“No, he grounded me because I said I’m moving to Oregon with you after graduation. The universe is punishing him justly for treating me like a flight risk.”
If he weren’t my dad, too, I’d think she was exaggerating, but she’s not. Dad worries about her. And everything.All the time. A trait I unfortunately inherited from him. To say his parenting style is smothering would be phrasing it mildly. It’s more like he’s simultaneously putting us in a stranglehold and suffocating us with a pillow… but with love.
“You shouldn’t push his buttons so much,” I murmur. “It’s what gets you in trouble.”
“Easy for you to say. He treats us totally different. Always has. I mean, Dad didn’t give you nearly as hard of a time when you said you were moving across the country next year.”
I want to argue that it’s because we’re moving for different reasons. I’m still a junior, but I got an early scholarship to Reed College, so of course I have to go to Portland. Meredith, however, wants to move to the big city for the comforts our small town lacks (i.e., a queer-friendly community and a hangout spot other than Applebee’s). I want to tellherthat’swhy Dad is giving me more slack than her, but I can’t. We both know that’s not really the truth.
Meredith sighs and goes on. “I know he breathes down your neck too. Which is why you should stand up to him. He’d listen toyou.”
I’d rather pluck out my own eyeballs and learn to juggle with them. I hum, noncommittal. The rest of the drive home is silent, but I can feel Meredith’s frustration roll off her in waves. We park in our driveway, lit only by the brassy glow of a nearby streetlamp. I remove the keys from the ignition, turning them over and over in my hand without getting out yet.
“It won’t be like this forever,” I say when I eventually find the words. “You won’t always have to sneak out of the house. Be stuck in this town. Dad will come around eventually and let you go, too.”
Meredith’s quiet makes me uneasy. It’s a wall in the space between our seats.
“No, he won’t,” she says.
“He will. He always—”
“No,” she interrupts harshly. I look at her. “Dad said he won’t help me. If I can’t pay for the move myself, I can’t go to Portland.”
My jaw falls. “What?”
Our family’s fortunate enough that we’ve never had to worry about the roof over our heads or if there’d be food on the table. My scholarship covers my expenses, but if they didn’t, I know Dad would help in a heartbeat. He’s good like that. So for him to not help Meredith—his favorite child?
Guilt churns my stomach.Iwas the one who wanted to leave Massachusetts first. Well, after Mom, that is. I remember telling Dadabout the scholarship, about Reed’s amazing literature program—and then breaking the news that it’s all the way in Portland. His silence lingered a little too long before he said in a gentle, almost sad tone, “You really are like your mother.”
I have to take his word for it. Everything I know about her is filtered through him. Sometimes, when he tells me I remind him of her, I hear in his voice how much he misses her. I hear what he really means to say:“I’m going to miss youtoo.”
It’s clear Dad’s not angry at her for leaving. Just confused. I think he didn’t always understand her. Maybe it’s why she left. Maybe it’s why I want to leave too.
My throat tightens. It’s not my fault Dad treats me and Meredith differently, but I do feel guilty for leaving her no choice but to be the one who stays for him.
“Mare…” I start.
“Hey, what can you do?” She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Let’s go inside.”
We avoid the front door. Dad’s probably asleep in the living room, and I don’t want him to realize we’ve been gone, so I guide us around back where there’s a sliding-glass door that leads directly to my room. I slide the door open carefully.
Sitting there, on my bed, is Dad. My heart drops. Meredith and I lock terrified eyes with each other.
“I can explain,” I blurt.
“You better,” Dad says.
He stands, crosses the space between us—and then wraps me in a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
Through my confusion, I notice two things: One, he’s wearing his old, three-sizes-too-smallForest Feudcamp shirt. And two, my laptop is open on the bed, with the life-changing email I received this morning still on the screen. My blood runs cold.
“What’s going on?” Meredith asks, looking between the two of us.
“Dean’s going to be on TV!” he exclaims, too giddy to remember she’s supposed to be grounded.
“You went through my email?” I wheeze.
Dad smiles sheepishly behind his thick, dark goatee. “I wasn’t trying to snoop again, I promise. I came to check on you because I thought it was strange you skipped out on TV night, and your laptop was open so…”
