“That’s not the point.”
“Well, what is the point?” Connie’s lips press tight together, and she sucks her breath in before continuing, “Those things you’re describing are just common sense—you have to keep yourself safe. You should know that; I taught you that.”
“So you just think that doing all the ‘right’ things will protect individuals from a systemic problem? That doesn’t work! That line of thinking is just—that’s how we get victim blaming and . . .” My thoughts aren’t forming logical sentences, but it doesn’t matter because the front door crunches and creaks as Dad unlocks it, and I realize that I’m yelling, or at least that my voice has gotten loud, and I can’t get into trouble for fighting again, so I snap my mouth shut.
Connie and I both watch Dad walk into the living room and drop his briefcase on the coffee table. Loosen his tie. Yawn. Give Connie a peck on the cheek and pat my head. Connie may as well be wearing pearls with her heels and cooking meatloaf in her state-of-the-art microwave.
“Hey, what’s going on in here? How are my girls?”
I shrug, hoping to gloss over my outburst. But instead, Connie sets her face into a worried half frown. “We were just talking,” she says slowly, “about some of Ellen’s . . . concerns. About feminism.”
“Feminism?” Dad laughs in one loud burst, a single-syllable explosion of air. “Okay, let’s talk about feminism. What’s the big bad patriarchy up to today?”
I feel coated in ice, carved from marble, or just deeply, deeply exhausted. I don’t know how to yell at Dad.
He sits down on the couch, barely seeming to notice that his weight topples one of Connie’s stacks—her folded camisoles. She jumps up and rushes to move the offending clothes out of his way, then returns to folding.
I can’t sit here and listen to Dad and Connie explain how feminism is obsolete and I’m too young to be thinking about these things and I shouldn’t get so worked up. I should get worked up. They should get worked up.
“No, it’s nothing,” I tell Dad. “It’s fine.” That’s what he wants to hear. That’s what he’s willing to handle.
I grab my pile of T-shirts and underwear. “I’ll go put these away,” I say. Walking up the stairs, I hear Dad and Connie laughing, trying to be quiet about it.
Teenagers, they’re probably saying.
I’ve never been so glad to have quidditch tomorrow. I really need to tackle someone as soon as possible.
11
Shoes! Melissa’s Sunday-morning text reads.
Can you elaborate? I text back. It’s nine in the morning, we don’t have to leave for League City until three, and I just want to sleep.
Do not show up to the League City game in Converse, please, Melissa elaborates. Find some real shoes!
I text back a thumbs-up but decide that I can’t possibly investigate the shoe situation until after I check social media and eat breakfast.
My chore list is on the kitchen table along with a granola bar, a banana, and a glass of orange juice. Kitchen: dishes, counters, clean out the refrigerator. Typical daily stuff, which will take me twenty minutes, tops. Laundry: wash, dry, and fold everything in the laundry room. We just did a bunch of laundry yesterday, so there shouldn’t be much. Garage: all the trash furniture out, all the saved furniture to Goodwill.
I stare at that last item.
“There you are.” Connie walks briskly into the kitchen, heels on, hair straightened, makeup applied. “You haven’t eaten yet? Heavy-trash pickup is tomorrow morning, so we need everything out of that garage today!”
I bite into my banana, still not really believing what I’m hearing. I’ve sorted a lot of the big furniture already—a good three-quarters forms a giant trash pile in the driveway. But it took me a week to get that far. I could maybe finish today, if I worked nonstop from now until midnight.
“But it’s Sunday. I have quidditch. We’re going to League City for a game.” My throat feels tight as I watch Connie have zero reaction to this news except to check her watch.
“I told you about it a few days ago,” I say, my voice small. It’s a shock to realize that I want to go to the game—not just to see Melissa, not just to get out of the house. I want to hang out with all the quidditch people. I’m starting to really like those nerds. “You said I could go.”
“What do you want me to say?” Connie asks. “It has to be done today. You can see your friends next time.”
“The garage won’t be ready to rent in two months,” I point out. “Can’t we just save whatever’s not sorted yet for the next pickup?”
“And leave piles of broken furniture in our driveway?” Connie asks. “The neighbors will love that.”
“Who cares what the neighbors think?”
“I care! I can’t get clients if my own house is a dump.”
Clients? Is she serious? I thought stealing my room to make a design workshop was enough for her; I didn’t realize she wanted to actually charge money for it.
“I’m sorry,” Connie says, snatching my still half-full glass of orange juice and dumping it down the garbage disposal, “but this is your project and your responsibility, and you—you need to grow up!” She washes the glass and shoves it into the cabinet before finally turning to face me. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready to start.” She spins around and stomps out the back door.
I clutch my half-eaten banana hard enough to bruise it.
I try to stop fuming. I need to be Melissa, always optimistic, always confident that she can get what she wants. Always willing to assume the best of Connie. I take a deep breath and walk out the back door.
Connie stands in the driveway, scowling at the mess.
“What if I just focus on the trash for today?” My voice only squeaks a little.
“What do you mean?” Connie asks. She paces toward the broken rocking chair, tugs it a few feet down the driveway before stopping to brush dust off her crisp black skirt.
“Well.” I try to radiate Melissa vibes. “I’m supposed to do dishes, laundry, get the trash to the curb, and get the salvageable stuff to Goodwill. It’s a lot to do, but I get that the trash needs to be finished today. So can we please compromise? If I can get all the trash to the curb by three, can I go to my game? I promise I will work twice as hard on the garage tomorrow, and I’ll do all the dishes as soon as I get home . . . please?”
Sweat collects on my T-shirt, only partly related to the morning heat, while Connie reaches for the wobbly lamp that used to light Yasmín’s bedroom. There’s some mysterious gray goo spread all over the surface, which I know from last week does not come off of hands easily. “Fine,” Connie says, pulling her hand back. “The important thing is to clear out all the trash. But if you’re not going to do any housework, then I can’t be out here helping you.”