Dad shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “The point is, no one knows who we are here, and until our position is more secure, we shouldn’t do anything to shine a spotlight on us,” he says. “Like breaking the rules.”
“I get it,” I say, feeling their judgy eyes on me. “No loud parties.”
“Not only that,” Mom says. “But you also can’t do anything that will interfere with the radio waves.”
“Which means no cell phones, satellite TV, Bluetooth, or Wi-Fi.” Dad stares directly at me.
“So what do you expect us to do?” I flail, exasperated. “I can’t live this way for two weeks. Like some kind of caged animal.”
“Emphasis onanimal,” Gavin mutters.
“If we want to find tenants before we leave, there’s plenty for you to do,” Mom’s quick to suggest.
“Speaking of…” Dad points to the wooden pieces next to the stack of IKEA boxes. “What happened here?”
“The furniture arrived,” Gavin says. Although I would’ve thought it was obvious. Then again, maybe they’re not used to seeing furniture in small boxes either.
Dad shakes his head. “Why aren’t they assembled?”
“Cheap furniture means cheap instructions,” I say.
“I’m sure you could figure it out if you tried,” Mom mutters.
“No, really. It’s impossible,” Gavin says, surprisingly backing me up. “The instructions don’t make sense. And there’s no Google Translate for Stupid.”
“The mattresses are all we really need for the time being,” I say. “We’ve taken the liberty of moving them onto the bedframes in the rooms, m’lady.” I curtsy with my head bowed, doing a servant-from-Downton-Abbeybit. My parents aren’t amused.
Dad frowns. “How are we supposed to settle into this place without proper furniture?” Since there are no chairs, he sits on an IKEA box next to the kitchen table.
“This is our home. We should make it feel like one too,” Mom says, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Can you please stop calling thisour home? You’re freaking me out.” I shriek.
“Even if we don’t intend to live here, we need to make improvements to attract tenants,” Dad explains.
“Or maybe, once everything is settled, we can make this our vacation home,” Mom adds.
I laugh, then place a hand on my mouth when I realize no one else is laughing. Apparently I’m the only one who didn’t take Mom’s absurd suggestion seriously.
“If the house doesn’t look good by the time we leave, we’ll have to stay until it does. Maybe until the end of summer,” Mom says, like a threat.
“Don’t worry,” Gavin says, almost as if on command. “I’m on it.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Dad says to him. “Make sure Elena helps you.”
I don’t even whine about how Gavin is no better at assembling furniture than I am. What’s the point, when talking to my parents is no clearer than the IKEA furniture instructions? I can see what they’re doing, but the crucial explanation is missing.
“Maybe if you got to know the place, you’d like it better,” Mom says, mistaking my frown for thinking it’s the home I’m disappointed with.
“The observatory gives tours every morning at ten. Maybe you two could go to one.” Dad slides a brochure across the kitchen counter to show us.
“Yeah, sure,” Gavin agrees, much too easily.
I glance at it. There’s a satellite on the cover, which is a big nope for me. “I’m busy.”
Mom’s frown deepens. “Elena,” she says, like a sigh. She hesitates, wondering what to say next. Knowing Mom and how little she knows me, she’ll try to appeal to me to have a better attitude orbe more open-minded. “Nothing,” she says instead.
I’m surprised by the disappointment I feel that she didn’t even try to lecture me. Then again, I wouldn’t have listened anyway. So maybe she does know me.
