“School’s fine,” she said. “I think I did well on my midterms.” Already, she could feel herself falling into her role—trying to be the best possible version of herself, as if she could keep anything bad from happening by simply being cheerful. “Mind if I drop this stuff off in my room?”
She’d learned this dance long ago; the steps were polite and careful. Smiles and nods. Take luggage to room. Spend five minutes in room staring at one’s self in the mirror and trying to perfect a realistic smile. Go downstairs. More hugs. More pleasantries. Dinner. Maybe a movie. Spend entire movie staring at the screen instead of the other people in the living room. Claim early bedtime.
Dee knew her role—be quiet but not too quiet, smile until her cheeks hurt, gently steer the conversation to casual, light things. She would spend the next few days working on the house; her parents would expect it. Well, actually, her mother would tell her to stop fussing with the fridge and tell her all about the boys in her classes and had Dee met anyone nice? And how was that roommate of hers, the one with the red hair and all those adorable teddy bears? Her father, on the other hand, would probably hand her a scrub brush and say something about finding mold in the bathroom.
She dropped her bags onto her bed. The air was stale, still, as if no one had opened the door since she’d left after Christmas break. The room held all the trappings of her childhood—toys crammed in an old chest, clothes hanging in the closet, ticket stubs from movies she’d thought she might put in a scrapbook. But she had never ended up making that scrapbook, so instead the papers cluttered together on the edge of her desk. There was a daddy longlegs perched on a cobweb in the corner.
Dee gazed up at the spider for a long moment, then decided to face the inevitable. She drifted down the stairs, feeling aimless and uncertain.
Her mother was nowhere to be found, but her father was in the kitchen.
People always said that Deirdre must be a daddy’s girl because she looked so much like her father—light brown skin, dark hair, a tendency toward stockiness. But Dee couldn’t see it herself. She was all those things, yes. But she had none of her father’s hard-earned strength, the scars on his hands from years of handling lawn mowers and shovels. He had begun his own landscaping business when he was in his twenties and worked his way into a decently comfortable life. Now he had employees (whom he constantly complained about), an office, and better health insurance just in case a weed-whacker tried to take a finger.
He always put her in mind of one of those bulls from the rodeo—thick through the shoulders and waist, all corded muscle and huffing breaths.
Mr. Moreno stood by the stove, hovering over a steaming pot. “Broccoli?” asked Dee.
“Potatoes,” said Mr. Moreno. He glanced up. “It’s been a while.”
He hugged her. This time the hug smelled like sweat and cut grass. At the scent, that knot in her chest twisted a little tighter. Mr. Moreno released her and took a step back, surveying his daughter with a keen eye. Dee held herself rigidly—shoulders back and chin high. Her best self, she thought. Strong and smart, still wearing her Brannigan shirt with the logo on it. A good student. A successful daughter. Someone a parent could be proud of.
“You’ve gained weight,” he said. “You aren’t taking a PE class this semester?”
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.”
