Page 71 of Wicked Brutal

“Only with people she’s comfortable around,” Mom says.

Everyone looks at her. Including me. Her eyes immediately drop to her plate, and she cuts a piece of chicken she doesn’t eat.

Victor smiles. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Mom nods. “Of course.” That’s it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say another word. But I heard it. Only with people she’s comfortable around. A correction, tiny enough that Victor heard something flattering. I heard something else.

Dad changes the subject. “How long are you staying in Massachusetts?”

“Through the weekend.”

“I thought you were leaving Saturday.”

“Plans changed.” Victor looks at me. “I thought Alison and I might have lunch.”

My fingers tighten around my fork. Dad nods before I can say anything. “That would be good.”

Victor’s eyes stay on me. “Would you like that?”

There is only one answer I’m allowed to give with Dad sitting here. “I’d have to check what I have for school.”

Dad’s expression changes. Not much. Enough. Victor notices. He smiles. “Sunday, then.”

Dinner moves on. For a while, Victor and Dad talk about people I don’t know. Politics, mostly. A senator Dad says is becoming unreliable. A donor Victor thinks is getting nervous. Some dinner in Washington neither of them wants to attend but apparently both will.

Tobias finishes his last green bean and nudges me. “I did it.”

“I’m proud of you,” I tell him.

“Can I have dessert?”

“You have to ask Mom.”

He turns. “Mom?”

She smiles at him. “After dinner.”

“How long after?”

“When everyone is finished.”

He looks around the table, apparently calculating how much food remains on everyone’s plates. “Victor eats slow.”

I choke on my water. Mom’s lips twitch. Victor laughs. “I’ll try to do better.”

“Thank you,” Tobias says gravely.

Dad sighs. “Tobias.”

Tobias looks down. Mom reaches over and quietly adds another piece of bread to his plate. Something to occupy him. Something for her to do. I’m beginning to realize Mom does that a lot — her hands are almost never still when Dad is irritated.

Victor sets his fork down. “Your father tells me your English teacher thinks you should write.”

I look at Dad. “She liked an essay.”

“More than liked,” Dad says. “Alison has always been gifted academically.”

The pride in his voice should feel good. Once, it would have. Now I know the limits of it. Dad likes that I’m smart when my intelligence makes him look good.