My fingers gripped my bag until they ached. “Daddy, please. Hear me out. If I drop it, I’ll have more time to devote to my other classes. And there’s dance and prom committee…”
“I’ve told you before, prom committee is a waste of time.”
I recoiled. Designing the senior prom was the only shot I had at showing him what I was capable of. What my dreams were made of. If I didn’t have prom, I had nothing.
“I’ve made an allowance to that indulgence,” he continued. “But if your grades begin to suffer, then that is what you will drop.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I fought them back. “What if I replaced calculus with something better for my application? I could volunteer somewhere. Maybe the animal shelter—?”
“And have you come home smelling like unwashed dog?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
I don’t know why I thought that would work; we’d been begging to get a dog for years, and my dad refused to hear of it.
I heaved a breath and threw out the longest of long shots. “Maybe I could…get a job?”
I said the last part so quietly, it was nearly a squeak. I would quit Royal Pride and maybe even prom committee if I could only earn my own money.
I’d save it up and move far, far away.
Dad kept typing. “You don’t need a job. I provide everything you need.”
He meant that I had a bank card for an account that he put money into, but all my spending was scrutinized. I had no savings. I wasn’tallowedto save enough that would take me far, far away. Heck, I’d never make it out of Rhode Island.
“I’m begging you. Let me drop calculus. I can’t do it. I—”
My father slammed his palm on the desk, making me jump. “Let me remind you, your PSAT score was a dismal 1100. You need at least a 1470 for Brown to consider you.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Emery. You don’t know how the world works, but I do. I know what’s best for you. And I know that giving up because something is a little bit hard is what losers do. Do you want to be a loser?”
My cheeks grew hot under my dad’s hard stare. I knew what he was really asking:Do you want me to love you?
“I don’t want to be a loser,” I managed, my throat thick.
“Smart choice. Jack is hell-bent on throwing his life away. I will not allow you to embarrass this family the way he has. I willnot allow it.” Dad turned back to his screen. “That is all.”
I got up on leaden legs and left his study, my heart heavy and with a thousand words piled up and locked behind my teeth. I shut the door behind me and jumped to see Jack lounging against the wall under a portrait of our great uncle Reginald, the first shipping magnate who began the Wallace empire at the turn of the nineteenth century. My brother wore a disgusted look on his face.
“What?” I demanded.
“Why do you always do whatever he says?” he whisper-shouted.
“Like I have a choice,” I hissed. “Should I talk back? Get kicked out of the house? And then what?”
Jack glanced away. I took a step closer, softened my tone.
“Jack, I—”
“Forget it.”
He pushed off the wall and stormed away. Back to his room. Back to his anger and loud music.
I went to mine just down the hall. My refuge. The one place I’d been allowed to express myself.
At my door, I stopped and took in all the white, pink, and bright blue. Three years ago, I’d designed it to evoke Japanese cherry blossoms in spring: pink-and-white decor with one sky-blue wall where I’d hand-painted a cherry blossom branch. Hopeful and bright but not overdone. Tasteful.
When they saw it, my mother had declared it, “a bit obvious.”
