are so wide he takes up all my arm space.
“So, Keelers and Warlands,” Tim says, after Vee sits down at the other end of the table. “What’d we accomplish today?”
Vee shares a story about an old high-school friend she ran into at the grocery store while she looked for ingredients to a new recipe she wanted to try. Lucy regales us with the research she did on tennis racquets, and spends five minutes trying to convince Tim to let her buy a restringing machine, which he declines. Bren complains about a young couple who abandoned a puppy at the day care because they got it as an early Christmas gift but didn’t want to keep it. The rest of us eat while the other person talks. Then Tim turns his sights on me.
“Eliza, would you like to share?”
“Oh. Um.” What have I done today? I lay in bed and watched Netflix. I opened up yesterday’s Westcliff Star and read the wrap-up story about the Wellhouse Turn deaths about twelve times. Then I scheduled the single Monstrous Sea page going up tonight—the only one I could finish, considering the damage Wallace had done to my productivity. After that, I spent a few hours sweating. Then I showered. And now I’m here.
“Why don’t I go?” Wallace says. “I’m done eating.” He inhaled his food.
Tim turns to him instead.
“I helped Bren get that retriever that’s had the trust issues to let me give it a bath today,” Wallace says. Then the corners of his lips creep upward. “And, uh . . . I sold two more commissioned stories.”
“Two more?” Vee chirps. “Wally, that’s great!”
“You didn’t tell me that!” Bren says.
Lucy throws her napkin at him. “Are you going to let me read them?”
Tim smiles. “That’s great, Wallace. Are these your fanfiction stories?”
“Yeah. Not Monstrous Sea, but something else.”
“Have you tried selling any of your own?”
Wallace scratches the back of his neck. “That’s not really how it works. People request the stories because they already know the characters, and what they want.”
“Hmm.” Tim goes back to his eggs. “So is this what you’d be doing with your major next year? Writing fanfiction?”
All amusement has left Wallace’s face. “No, they don’t do fanfiction in any creative writing major.”
“So you’d be writing your own work.”
“Yeah.”
“What is that going to get for you, if you can’t make money off your own work?”
“Timothy,” Vee warns. “Not while we have a guest.”
I shrink into Wallace’s side, but Tim’s laser gaze finds me anyway. “Eliza,” he says. “You plan on going to college next year, don’t you? What do you want to major in?”
Art seems like the obvious answer, but I haven’t settled on anything yet because there’s no major for drawing Monstrous Sea. But saying “art” doesn’t seem like it’ll get me many points in Tim’s book. “Graphic design,” I say. “For, like, marketing. And stuff.” Way to stick the landing, Mirk.
“Graphic design,” Tim repeated. “See, Wallace, even that has business appeal. Graphic designers can make good money. I’m not saying you can’t do writing, just do some writing that you can build a career on. Creative writing isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
Wallace clamps his mouth shut and stares at his plate. Lucy shoves a piece of bacon into her mouth, and Bren covers her face with a hand, slowly shaking her head.
“This fanfiction thing is for fun. Your mother and I won’t be paying for a college education that supports a hobby. We want you to do something meaningful.”
Tim keeps going. Wallace’s fist tightens against his thigh. I brush my finger against it, and he grabs my hand. Squeezes hard, like he’s in pain. I squeeze back.
“I know you don’t like listening to this,” Tim says, “but it’s the way the world is.”
A beat of silence falls over the table as Tim goes back to his eggs. Then Wallace says, “May we be excused?”
Tim looks ready to say no, but his mouth is full. Vee shoots him a venomous look from the other end of the table and says, “Yes, hon, you and Eliza are excused. I’ll get your plates.”
Wallace stands and pulls me out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 22
Down the back hallway is a set of stairs that lead to the basement. The basement is brick walled, carpeted, and chillier than the rest of the house. Wallace flicks a light switch at the bottom of the stairs that turns on soft, ambient sconces. The room is divided in half by a wall with a large opening. On