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"This is unbelievable," he hisses. "You left over an argument?"

"No. Mom told me to make up with Ann, but Ann told me I had to leave. There was no room at Miriam’s, so⁠—”

“You may be eighteen, but you can’t just decide to take off whenever you want,” he says. “People other than you are impacted when you do these things.”

“No one was impacted,” I argue. “Mom and Hope and Faith are still there. They’re fine. I already had a bus ticket home. Who’s impacted?”

His voice is tight as he answers. “I can’t babysit you all weekend. I have to work.”

“Babysit?” I repeat. In what possible way would I need you to babysit me? I’m eighteen years old. I do more cooking and shopping and laundry in a week than you’ve done in your life.

“I’m working late,” he says. “Just assume you’re on your own until the morning, and then we’ll discuss this.”

Working late during break? It’s not impossible, but I thought the school was completely locked up. And why would he need to work? Why wouldn’t he work from home if he truly had to do something? He can access the school’s server from our computer.

The strangest part is his overreaction.

It’s well after nine, but I get my bike out of the garage and head toward the school. It feels good to ride it again. My legs stretch, the balmy breeze blows through my hair, and something inside me is soothed. The small wounds accrued over the course of the last twenty-four hours are still there, but they’ve begun to recede at last.

He must have an answer. So many accusations have been made, now—that he was cruel to Leila, that he took advantage of Mrs. Humboldt and my mom, that he assaulted Kelly Maguire. But he’ll have his own side to those stories. I’m willing to hear it.

I turn toward the school. The building looks dark from the distance and continues to look dark from the front. There is not a single car in the parking lot.

I don’t know where my dad is.

But he isn’t here.

He arrives back at the house very early in the morning, when it’s still dark. Maybe he assumed I’d be asleep.

I walk down the stairs, flipping on the light.

He goes from shock to anger in quick succession. “Young lady, I can’t begin to deal with all the errors you’ve made in the last day.”

I glance at the clock. “You’re coming home at four-thirty in the morning, Dad. Do we really want to start accusing each other of things? By the way, I ran into Mrs. Humboldt back home. She had loads of interesting things to say about you.”

I hold his gaze for a long moment. Go ahead. Threaten me. I’ll threaten you right back.

For a single moment, he looks older than his age, and beaten, but it doesn't last. “That woman is insane,” he says, “though you’re not acting all that sane yourself. I’m going to let this pass because you had a hard day.”

I want to laugh. He’s trying to get out of answering by acting as if I’m the one who needs to be forgiven. “What if I’m not willing to let it pass? Will you disown me?”

His eyes narrow. “Grace, if you think that disowning you is the worst I can do, you are gravely mistaken.”

All the breath leaves my chest. Maybe he’s bluffing. It’s not like he’s going to murder me. But I think of that time so long ago, when my mother was crying, and he asked if she needed to go away for a while to rest. That her tears stopped, as if whatever going away entailed was far worse than what was happening at home.

I rise and head up the stairs, refusing to let him see how unsettling his words were.

But I need to get the fuck out of here before he makes a decision for me.

The second I have my diploma, I’ve got to run.

28

My mom, Faith, and Hope return by bus on Easter Monday, all three of them regarding me with uncertain eyes. My sisters know I came back, and they know I'm in trouble.

My father acts as if I don't exist each night, and my mother—aside from the occasional pained glance my way—does the same. They come up with an endless list of chores as my punishment. I am, once again, grounded.

I would dearly love to show them exactly how unrepentant I am, but I need to be careful until this is done.