"Drive," I say.
Mom has a driver but Dad always drives himself. He doesn't trust other people with cars, money, or decisions. He's sixty-one, tall, and lean from playing tennis three times a week and eating the same grilled chicken salad for lunch every day. Silver hair,clean-shaven, wearing a navy polo shirt. His hands are clamped tightly on the steering wheel and his jaw is set.
Dad pulls out of the parking lot. "How was it?" he asks, without looking at me.
I laugh and it comes out sharp and humorless and a little unhinged. "Great, Dad. Really great. I had so much fun and made lots of friends."
He doesn't respond to this. He indicates and merges onto the road. I know he's not impressed with me, but still… I could really do with a little sympathy.
I open the window and stick my head out like a Labrador, breathing in fresh air. Jail smells like a combination of things no one should have to catalog — industrial bleach that doesn't quite cover the stench of the toilets, reheated food that could be anything, body odor from women who refuse to shower, and an underlying note of something sweet and rotten. On the third night, someone had a stomach problem so violent that three women moved their mattresses to the far end of the room and Tammy announced loudly that she'd "smelled better things in a dumpster behind Denny's." The smell didn't leave. It just became part of the air, like everything else in there.
"Thanks for driving me to — what's it called? Dustbin? Dirtville?" I wave a hand. "Whatever."
"Duster," he says. "And I'm not doing it out of kindness. I don't trust you to get there on your own without ending up on the news again."
I open my mouth to argue but I'm too tired to fight with a man who's never lost an argument in his life. "We need to stop by my place first," I say. "I have to pack."
"No need. Irina used our spare key and went over to your place to pack some things for you. Casual clothes, toiletries, whatever she thought you'd need. If there's anything else, I can send it next week."
Irina has been my parents' housekeeper since I was fourteen. She's lovely but I don't like the idea of her letting herself into my penthouse and deciding what I'll be wearing for the next two months. She has no taste and no idea what I need.
"I hope she at least packed my iPad and my laptop."
"I'm sure she did." Dad adjusts the rear-view mirror. "I'm going to need the Amex. The black one. And the Visa."
"What?" I blink. "Why?"
He's quiet as we pass a gas station, a strip mall, a billboard advertising personal injury lawyers. Then he says, "I've been looking at your spending."
"Dad —"
"Nineteen thousand dollars in May. Twenty-eight thousand in June — what on earth happened in June?"
"I went to Ibiza with —"
"I don't care. Twenty-eight thousand dollars in a month, Sloane. On what? It's not like you have a mortgage to pay."
I honestly have no idea so I keep quiet. Money moves through my hands like water and I don't track it because I've never had to. A dinner here, a purse there, a flight, a hotel, a round of drinks, another purse, or a pair of heels.
"Your mother and I have discussed it," he says, and whenever a sentence starts with that, it generally doesn't end well for me. "We think this will be a learning opportunity for you. You're twenty-eight. It's about time."
"A learning opportunity," I repeat.
"Two months without being able to buy your way out of every inconvenience. You'll be living like a normal person. We think it'll be good for you."
"I do live like a normal person."
He glances at me — very brief, but it communicates several paragraphs. "Sloane. You've never paid a bill in your life. Youdon't cook. You don't clean. You've never held a job for longer than four months."
"The gallery wasn't a good fit," I say, referring to my most recent attempt at adulting.
"Nothing's a good fit. Nothing has ever been a good fit. And that's partly our fault. Your mother and I gave you everything and maybe we shouldn't have. But we did, and now here we are."
"What exactly are you saying?" I ask.
"For the two months you're in Duster, no credit cards. No Amex and no emergency Visa. Nothing."
"Dad, you can't —"
