She raised an eyebrow. “I think you know she’s capable of dragging you down there, so you might as well just submit.”
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, she was right. I would not want to meet Belén in a dark alley. If she was paired up against a gang member in a street fight, my money would be on the pretty Chilean woman every time. Tilly marched down the stairs, never letting go of her dancer’s posture, and I followed behind her reluctantly.
Blanche was putting a large bowl of porotos con riendas—bean and pasta stew—on the table when we arrived. I inhaled deeply, the savory scent making my stomach rumble. It smelled more delicious than the last time we’d had it; I wondered if Blanche had made it instead of Belén. I was grateful that one third of the company, as well as the food, wouldn’t be as bad as usual. I filled a glass with water and sat down at my place.
“Could you get everyone else something to drink, Tatum?” Belén looked at me with disdain from the stove, like I should have known to serve everyone. Oops.
I pursed my lips, stood, and filled three more water glasses. As I set them down, Blanche winked at me. I gave her a small smile.
Once everyone was seated and Belén had said the blessing, which she did every night without fail, I filled my bowl to the brim and started shoveling it in. Apparently, manual labor made me really, really hungry. The clanging of silverware and porcelain ceased, and I looked up.
“What?” I said, which came out garbled because of the spoonfuls of happiness crowding my mouth. Belén and Tilly were looking at me like I was born in a barn, and Blanche was trying not to snicker.
“Why don’t you tell us about your first day at work, Tatum?” Blanche’s eyes crinkled in the corners, and I brightened.
“It’s community service, Abuela,” Tilly pointed out.
“Hush, Matilda. Let’s let Tatum speak for herself. So?”
I swallowed and focused on Blanche. “It was okay. A lot of hard work. You have to use regular garden tools to clip branches, which can be super tedious. But it wasn’t terrible. There are a couple of kids I know from school doing it too.”
Blanche smiled warmly. “It’s always better to do difficult tasks with friends.”
Belén frowned. “I hope you’re actually working and not socializing the whole time. Don’t forget you have to get your supervisor to sign off on your hours, and if you’re talking instead of working, I highly doubt you will earn his or her signature. You’re not there to make friends, Tatum; you’re there to do penance.”
Penance? Was this the Middle Ages? “I know. My supervisor—her name is Alicia—put us in pairs. We work with the buddy system.”
“You just make sure you obey all of Alicia’s rules.” Belén took a birdlike bite of soup and chewed for what felt like an hour. “Have you spoken to the Schmidts? Do you have a schedule worked out? I need to put it on the calendar.”
Belén, in addition to color-coded spare keys, had a color-coded and meticulously labeled calendar that had all of the family activities and appointments on it. I couldn’t deny it was helpful, since one of us was almost always somewhere doing something, but seeing my every move recorded for everyone to observe was a little disconcerting, a little Big Brother. It also made me sad to see “Ken—Out of Country” written on so many days.
I looked her straight in the eye and lied. It felt like the only way to get away from the new, stricter regime of our house and get a little time to myself. “I’ll be watching the girls evenings only, so it won’t conflict with the park service.”
“Perfect. And just so you’re aware, I will be writing down the mileage on your car when you leave for their house and when you return, so don’t even think about going somewhere else.”
My jaw popped open when she dropped that bomb. “Was that your idea, or did you read it on your favorite blog?”
She shook her head and set her fork down. “You have to learn responsibility. Someone has to make you accountable.” I hated how she automatically assumed the most restrictive method was the best.
Turns out I was wrong about dinner being tolerable. Not even Blanche or delicious food could change my stepmother.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I said between gritted teeth.
With my heart pounding in my chest and my legs shaking, I pushed out from the table and stomped up the stairs to my room, and slammed the door as hard as I could, rattling the pictures on my walls. I slid down to the floor and squeezed my eyes shut so tight that I started seeing little spots of light behind my lids. I exhaled and opened them. I had a sudden urge to call my dad, even though I knew he was asleep halfway across the world, and tell him what Belén was doing to me, but I didn’t think it was going to do any good. What if this new development had been his idea?
I decided to write to him instead.
Hi Dad,
Just wanted to say hello. My first day removing plants is in the books, and it went pretty well. Some kids from school are working there too, so at least I’m not alone, and my partner and I got a lot of nasty stuff cleared. In other news, it’s hot. How hot is it there?
Love, Tatum
I pressed send. Ten seconds later, my email dinged. Had Dad responded already? Nope. But someone had sent the very first email to my new TLC inbox!
To Whom It May Concern,
I picked up your card at the McIntosh High School Summer Showcase last week and I was happy to see that you offer design services. I am a rising senior at MHS, and was interested in having you create a book cover for the science fiction novel I plan on self-publishing. I have some general thoughts on what it should include, but I’m curious what someone with design experience would have to suggest. Please respond as soon as you can.
Thanks for your time,
Emily Berger
It had been sent from a McIntosh.edu address. A little thrill started in my chest and rose to my throat, where it exited my body in a yelp. My first official client! Not that Abby wasn’t official, but I already knew her, and I didn’t have my own business when she asked me to do her site.
I jumped up out of the chair and did a little dance, not unlike those I’d seen football players do in the end zone. This was my end zone. A bright spot in an otherwise pathetically awful night. Someone, this Emily Berger, whoever she was, was willing to take a chance on me. She was putting her publishing dreams in my hands. She was asking me to make her look good. Something shimmered in my veins; it felt a little like joy, though that emotion was relatively foreign as of late. I allowed myself a small smile and sat back down to write back to Emily.