Page 9 of Cruel Demands

Because I’m leaving. Because my parents are drowning. Because every nice thing starts to feel like a trap when you can’t afford to keep it. Because if I let myself want something normal here, then going home will feel like losing it.

“Because I have to focus,” I say.

Anya makes a sympathetic noise. “Sosredotochit’sya.”

Focus.

“Don’t start.”

“Petyr told me what you said.”

“Traitor.”

“He said you aimed yourself at school.”

“I was close.”

“You threatened your education with a weapon.”

I throw a couch cushion at her.

She catches it against her chest, laughing. “Careful. Violence is poor substitute for grammar.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“You are sitting down.”

“I’m going to bed emotionally.” I reach for my phone again.

Anya gives me a suspicious look. “What are you doing?”

“Checking my email.”

“You already checked today.”

“This afternoon.”

“And government offices are famous for working late?”

“I know, I know.” I unlock my phone anyway. “If it wasn’t there this afternoon, it probably isn’t going to appear tonight.”

“Correct.”

“But my mom asked about it, and now I’m thinking about it again.”

“So stop thinking.”

“That has never worked for me before.”

“You could try.”

“I’m only checking once.”

Anya groans and lets her head fall against the back of the couch. “Taylor.”

“It might have come in before the office closed.”

“And you believe it waited patiently in your inbox until vodka prepared you emotionally?”