She smiled at me. “Morning, mija.”
“Good morning.” I sat down next to her. “Do you think I could have my phone back, just for a few minutes? I want to text my friends and let them know why I’m not responding to them. They’re probably worried.”
She patted my leg and smiled. Mom didn’t know I had no friends. “Your father is still asleep, so I don’t see why not. I’ll go grab it. Just be quick, OK?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Mom never seemed to care about whatever rule or punishment Dad had doled out. She was perfectly happy to be on my side, as long as Dad never found out.
She disappeared into their bedroom. The television was on, the news playing at a very low volume.
“And St. John issued a statement saying he would abide by all UN rules regarding scrabs,” the anchor said. “It is currently illegal to transport any part of a scrab, including blood samples, and any scrab kills must be immediately reported to local authorities so that the body can be disposed of properly. St. John says he will ensure that all recruits abide by these rules.
“But the Monster Defense Group continues to criticize St. John for his plan to take inexperienced Americans overseas. The private security firm pointed to their own training program, which is rigorous and highly competitive, and they claim that St. John will simply cause chaos and get people killed.”
“They’re not wrong,” the blond woman next to him said. “MDG is a fairly new company, but they gained several new high-profile clients recently after providing protection to Taylor Swift while she was on tour in Europe, and a lot of people have been impressed by their methods and training. If St. John is so determined to help, he should have just applied to join MDG.”
“St. John has actually been highly critical of MDG,” the anchor said. “He pointed out that MDG’s protection services are extremely costly, and that MDG doesn’t fight scrabs unless it’s to protect a client. This seems to be St. John’s main goal—he’s mentioned several times that he disagrees with the decision to pull all US troops out of scrab-infested countries.”
“Well, he’s in the minority there,” the blond woman said.
“You think so?”
“Yes! The president campaigned on a promise to put American interests first, close our borders, and let our troops focus on keeping the US free of scrabs. Our military is already stretched incredibly thin, and we can’t spend resources in countries that, frankly, haven’t done enough to combat the scrab problem themselves.”
Mom returned with my phone and plunked it into my hand. I jumped to my feet, gave her a quick smile, and darted back to my room. I’d hoped to get Laurence to drive me to the bus station, but he was still asleep, and I needed to get out of the house before Dad woke up. I had just enough quarters for the bus tucked into my backpack anyway.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and took one last glance at my room. My purple comforter had been picked out by Mom, my desk was Dad’s old one, every poster on my wall was put up knowing that Dad would see them. The room had never really been mine.
I put my hand on the doorknob.
“Good morning, baby.”
I froze. Dad’s voice was close, from the hallway. He’d just walked out of the bedroom.
Mom murmured a reply. They both laughed.
I turned, pressing my back to the door. I’d have to make a run for it. Dad wouldn’t be able to catch me if I made it out of the house. Running was one of the few things I was good at.
I gripped the straps of my backpack. Deep breaths. I could do this.
I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. Mom stood in the kitchen. Dad was sitting on the sofa. I’d have to pass right in front of Dad to get out. He hadn’t noticed me yet, and I walked as quietly as possible, hoping he wouldn’t see me until the last possible second.
My phone dinged in my pocket. Shit. I should have silenced it.
Dad’s gaze shifted to me.
Danger.
“Why do you have your phone?” he asked. He stood, doing a quick survey of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
In the kitchen, Mom was silent. She would never own up to it. I didn’t want her to.
I just stared at Dad. There was no explanation, lie or truth, that would make this better. Nothing ever made it better. I was done trying.
I darted around Dad, dodged the edge of the couch, leapt over the coffee table, swerved—
And a hand grabbed me. Dad grabbed my arm so hard I was lucky he didn’t pull it out of its socket. I yelped and tried to twist away. He held tighter, using his other hand to dig into my pocket.
“What is so important that you need . . .” He trailed off as he turned my phone to peer at the screen. His face went red.
“You signed up to fight scrabs?” Dad yelled.
“What?” Mom gasped. “No, Clara wouldn’t do that.”
“It’s right here, you moron,” Dad said, throwing the phone at Mom. “They’re texting her confirming she’s headed to Atlanta today.”
“What do you care?” I said evenly.
Dad actually had the nerve to look insulted. Like I was supposed to believe that whatever it was that he felt for me was love.
Then he was pissed.
He slammed me against the wall—not hard enough to leave a dent this time, which was good, since we were down one painting.
“Are you stupid?” Dad spat out the last word.
“Clara, that is far too dangerous.” Mom pressed a hand to her heart. I didn’t even try to suppress an eye roll. She had the decency to look ashamed. We both knew
