My scoff and eye roll don’t go unnoticed. “Hey, now,” Dad leans across the table at the same time that Connie shoves a glass bowl into the open cabinet hard enough to echo. “I feel like there’s a lot of frustration being directed—”
“Toward the dishes?”
“Ellen . . .”
“Look.” I try to breathe, to let go of the sarcasm. I try to be Dad to Dad, the voice of reason, the calm explanation. “I never meant to sneak out, and I don’t have a problem helping around the house until I find a job, but I just get sick of Connie always making it seem like I’m—”
“Ellen,” Dad stops me, shaking his head. But I saw the doubt in his eyes, and maybe he’ll listen if I can just find the right way to explain what’s happening.
“—like I’m trying to personally offend her all the time—”
“Enough.” Dad’s voice cuts through my stumbled words. “I don’t want to hear it.”
The back of my throat tightens. Not the kind of I statement I was hoping for.
“Greg,” Connie says softly. Dad looks at her, nods, and lets out a sigh so huge it almost drags his face straight into the table. Connie paces to stand behind him. They make quite the picture of parental disapproval, the dreaded united front. “United front” meaning that Dad’s about to do what Connie wants—like the time they gave my cat Dorito away because of Connie’s allergies, or the time they “encouraged” me to spend a month of my seventh-grade summer at choir camp.
“We think that there need to be some consequences for the consistent rudeness,” Dad says like he’s reading off a cue card. The tone hurts. I want to see anger, or frustration, or even an attempt to reason with me. I don’t want to see him handing down some already agreed-on punishment.
“We want accountability for your time around the house,” he repeats. “We want things to stay in control. Nobody wants a repeat of Christmas break, right?”
I watch his eyes dart away as soon as he says it. Connie goes still and (amazingly) silent. I think this is the first time anyone’s mentioned her abrupt departure out loud.
“Right,” I say. I don’t want Connie to abandon my dad because of me. I saw how much it crushed him. “But—”
“Right.” Dad nods. “So from now until the end of the summer, there will be some rules in place. Chores, for one.”
“I do chores,” I mutter.
“We’ll be cleaning out the garage,” Connie adds, like I didn’t already know about her pet project. “And I’ll need help around the house, too. I’ll make you a list.”
“Daily chore list?” That doesn’t sound so bad. That might actually help me avoid interacting with Connie in person.
“The list is less important than the accountability,” Dad says. “While you’re here, until you move out, you need to be available. Not running off to who-knows-where with Melissa and Xiumiao.”
I start to reply, but Dad holds up his hand.
“Not looking for another excuse. This is discipline.”
“You’re grounding me.” I don’t quite believe the words as I say them, so I try again. “You’re saying I’m grounded. For the whole summer. Just because of . . . an unauthorized walk and a rude comment?”
Dad narrows his eyes. “I think you know that the issue here is a pattern of behavior. You’ve been rude. You’ve worried us.” I snort, which makes him sigh. “You’re not in college yet, Ellen,” he says. “And as long as you—”
“‘Live under my roof’?” I guess.
Dad scowls. “As long as you act like a baby,” he says, “that’s how we’ll have to treat you.”
You statement.
I’ve never been grounded before. Tears sting my eyes, and I drop my head to blink them away. “What about my friends? I might not see them once we start college.” Dad sips his water, eyes hidden. Maybe it’s not too late to change his mind. “Do you even know how to ground someone?” I ask lightly.
He frowns at me. He holds out one hand. “House keys.”
“Seriously?” My mouth drops open. “What if I make a grocery run?”
“If we know you’re going out, we can keep the door unlocked for you,” Connie says, her voice dangerously sweet.
I reach into my pocket, wrap my hand around my key chain. I never thought of the blue plastic seahorse as something precious, but now I search Dad’s face for some sign that he won’t really go through with this.
“Ellen, if you can’t keep civil, it will be your phone next time.”
I don’t know this person delivering threats of dire consequences, but I pull the keys out of my pocket and deposit them in his outstretched palm. Connie snatches them away like she’s afraid he might give them back.
She shouldn’t worry. Dad was never going to choose me.
I’m grounded. For the whole summer. For my last summer.
6
I try to drown in internet.
Melissa’s unopened message blinks at me, but I know that if I text she’ll try to cheer me up or fix things, and I don’t want that yet.
Social media is too calm, nothing but cute animals and silly gifs. Nothing with enough outrage to match my mood. Time for Tumblr.
Tumblr is the lawless internet hovel where extreme fan culture meets extreme opinions and extremely pointless junk posts, and I love it to death. I hardly ever post, I’ve mostly stopped creating Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. gifsets (which is how I spent the majority of sophomore year), and I don’t chat with my mutual followers the way Melissa does, but I lurk like a freaking pro, following blogs and reading posts without ever commenting.
I visit Environmentally Unfriendly, my main social justice/veganism blog. Eevie, the site’s creator, is about as in-your-face angry as a person can be without becoming PETA. Xe makes a point to publicly respond to every anonymous troll who thinks they have exactly the right hate-filled message to change xyr mind about the whole animal rights thing. Like suddenly one day xe’s going to read, “Your [sic] a fucking hypocrite if you ever swat flys [sic]” and be like, “Oh my god, my life is a lie.”
I rage-read the troll posts. It’s cathartic, but in the end I’m still angry. I’m still grounded.
AAAAARRRGGHHHH! is what I finally message Xiumiao. I need to rant. I need advice from someone who has been grounded before. I need my friend. But minutes pass with no answer, and eventually I shove my phone in my pocket and stare at the wall instead.