Tess sits down on the edge of my bed, and when I glance back, I see that she’s in her ‘messy author’ uniform, the one that I like so much better than the Prada heels and the Armani suit jackets. She looks human right now, which makes all of her bullshit easier to swallow somehow.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me right now,” she hazards, picking up a picture frame from my wooden nightstand. It’s a family photo from last year, one with Saffron, Maxine, my grandparents, and me in it. Her face twitches, and I can see that it’s taking a real effort on her part not to say anything. “But I wanted to give you your new phone.”
I see a white box sitting on the bed beside her, but how can I get excited about that? A new phone with a new number and all sorts of tracking devices and parent spy software? Gross.
“Thanks.” I notice that the box contains an iPhone. Ugh. Why do pretentious rich people always love Apple products so much? My last phone was a Fairphone, the most ethical and responsibility created smartphone that Maxine could find. Oh well. In the scope of things, it isn’t such a huge deal, is it?
No, the phone isn’t a big deal, but the way Tess trashed it? That was. Incredibly disrespectful and selfish. So, here I am, without a phone or a TV or a PlayStation or a laptop. All I have is my academy-issued iPad which is locked down like San Quentin. I tried to look up a red-footed booby (this is a bird, by the way) to help Benjamin with his science report last night, and it gave me an inappropriate content warning for the word ‘booby’.
“Dakota,” Tess begins, and I pause, holding a stack of clothes in my hands. When I first walked in here after school, I could smell home. And oh my god, oh my god, I can’t even begin to describe how much I missed it. There was the scent of pine mixed with the gardenia laundry detergent that my grandpa likes, a hint of sawdust and just a whiff of Nevaeh’s body spray. I won’t lie: I cried. I went into my bathroom, and I sat on the toilet, and I just cried for about thirty minutes straight.
“It’s Dakota now?” I ask, which really does sound bitchy as hell, but I can’t seem to help it.
There’s a long moment of silence as I carry the clothes over to the dresser and put them in one of the center drawers. My stuff looks so weird in here, a total disconnect from the space-age light fixtures, the wall of windows, and the cold white walls. But at least I feel like I’ve gotten a small part of myself back.
“I’m happy to call you Dakota, so long as you behave in an appropriate manner.”
I grit my teeth against the grating nature of her comment. Behave in an appropriate manner? You mean, just sit there and listen to her call my grandparents monsters on live TV? Or thank her for smashing my phone to pieces in the sink?
I promised I would try here. I promised. I fucking promised. To be quite honest, that’s the only reason I’m still here, that I’m putting in any effort at all. Because my family asked me to, because I might put my grandparents and Saffron at risk if I don’t appease Tess somewhat.
Because I am still a petty teenager sometimes, I unwrap a large, framed photo, grab a nail and hammer from my toolbox (my grandma always preached that it was important for women to learn to fix things themselves) and purposely head over to the pristine bit of white wall between my dresser and the windows.
“Dakota,” Tess starts, and I’m not sure what, exactly, she’s going to say, because I start hammering the nail into the perfect wall. I can practically feel her cringing behind me as I check the stability of it, and then hang the photo of me, Maxine, and Saffron right there in plain view.
“Yes?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder innocently.
Tess sighs, reaching up to adjust her glasses. Her hair is in a messy bun, tendrils hanging loosely around her face. One thing I’ve noticed about authors is how one minute, they act like they own the world. The next, they’re crying and talking about how their work is garbage and everyone hates them. At least, that’s what I heard when I sneaked down to the kitchen last night for a snack, Tess crying to Paul with her office door cracked. She looks like she’s still in the second mode right now, the crying one.
“That’s a beautiful photo,” she says, surprising me. I accidentally drop the hammer on the floor I’m so startled, leaving a dent in the bamboo. Tess blanches slightly, reaching up to tug on the neckline of her sweater with a single finger. The logo on the front of the sweater is from some author event in Australia; I remember following her on Insta, just so I wouldn’t miss the photos she was posting.
