as they developed some new project, he was wholly focused on her brother. Ever the dutiful son, he checked in from Columbia weekly, sharing anecdotes from the dorms and character sketches of new friends, all of which allowed their dad to live vicariously.
Persey had only picked up snippets of those video calls, unintentionally eavesdropped as she was going to and from the kitchen. She’d been half-afraid her dad would insist that Persey be present at the weekly calls—an audience for the greatness of her older brother—but her dad had spared her that torture. But not out of mercy. He just wanted his son all to himself.
Though Persey had been exempted from those calls, she certainly hadn’t been able to fly under her dad’s radar in any other facet of her life. He was still fuming at her expulsion from the Allen Academy a year earlier, and his silent treatment had morphed into a nightly teardown session over dinner, where no matter what topic of conversation began the evening, it always dissolved into a litany of Persey’s faults.
UNLV made the Final Four? Persey wouldn’t know—she can’t count that high.
The latest electorate manipulation scandal? Don’t use any big words—Persey won’t be able to follow.
Unemployment rates up in the metro area? Persey will be joining them as soon as she graduates.
It was like a game her father played with himself, attempting to make even the most banal bit of information, like the weather report, into a dig at his daughter. Only eighty-five tomorrow? Still higher than Persey’s IQ!
Most (all) of the time, Persey just grinned and bore it. There wasn’t really a point in fighting back. Her dad’s tactics were childish, and there was no arguing with children. They just doubled down. So she kept her mouth shut, eyes glued to her dinner plate, wondering if her mother would ever (never) sober up long enough to realize that her husband was an emotionally abusive dickwad.
And even though Persey knew her father was just trying to punish her for some imaginary crime, the constant barrage wore on her, until she’d begun to contemplate skipping dinner altogether just to avoid the deluge of insults. Going to bed hungry might have been worth it.
But this flyer, this garishly colored piece of paper taped up to the door of the school theater, it was a lifeline.
THEATER DEPARTMENT NEEDS:
STAGE CREW
ORGANIZE PROPS, MOVE SETS, ETC.
MUST BE AVAILABLE FOR EVENING AND WEEKEND REHEARSALS AND PERFORMANCES
SEE MR. BECK IF INTERESTED
Evenings and weekends? That was exactly when Persey didn’t want to be home. But was there any chance in hell her dad would let her do it?
This was an extracurricular activity, a thing much coveted by students targeting college, as she’d learned from listening to her brother and his friends. They’d been obsessed with appearing “well-rounded” on applications. Maybe she could spin it that way? Her dad was constantly pestering her about college—perhaps he’d see it as Persey finally “getting serious” about her future?
Persey snapped a picture of the flyer with her phone and hurried off to fourth period, the hint of an elusive smile cracking the corners of her mouth.
It was worth a shot.
Persey was almost halfway through the nightly forty-five-minute dinner with her parents and she still hadn’t brought up her stage crew plan. It should have been a simple conversation starter, as easy as So I think I’m going to work on the spring musical at school, but nothing was ever easy with her dad. He’d spent most of the meal on his tablet in a furious back-and-forth with the tech department at the office over some glitches in the new product.
Which, of course, meant her dad was in a fouler mood than usual.
He’d been grumbling to himself for the better part of twenty minutes while typing so vehemently that Persey thought he might crack the glass on his device. Every third word was a poorly muffled curse, and every few moments, he’d glance up at the chandelier, thinking about his response, before diving back in.
Twice he’d laid the tablet aside, heaving something between a sigh and a growl, and leaned back in his chair, daring his wife or his daughter to ask what was wrong. But neither took the bait. Persey’s mom, who usually placated her husband by facilitating his airing of grievances, had retreated into a second bottle of chardonnay, and since Persey hadn’t initiated conversation around the dinner table in years, the oppressive silence remained.
Persey had been going back and forth in her mind about shelving