I pull my blanket off the floor. “Oh, exercise?”
“Bingo!” Melissa taps my nose like I’m one of the preschoolers she babysits. “Your dad wants you to lead a healthy lifestyle, and he doesn’t really want to ground you. It’s a win-win.”
“So . . . we’re going to join a gym?”
“What? No.” Melissa shakes her head like she’s so disappointed in my deduction skills. “Quidditch.”
I guess I should have known.
“Are you thinking of going pre-law next year?” Dad asks Melissa after she’s laid out her vision. He makes that hiding-a-smile face that annoys the crap out of me, because I can tell that he’s imagining me and Melissa twelve years old with pigtails and braces.
But I don’t let the attitude leak onto my face, because Melissa has already gotten Dad to agree to let me out of the house for quidditch practices on Sunday mornings and Wednesday afternoons, workout sessions with Melissa, and “occasional social events deemed necessary for team bonding, including, but not limited to, team dinners post-practice.”
(Melissa’s words. She came prepared.)
“I’m not sure what I want to major in yet.” Melissa smiles sweetly. “Lots of things interest me. But law is a definite possibility, especially considering how much you enjoy it, Mr. Rourke.”
She’s a brilliant magical unicorn of a suck-up.
It’s annoying how Connie keeps filling up Melissa’s coffee and Dad raises his eyebrows and nods while Melissa talks—not one of his listening tricks, but actual respect. He’s impressed by her.
I’m glad my family likes Melissa, but I wish they wouldn’t be so obvious about liking her more than me.
“So let’s talk about my terms,” Dad says, leaning across the table. He folds his hands and draws his eyebrows together, and it’s nice to see his lawyer face. Lately he mostly comes home with his exhausted face on.
“We are prepared to hear you.” Melissa practices a little lawyer face of her own.
“One.” Dad ticks up a finger and points it at me. “We get verbal or text-message communication every time you leave the house. Where you’re going and for how long.”
“Done,” Melissa says immediately, cutting off my indignant sigh. In what world does a high school graduate need to be constantly cyber-stalked by her stepmom?
Dad waits.
“Oh, yeah, done,” I repeat when I realize he wants me to say it.
“Two: if you abuse the system, it’s over. No three strikes. And the phone is a privilege that we will take away if we have to.”
“We’re not going to lie about having practice,” I say. Melissa shoots me a warning glance. “I’m just saying. We don’t need a strike system.”
Connie glares at me. Dad waits. Melissa raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, okay, done.”
“Great. And of course, number three,” Dad says. “The chore list stays.”
“Yeah, I figured—I mean, done. Is that all?” I try to ask with a smile so I don’t ruin Melissa’s hard work.
Dad looks at Connie. Connie shifts from one foot to the other. Dad nods.
Melissa shoots up from her seat to stretch a hand across the table. “Deal?” she asks.
“Deal,” Dad says, shaking the hand. “And you’ve officially made me late for work. Why don’t I walk you out, Melissa, since there’s no quidditch practice today?”
“Of course.” She smiles and finishes her coffee. It’s not that hard to get what she wants.
* * *
• • •
When Dad gets home, I’m hiding in my room with a peanut-butter-sandwich dinner. After a morning spent cleaning out the fridge and helping Connie take furniture measurements for her future studio (also known as my room), followed by an afternoon helping Yasmín finish her Fun with Triangles! worksheet, I’m perfectly content catching up on webcomics and hearing Melissa’s babysitting horror stories told through exclamation points and emojis.
Xiumiao still hasn’t responded to my text. She and her parents left for their camping vacation yesterday, so it could be a phone service issue. Or, honestly, sometimes she’s just not great at responding to messages. I try not to care, every time my phone buzzes, that it isn’t her.
Dad fake-knocks, and I fake-smile.
“Hey, kiddo.” Dad leans against the doorway, so I don’t think I’m in danger of getting a talk. “I hear the day went well.”
An I statement, but not a discussion. He’s not asking me how I felt today.
“Yeah, fine.”
“I wanted to say . . .” Dad hesitates, runs his hand through his hair. “Melissa put up quite the fight. That’s a good friend you’ve got there.”
“I know.” I try so hard not to hear the compliment as a comparison.
Dad frowns and walks into the room to pat the top of my head. “What’s worrying you, Jelly?”
“Nothing.” There is no logical reason for me to be so soothed by the silly nickname, but it must be some kind of special Dad magic. “You know, I’ve seen you argue much tougher than you did today. It’s almost like you wanted to let Melissa win.”
Dad laughs. “What can I say? I’ve never been great at the punishment part of the dad gig.”
I almost ask, Why do it, then? But I know the answer. Connie.
When I roll my eyes, Dad laughs. He’s happy now, and I can’t help noticing the shallowness of it. He just wants to come home and have everything be peaceful. My laughter turns bitter.
“Hey, I used to hate authority once, too, kiddo.”
Okay, I do not “hate authority.” I just hate certain authority figures who hate me.
“Yeah, yeah, you became a soulless lawyer to save the world from injustice, right?”
“When I remember why I became a soulless lawyer, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’m going to see about some ice cream—or Rice Dream—before bed. Want to join?”
I guess I’m really Dad’s daughter, because I find comfort in the shallow cheerfulness. I don’t want to upset the fake peace. Plus, I’ve never been known to turn down my favorite rice-based vegan dessert substitute. “Sure, but enjoy it while you can. I can’t go around scarfing ice cream once I’m an athlete.”
Dad laughs. His favorite Mom story involves a surprise ice cream sundae date that was totally ruined by the fact that she had a soccer game in an hour.