She climbs onto the stool at the counter. “Can I have pancakes instead?”
I almost smile. “Sure.”
By the time I drop Zinnia off at school and make it to campus, I’m already exhausted. My first class is English Lit—Victoriannovels this quarter. I thought being an English major would mean writing. Creating stories. Pouring myself onto the page.
Instead, it’s reading. Endless reading.
Dickens. Brontë. Eliot. Dense paragraphs about social structures and moral ambiguity and women trapped by circumstances they didn’t choose.
I underline a passage in my copy of Jane Eyre.
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me.”
I close the book.
That night, dinner is quiet.
My dad sits at the head of the table. Zinnia and I sit on either side. I made spaghetti—his favorite.
“How was school?” he asks Zinnia.
“Good. We’re learning about fractions.”
“Smart girl.” He looks at me. “And you?”
“Fine. Lots of reading.”
“Reading.” He says it like it’s not a real answer. “What’re you reading?”
“Jane Eyre.”
He snorts. “That old thing? What’s the point of that?”
“It’s for class.”
“Waste of time if you ask me. You should be learning something useful. Business. Accounting. Something that’ll actually get you a job.”
I stab a piece of pasta with my fork. “English majors get jobs.”
“Doing what? Working at a bookstore?”
Zinnia looks between us. I can see her shoulders tensing.
I don’t respond and keep eating.
“And what about your friends?” he continues. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”
“Just Elle.”
“Elle.” He says her name like it tastes bad. “The one who helped you run off.”
“I didn’t run off.”
“You disappeared for two days, Tigerlily. That’s running off.”
I set my fork down.
“And those boys,” he says casually. Too casually. “The hockey players. You still thinking about them?”
