are gone, replaced by crisp cream-and-green cotton.
But the gabled ceiling still slants over the bed, making it feel enclosed and protected. The window still looks out on the street, with its shimmering cottonwoods so close together they could be one continuous tree. Towering built-ins still hold my stuffed lions—a pair, male and female—my unicorn figurines, and—
“Oh.” I fall to my knees to leaf through my childhood books. Each illustration strikes bells in my memory: the twelve dancing princesses discarding their worn-out slippers; Mr. Toad joyriding in his motor car; Hugo Cabret working the gears of the gigantic clock.
Dad kneels beside me, looking over my shoulder.
“I never read these to you,” he says as I slide D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths back on its shelf. “I was working insane hours in those days. One of the things I regret.”
He cares. I say, “Me too,” rising and plopping my backpack on the bed.
Dad’s voice wobbles. “Hedda…”
“What?” I glance at the door. No sign of Erika.
My father takes a deep breath, then fixes his eyes on mine. “Hedda, what did your mom tell you about why she brought you to Arizona? Or maybe you remember?”
I sit on the bed and hunch into my hoodie, drawing the sleeves down to my fingertips. If I use the word “Glare,” he’ll think I’m still six. “She said—well, there was that thing with the babysitter, and then I got scared of screens, so Mom took them all away, and I…” Freaked out. Went off-kilter.
Dad winces. “That poor Westover girl. Jane liked her a lot, and she never quite recovered from what happened to her.”
To the babysitter. Not to me. Does he not remember the bad things I did, or is he just being polite?
Or did Mom not tell him?
Dad’s still talking: “That’s when your mother decided screen culture was hurting people, especially young people. Me, I’ve always believed technology reflects us. It can hurt or heal or be completely neutral, depending on what—”
“I know. I’ve read all about it.” It’s an enormous relief to be honest with someone. “I know Mom isn’t the only person who thinks screens are dangerous.” The devil. Crack cocaine. Those are just two of the things parents compared the Glare to in an article I read called “Silicon Valley’s Elite Are Shielding Their Kids from the Tech They Created.” “But most of those people… they worry about young kids. Not teenagers.”
Dad cocks his head. “And do you feel like screens are dangerous?”
Being asked for my opinion brings a flush of warmth to my chest, then to my face. “I don’t really know,” I say in a small voice. “But I think I could manage the Gl—screens. I don’t think they can make someone hurt herself. Not without help from her own brain.”