The Hearts We Sold(7)

Suddenly, she felt heavier—and she couldn’t be sure if it was because she had gotten fatter or if it was disappointment weighing her down.

Dee looked at the linoleum floor. “No time in my schedule.”

“You should make the time,” said Mr. Moreno, and Dee didn’t argue. She opened the cupboard and withdrew three plates, carrying them to the dining room.

Dinner was its usual affair of sitting around a dented wooden table. The roast was well seasoned and Dee cut into it with the care and intensity Gremma used while vivisecting her teddy bears.

“Are you still taking that advanced history class?” asked Mr. Moreno. Dee’s heart leaped.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I—I think I’m getting an A in it.”

Mr. Moreno bit into a large mouthful of roast, chewed, then swallowed. “It’s a waste of time. You should be taking classes that’ll be useful once you graduate. Something that would help the business—accounting or mechanics.”

Never mind the fact that Dee hadn’t ever shown the slightest inclination toward accounting and had once managed to break a miniature helicopter at school.

Dee’s gaze went back to her plate. “I like history,” she said, very quietly.

“You like sitting in class listening to someone tell you stories rather than learning how to fix things? How to be useful?” There was no mistaking the edge of scorn in his voice. “Of course you would.”

“Are you thinking about next year’s classes?” Mrs. Moreno chirped.

Dee’s fork froze in midair. She forced herself to eat the bite of roast; it gave her a moment to gather her thoughts.

Might as well tell them. It would be like pulling off a Band-Aid, she rationalized. Best to get it over quickly. She set her fork down and placed her hands in her lap so no one could see her fidget.

“They’re revoking my scholarship,” she said.

Mr. Moreno’s fingers went tight around his beer bottle. “What did you do?”

A shiver of adrenaline passed through her. “Nothing,” she said, too sharply. “It was something to do with budget cuts. It was the scholarship students or the art program.”

“Like they need a fucking art program,” muttered Mr. Moreno.

Mrs. Moreno’s hands shook slightly as she pressed a napkin to her mouth. “Well, it’s not the most horrible thing that could happen,” she said, offering up a smile. “We’d be glad to see you more often.”

As if there was nothing to be done—as if Dee coming home was a certain thing. Her stomach turned over. She had thought if she told them tonight, they might spend the rest of the break trying to figure something out. Perhaps see what kind of money they had in savings, research if they could take out a small loan. It was what parents were supposed to do.

“We’d be glad to see you at all,” Mr. Moreno said under his breath.

Dee’s fork slid through her potatoes with a little too much force. It dinged against her plate. Because passive-aggressive comments make me want to spend more time here, she almost said, but managed to hold the words in her mouth through the rest of the meal.

“I’ll do the dishes,” she said once she was done eating. She pushed away from the table and her father made no comment.

Carry plates to sink. Fill sink. Add soap. Scrub plates. There was almost a meditative rhythm to it. There were no dishes to wash at the dorms. The most cleanup she did there was keeping her side of the room neat. Here, the state of the house gave her something to do.

Maybe it was because she hadn’t seen it in two months, but the place looked worse than she remembered. She hadn’t been here to scrub away the mold taking root near the toilet or the smell of stale milk in the fridge. She wondered how long it had been since they shopped and, absurdly, she felt a swell of protectiveness. This used to be her job, making sure everything ran smoothly. She shook herself and tried to push away the thought.

Mr. Moreno sidled into the kitchen and stood perhaps two feet away. Dee felt her body jump, quivering like Gremma’s Camaro when she shifted gears too quickly.

For a long minute, he didn’t say anything. Dee continued to wash the dishes, adding in the cups and cutlery, going to work on them with a sponge. Maybe it would be different this time. Maybe he would comment on her willingness to work hard, to try to stay at school. Maybe—

“You think you’re too good to come home?” he asked.

His expression had changed. Gone was the semblance of control. It had been replaced with something sloppy and ugly and terrifying. Suddenly, she was all too aware of his nearness, of the heat coming through his cotton T-shirt and the sheer size of him. She held a breath until she felt it burn in her lungs, held it until it wouldn’t look like retreating when she took a step back. She reached into the soapy water, eyes on the reflection in the kitchen window. Her fingers touched the edges of a serrated knife and she skimmed downward, finding the handle.

Mr. Moreno leaned against the fridge. “Don’t see why the school here isn’t good enough for you.”

“It’s not about it being good enough,” said Dee. She tried to talk calmly. “It’s about the best shot for my future, for getting into a really good college—”

“Don’t see why your future requires you to spend so much time away from your family,” said Mr. Moreno. His voice had roughened into a familiar tone, one that set Dee’s teeth on edge. She spoke more quickly, voice low.