The Hearts We Sold(8)

“It’s a good school.” Less calm this time.

“That good school doesn’t teach you anything you need,” he scoffed. “Shakespeare and drama and philosophy. You think that’s gonna help you get a job? You think you can survive in the real world?”

It felt like a fist was squeezing her insides; if she were being honest with herself, the real world terrified her. With its unspoken rules and paperwork and threats of never finding a real job. That was why she’d gone to Brannigan—because graduates always went to a good college, any college of their choice.

“It’s what I want,” she said in a thin voice.

“Daughters don’t abandon their families,” he said.

Dee looked down at the gray, soapy water. “Fathers don’t guilt their daughters over wanting a better life.” She spoke the words without thinking. There was a moment of heavy silence, and Dee thought the tension might pass.

Something hit the floor and shattered. A beer bottle or a glass. Dee didn’t look. Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt. “Better?” snarled her father. “Better than this? You think you’re better than us? We’re not good enough for you anymore?”

“Mark?” Then Mrs. Moreno was there, warily edging into the kitchen. “Dee, did you drop something?”

Dee released the knife and it sank beneath the dirty water. Keeping her gaze averted, she said, “Sorry, need to use the bathroom,” and hurried out of the room. She strained for any sound to indicate she was being followed, but there was nothing.

Going to the bathroom was an easy choice. It was the only room with a working lock.

Coward.

She was a coward.

She shut the door behind her and sat on the toilet lid. Already, her mother was picking up the thread that Dee had left off.

“—Fucking stuck-up school—”

“—Mark, you cannot tell her she can’t go there—”

“”

“—”

“”

The words blurred in her ears, became familiar chords in a song she knew all too well. She knew where this would end up, with her father ranting about how hard he worked and how grateful they should all be, about how he never had this kind of life growing up, about respect and family and how spoiled his daughter had turned out, and with her mother eventually going to the backyard, pretending to get some air but smoking hard out beneath the walnut tree.

Dee turned the shower on and let the sound of the water drown out everything else.





FIVE


S he lasted two days.

She tried, she really did.

She fell into her old routines; she cleaned the bathroom and tossed the moldy food from the fridge. She took refuge in the backyard, tried to pull prickly weeds from the overgrown lawn—a joke, she thought, since her father kept other yards pristine. Of course their lawn would resemble a half-dead jungle.

She slept in late enough so she didn’t have to join in at any awkward morning conversations. Once she heard the distinct slam of the front door, she would venture downstairs in pajamas and robe to make breakfast for her mother. Dee knew the basics of cooking, had taught herself with her grandmother’s recipe book propped up against a can of lentil soup. It had been simple stuff at first—omelets and pancakes and French toast. But then she’d moved on from breakfast to soups and stir-fries, and by the time she left for Brannigan, she knew how to crack an egg with one hand, how to whip up a meal from nearly any kind of leftovers, and how to judge if she could cut away the mold on a piece of food or if it was a goner.

But now, no matter how she tried, she could not slip back into this old life. She was fine with short visits; she enjoyed her mother’s company and the familiarity of the house, but the prospect of living here permanently made her want to scratch at her neck until the skin was raw.

Her mother took the news of Dee’s leaving like she always did—with bright smiles, overfull eyes, and hands that trembled.

“Sorry,” Dee lied. “It’s just, this project is half our biology grade and Gremma can’t do all the work. That’s why they break us into pairs.” She insisted on making breakfast, which consisted of digging out two clean bowls and trying to determine which cereal hadn’t gone stale yet. Dee sat at the dining room table, fingers knotted in her lap, filled with a combination of pity and affection.

“At least the coffee’s still good,” said Mrs. Moreno, smiling as she set down two mugs. Dee took the nearer one and sipped.

Bitter heat flooded her mouth. She swallowed the burn of the whiskey, making an effort to keep her face normal. “I think I got your cup,” she said, and pushed it back.





The dorms were startlingly quiet. Dee liked it that way. The only person she spoke to was the dorm monitor when she lied about needing to return for a school project.

Dee sat with her secondhand laptop looking up fellowships, scholarships, jobs, anything. The problem was that while her parents weren’t wealthy like most of the students here, they also weren’t poor. They were the middlest of middle class, and thus she was disqualified for most financial aid. Her own scholarship had been merit-based.

Looking up summer jobs was next, but there weren’t any good ones—at least not for someone who wasn’t eighteen. And none of them paid a fraction of what tuition cost.