Something in the Way (Something in the Way #1)(10)

“There’ll be a lot you won’t want to read in college. Just push through, Lake.” He turned back to his computer, effectively dismissing me. “Besides, I’d like you to finish so I can give you my own list.”

That was my summer in a nutshell. I didn’t need to ask why it had to be packed with schoolwork; I already knew. USC wasn’t looking for the type of student who finished some or most of her reading list. They wanted the ones who went above and beyond. Who had a second list. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to do it—I loved to read. But maybe Manning and Tiffany were right. Would it be so bad if I did something that wasn’t mandated by my dad, like picked up a book that interested me or took a night off?

“I want to go to the fair,” I said. “With Tiffany.”

He inspected the bottom of the handheld bulbous device that attached to the computer—a mouse, he’d called it, which had made me giggle. “I already said no.”

“I’ve been working really hard, Dad. I did summer school, I’ve been reading or studying nonstop, and next month, I’m volunteering to be a camp counselor again. Shouldn’t I get to have a little fun before summer ends?”

He looked up. “You know who has fun? Your sister. Do you want to turn out like her, no job, no money, living with us after high school? She had a chance to read the same books and get the same education you are, but she chose to goof off instead.”

At times, his disappointment in her seemed unfair. As long as I could remember, he’d expected little of her and a lot of me. I was just fulfilling his expectations—wasn’t it possible she was doing the same?

Before I could decide whether or not to defend her, he sighed. “You can go to Balboa and that’s it. Come straight home after.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Daddy. I’ll finish the book by then, promise.”

I went directly from his study to knock on Tiffany’s door. Her music was up loud, so I had to pound a little harder.

“Go away,” she said.

“It’s me.”

“I know.”

I entered, even though Tiffany might eviscerate me, to tell her the good news.

She lay on her bed, a pillow over her face. “What do you want?”

I stayed by the door in case she threw anything. She’d once broken the receiver of her touchtone because Dad had blown up over the phone bill. I couldn’t tell if she was crying. Usually when she did, it was loud enough for all of us to hear. Tiffany didn’t really see the point of crying if nobody knew about it.

“Dad’s letting us go out Saturday night.”

“I should’ve just had you ask in the first place. Duh. You always get what you want.”

I’d tried to do something nice, and now I was the bad guy. “Because I actually had something to bargain with. I’m doing well in school, so I get to ask for things. Maybe you should try to do something, too.”

She grabbed the pillow and flopped it on the bed next to her. “Like what?”

“I don’t know . . . get a job?”

“I barely got through high school.”

“You’re exaggerating,” I said. “Your grades just weren’t up to Dad’s impossible standards. You should just try to find something, even if it’s part-time.”

“Where?”

I rubbed my nose. “How about Nordstrom? You spend enough time there anyway.”

She blinked up at the ceiling. I thought I saw a hint of a smile. “At the mall the other day, this guy asked if I was a model. Maybe I could do that.”

“Like . . . as a career?”

“Um, have you heard of Claudia Schiffer?” she asked. “Or Linda Evangelista? She doesn’t wake up for less than ten thousand dollars a day.”

Tiffany was beautiful, there was no denying it. Truthfully, I couldn’t think of anyone I knew personally who was prettier than my older sister. But I wasn’t sure I could picture her walking the runways like the models in her coveted magazines. “I think you have to be, like, five-eight,” I said. “Or at least five-seven like Kate Moss.”

“I am five-seven.” She balked at me. “You and I are the same height.”

I wasn’t getting into that argument again. Mom had measured us both months ago, but despite the evidence, Tiffany insisted she wasn’t a half inch shorter than me. “Maybe you could model for Nordstrom, like in their catalogues,” I suggested.

“You think?” Her eyes lit up. “Then I’d get free stuff.”

“I don’t think you get free stuff,” I pointed out, although I wasn’t sure. “Do you?”

“You get an employee discount, so it’s practically free.”

“So you’ll try then? Maybe go down there and see how it works?”

She didn’t answer. I picked up the CD case next to her stereo. Gin Blossoms. The bands she listened to always had strange names. Like Pink Floyd. Was Floyd a person or a thing? If it was a thing, was it always pink, or did it come in different colors? I wanted to ask but she might’ve noticed Manning’s shirt, too, and then she’d want to know why I cared. But if it meant not embarrassing myself in front of him again, then I’d take that risk. “Do you know who Pink Floyd is?”

“Yep,” she said.