My teeth grind painfully against each other. “It means,” I cut in, “that I am a grown adult who can make her own choices about where she goes and with whom and when.”
“You keep saying that,” he replies. “That you’re a grown woman who can make her own choices, but then you make the mostconfoundingones, and you won’t let ushelpyou. What are we supposed to think, Lia? What are we supposed to do?”
Oh, I don’t know,trustme? Support me? Let me make my own choices, whether they’re mistakes or not?
I don’t say any of that, though, because I know where that leads. It leads to me on a park bench being handed a handkerchief by a stranger in a Hawaiian shirt, and I can’t risk another kidnapping. I’m already exactly where I want to be.
“Who is she with, anyway?” Mom inquires into my silence. “Is it Colleen?”
“It’s not Colleen,” I sigh. “I’m with Archie. Pine.”
“Archie? Who’s Archie?”
I scowl. What does he meanwho’s Archie?
“Archie Pine?” Mom asks. “That boy she has taped up all over her bedroom? She goes missing, nearly dies, and she’sstilltalking about him?”
Goodness gracious. “I did not nearly die,” I protest. Sure, I was kidnapped, but Stone was very respectful and non-threatening, and Archie has been nothing but focused on my safety and happiness.
“You’re with the boy on your walls?” Dad asks. “That famous internet boy?”
“Archie’s a man,” I inform him. “And yes. I’m with him.”
“She says she’s with the boy from the walls,” Dad tells Mom. “Did you know she knew that boy? I thought he was just in those videos.”
“I think she met him at one of those conventions she’s always going to,” Mom replies. “You know, the ones with those people in those suits.”
“My conventions don’t have furries,” I groan. “Not that there would be anything wrong if they did, but they don’t. They just have CubeCraft people.”
“She says there’s no furries,” Dad repeats. “Just this boy and his friends.”
“She always says that, but I’ve seen online. I know about the furries.”
“Anyway!” I proclaim. “I just wanted to let you guys know that I’m safe, I’m not too far away, and I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“When’s she coming home?” Mom asks. “I have a pot roast in the oven. Is she coming home for pot roast?”
Of course. Not dead? Have some pot roast. Then, while your mouth is stuffed full of delicious home-cooked food, I’ll deliver your guilt trip for making me think you were dead.
No, thank you.
“I’m not coming home,” I tell Dad. “I’ve moved out.”
Several beats of silence meet this news.
“What?” Mom asks. “What’d she say?”
Dad clears his throat.
I gulp.
“She said she’s not coming home,” he parrots. “Says she’s moved out.”
Predictably, Mom does not like this information. She moves through four of the five stages of grief while my father says nothing, his loud breathing the only proof I have that he’s still on the line.
My phone buzzes while Mom wrestles with anger, and her curses play background noise as I open the text from Fred.
Freddie:I didn’t know she evenknewhalf of these words. Not gonna lie, I’m kind of impressed.
