As if there was nothing to be done—as if Dee coming home was a certain thing. Her stomach turned over. She had thought if she told them tonight, they might spend the rest of the break trying to figure something out. Perhaps see what kind of money they had in savings, research if they could take out a small loan. It was what parents were supposed to do.
“We’d be glad to see you at all,” Mr. Moreno said under his breath.
Dee’s fork slid through her potatoes with a little too much force. It dinged against her plate.Because passive-aggressive comments make me want to spend more time here, she almost said, but managed to hold the words in her mouth through the rest of the meal.
“I’ll do the dishes,” she said once she was done eating. She pushed away from the table and her father made no comment.
Carry plates to sink. Fill sink. Add soap. Scrub plates. There was almost a meditative rhythm to it. There were no dishes to wash at the dorms. The most cleanup she did there was keeping her side of the room neat. Here, the state of the house gave her something to do.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t seen it in two months, but the place looked worse than she remembered. She hadn’t been here to scrub away the mold taking root near the toilet or the smell of stale milk in the fridge. She wondered how long it had been since they shopped and, absurdly, she felt a swell of protectiveness. This used to be her job, making sure everything ran smoothly. She shook herself and tried to push away the thought.
Mr. Moreno sidled into the kitchen and stood perhaps two feet away. Dee felt her body jump, quivering like Gremma’s Camaro when she shifted gears too quickly.
For a long minute, he didn’t say anything. Dee continued to wash the dishes, adding in the cups and cutlery, going to work on them with a sponge. Maybe it would be different this time. Maybe he would comment on her willingness to work hard, to try to stay at school. Maybe—
“You think you’re too good to come home?” he asked.
His expression had changed. Gone was the semblance of control. It had been replaced with something sloppy and ugly and terrifying. Suddenly, she was all too aware of his nearness, of the heat coming through his cotton T-shirt and the sheer size of him. She held a breath until she felt it burn in her lungs, held it until it wouldn’t look like retreating when she took a step back. She reached into the soapy water, eyes on the reflection in the kitchen window. Her fingers touched the edges of a serrated knife and she skimmed downward, finding the handle.
Mr. Moreno leaned against the fridge. “Don’t see why the school here isn’t good enough for you.”
“It’s not about it being good enough,” said Dee. She tried to talk calmly. “It’s about the best shot for my future, for getting into a really good college—”
“Don’t see why your future requires you to spend so much time away from your family,” said Mr. Moreno. His voice had roughened into a familiar tone, one that set Dee’s teeth on edge. She spoke more quickly, voice low.
“It’s a good school.” Less calm this time.
“That good school doesn’t teach you anything you need,” he scoffed. “Shakespeare and drama and philosophy. You think that’s gonna help you get a job? You think you can survive in the real world?”
It felt like a fist was squeezing her insides; if she were being honest with herself, the real world terrified her. With its unspoken rules and paperwork and threats of never finding a real job. That was why she’d gone to Brannigan—because graduates always went to a good college, any college of their choice.
“It’s what I want,” she said in a thin voice.
“Daughters don’t abandon their families,” he said.
Dee looked down at the gray, soapy water. “Fathers don’t guilt their daughters over wanting a better life.” She spoke the words without thinking. There was a moment of heavy silence, and Dee thought the tension might pass.
Something hit the floor and shattered. A beer bottle or a glass. Dee didn’t look. Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt. “Better?” snarled her father. “Better than this? You think you’re better than us? We’re not good enough for you anymore?”
“Mark?” Then Mrs. Moreno was there, warily edging into the kitchen. “Dee, did you drop something?”
Dee released the knife and it sank beneath the dirty water. Keeping her gaze averted, she said, “Sorry, need to use the bathroom,” and hurried out of the room. She strained for any sound to indicate she was being followed, but there was nothing.
Going to the bathroom was an easy choice. It was the only room with a working lock.
Coward.
She was a coward.
She shut the door behind her and sat on the toilet lid. Already, her mother was picking up the thread that Dee had left off.
“—Fucking stuck-up school—”
“—Mark, you cannot tell her she can’t go there—”
“”
“—”
