“That’s what Charles did,” Mom said, raising her glass to Dad. “He couldn’t afford private but he worked his way up through community college.”
Tiffany crossed her arms, sitting back in her chair. “Believe me, I don’t want to go to that dumb school. It’s like a fucking cult.”
Dad pointed his fork at her. “Watch your language. You’d be lucky to be at that school rather than wasting your time here watching TV and spending my money.”
“That’s not what I do all day.” She glanced nervously at Manning. “I’m looking at schools. I just don’t know where I want to go or what to major in yet.”
“Business,” Dad said. “Can’t go wrong with that. Once you get your degree, maybe you could manage a clothing store. Since you love to shop.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Maybe I’ll open my own clothing store.”
“Run your own business? Do you have any idea what that takes? Discipline. Hard work. Start-up capital. That’s just the basics.”
I could see where this conversation was going, and even though I didn’t always agree with my sister, I didn’t want to see her embarrassed. “How about a fashion designer?” I suggested. Managing people wouldn’t be good for her. She was more creative than us and did better without confines or rules. That was how I’d heard Mom defend her to my dad, anyway. “You’d be good at that.”
She ignored me. “You act like my life is over just because I don’t know what I want to do,” she said to Dad. “I could be a lot worse off right now, you know. I ran into Regina Lee at the mall today.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“That girl in my class who got pregnant.”
I remembered the name. The story of her relationship with a math teacher had been all over the news. Things like that didn’t happen at our school. It was when I’d learned the term statutory rape.
“The worst I did in high school was get bad grades and maybe have a little too much fun,” Tiffany said. “Regina has a baby. She was crying to me about how she’s raising it alone.”
“What’d she think was going to happen?” Dad asked. “She’d ride off into the sunset with a pedophile? How much time did he get? Three years?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “Statutory rape.”
“Goddamn ridiculous. They went too easy on him. I would’ve charged him with real rape.”
“They were in love,” Tiffany said.
“I don’t care.” Dad stabbed a piece of steak with his fork. “I have plenty of friends in the legal system. If that’d been Tiffany, that scumbag’d be away so long, he’d come back a different person.”
“Oh, my,” Mom said, glancing at Manning. “How’d we get on this subject?” She refilled Dad’s wineglass. She knew when and how to steer the conversation, especially when Dad and Tiffany were at each other’s throats. “You know, Lake’s off to camp soon. Are you looking forward to it, honey?”
I was about to say yes. As a kid, I’d had fun, but I’d enjoyed last year even more as a junior counselor. Young Cubs was a week-long sleepaway camp in the woods with outdoor activities and nightly campfires. But a new thought occurred to me. What would happen with Manning when summer ended? I wouldn’t be able to find him at the lot during the day. It wasn’t as if I could get in a car and go see him, and that wasn’t just because I didn’t have my license. Summer ended in just over four weeks. If I spent one of those away at camp, that only left me three with Manning. “Do I have to go?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Mom asked. “You had a great time last year.”
“But yes, you have to,” Dad said. “It looks good on your application.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Does everything have to be about college?”
Dad looked at her, then Mom. “Your daughter has more attitude than an entire sorority house.” He chuckled.
Tiffany scoffed, but she was smiling. “And whose fault is that?” she asked. “It’s genetics.”
Dad, finishing his second glass of wine, muttered, “Attitude is not genetic. There—put that on a sticker and slap it on your bumper.” Everyone but Manning laughed. Tiffany had stickers plastered on her school supplies, her desk, her walls, and even a couple on her car. They ranged from a pink, glittery one that read “Warning: I Have an Attitude and I Know How to Use it” to a black, round one with a red “A” scratched in the center. I’d asked why she had an anarchy sticker, and she’d given me a funny look and told me it was “punk, duh.” Dad said it was to piss him off.
Manning had already cleared his plate and was going for seconds. “What’s this camp thing about?”
“It’s in Big Bear,” I said.
He nodded his approval. “Love it up there.”
“It’s for kids,” Tiffany added. “I would die of boredom.”
“I’ll be a junior counselor,” I said, “which means I’m going to be paired with an adult counselor and we’ll be in charge of a cabin for the week. We sleep there at night and do activities during the day.”