numbers on a stark-white page staring up her at her? Panic. Mistakes. It was as if her brain couldn’t function normally in such circumstances. Everything fell apart.
“Honey…” Persey’s mom’s voice drawled from the living room, where she sat on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. There was a pause, which usually meant she was taking a sip from her wineglass, then a gentle clank as she placed it (temporarily) on the coffee table and leaned back so she could see her husband and daughter. “Honey, why don’t we get her a tutor?”
“No!” her dad snapped. “We tried that once, and it did nothing. Just an embarrassing waste of money. She has to learn to do this on her own.”
“But you have this same argument every time she brings a test home,” her mom persisted. Which was a rare occurrence. Usually her defense of her daughter was withdrawn as soon as her husband swatted her opinions down. “Maybe it’s time to try something else?”
“Yes,” her dad said, catching them both off guard. Was he really going to agree with his wife? “Yes, she needs to pay attention in class for a change.”
Persey knew it was futile to try to reason with him—he was the kind of man who always got his way, either through coercion, force, or the large amounts of money he’d throw at a problem—but she was thirteen now. Not a child anymore. She should be allowed to advocate for her own needs.
“I can’t focus,” she said, staring at the packet of pages on the table in front of her dad, the “D-minus” in red ink jabbing at her insides. “When I’m taking a test, it’s like I can’t remember anything.”
Her dad arched an eyebrow. “Can’t or won’t?”
Did he really think she was getting mediocre grades on purpose?
“I…”
His phone vibrated against the table, mercifully interrupting the conversation, and the screen lit up with a photo. It was a familiar one—a young guy with unkempt hair holding up the MVP trophy from last year’s varsity regionals soccer championships. Her older brother.
“You’re on speakerphone,” he said, answering the call.
“Hey, Dad. Everything okay?” Their father was so predictable: Persey’s brother knew from just three words that Dad was in a mood.
“It’s nothing.”
Just another Tuesday night of Dad tearing me to pieces.
“Ooooh-kay.”
“What can I do you for, Boss?” He always called her bother “Boss.” Grooming him to take over the family business.
“Just wanted to let you and Mom know that I won’t be home for dinner. I’ve got study group after practice, and it may go late.” In the background, Persey could clearly hear a girl giggling. Anatomy study group, apparently.
“Is that my beautiful boy?” Persey’s mom called from the living room.
“Hi, Mom! How’s that chardonnay I recommended?”
“The butteriest!” she cooed, as if wine suggestions from your seventeen-year-old son were the most normal and delightful things in the world.
“Knew you’d love it!”
Her mom raised a glass, silently toasting the phone, and Persey fought to keep from rolling her eyes.
“Anyway,” he continued, his voice more serious. It was the tone he took when addressing their dad, as if matching the gravity of Dad’s tone would make him take his son more seriously. And it seemed to work. “I might miss curfew tonight. Might. I’ll do everything I can not to, but tomorrow’s exam—”
“Don’t worry about it, Boss,” her dad said. “Do what you need to do. Senior year, after all! I’ll have Esme leave a plate of food out for you.”
“Thanks, Dad. You’re the best!”
Her dad stared at the phone until the portrait of her brother blipped off the screen. “I wish you were more like him,” he said without looking up.
Of course you do.
He was perfect; she was a mess. He got straight A’s; she struggled not to flunk. He was senior-class president; she was a nobody.
That’s what her parents saw, what they believed to be true.
But they didn’t know their son at all.
PERSEY’S INTESTINAL TRACT HAD TWISTED ITSELF INTO SOME kind of Eagle-Scout-merit-badge-worthy knot during her flight to Las Vegas. She didn’t love flying—she’d watched one too many runway disaster shows on the Weather Channel late at night when she couldn’t sleep to make air travel a totally relaxing experience—but that wasn’t the real reason for her anxiety. She was less stressed about the flying than about what she was flying toward.
Escape-Capades World Headquarters.
Why did I agree to do this?
It was a stupid question to ask, since she knew the answer already. All ten million of them. When you’re seventeen with no