Dylan(2)

“She’ll have the same as us,” my dad says before I have a chance to speak and gives me a hard look, daring me to contradict him.

Stirring the waters before I say my piece isn’t a good idea. So I clench my jaw and swallow the words that want to surface. “That’s fine.”

Silence spreads as the waiter leaves us to our own devices.

Torture devices, I think morosely, staring out the huge window at the gray sky. My stomach is in such a knot I doubt I’ll be able to swallow anything, not that that’s unusual, especially with what my father had ordered for me.

“So.” Dad takes a bite of his smoked-salmon-on-a-fluffy-bun and washes it down with a sip of French champagne. “I expect college is going well.”

Of course he expects that. He has a lot of expectations.

“It’s fine.” I place my hands on the table, notice I also forgot to renew my manicure and hastily withdraw them and hide them under the table. “The topics are interesting.”

“Have you decided on a direction yet?” Mom inquires, and realizes her mistake too late.

“A direction?” Dad puts his wine glass down so hard it’s a miracle the slim stem doesn’t break. “Her direction in life is set.”

The firm. Leon & Perez. Law experts. My ticket to a rich husband who’ll control my life.

“Of course,” Mom mumbles. She grabs her own glass and downs the contents in one big gulp.

Christ. My throat is dry. This is ridiculous. These are my parents, not executioners. I think. “About that…I wanted to talk to you about—”

“The service here is terrible.” Dad lifts his big hand, waves at the waiter. “More coffee,” he calls. “And rolls. Would you like more cream, Karen?”

My mother shakes her head, her eyes sad.

Yeah. My hands fist under the table. “I want to talk to you about college and my studies—”

“There’s nothing to discuss. We have agreed on the best course of action.”

My fists tighten. “But I’d like to—”

“Enough, Tessa. Where is… ah, finally.” My dad shakes out his white napkin and dabs at his mouth as the waiter brings my breakfast. “That took a while.”

“Apologies, sir,” the poor waiter says as he sets a plate with salmon, cream cheese, butter and rolls in front of me.

I hate fish. My parents know it. It’s an aversion that stems from my childhood, when Dad took me fishing. Seeing the fish flop on the shore, suffocating, dying… Bile rises in my throat.

“Eat,” Dad says. “You’re thin like a rail. No curves at all. Don’t you eat anything except crap with those college kids you insist on hanging out with?”

“I don’t—”

“Do you want to have an argument in here, Tessa? Seriously?” He leans forward, and it takes all I have in me not to flinch away.

He’s never laid a hand on me. Never had to. When I was little, locking me up in in my room was more his style, intimidating me, pushing me into a corner while telling me how stupid I was to think I could outwit or escape him…

Yeah, that’s more his style.

But I’m not a little girl anymore. I try to remember that, even as my body seems to have forgotten it, so I sit up a little straighter and say, “Do you?”

The air temperature drops, like, ten degrees. Imaginary frost spreads over the table. Metaphorical icicles hang over the edge. An ice age has begun.

“Honey…” my mom begins, her eyes wide.

“No, let her say her piece.” My dad’s face is hard. “Let’s see what this new little tantrum is all about.”

And of course now he’s the one in control, the one allowing me to speak. As if I need his permission. What am I doing? Why am I still here, still trying?

“I want to study something I like,” I say, ignoring the sweat trickling down my back. Funny that, it’s not that warm in here… “And I want to drop out of those clubs I hate. Sailing and chess aren’t for me, Dad.”

“Oh, stop being childish, Tessa.”

“I want to help with a charity, and I want to study anthropology,” I say in one breath, knowing my time is limited. This is my pitch. “There are many career options with such a degree. I can be an archaeologist, or I can be a museum curator, or even get involved in social care. I’d love to—”

“You don’t need a damn career.” My father leans toward me, eyes narrowing, and automatically I lean back. “Like your mother, you need a real man to take care of you.”

My hands clench. “That’s not what I need.”

“Sure it is. Who’s been putting ideas into your pretty little head? Those good-for-nothing buddies of yours, those tattooed bums who don’t even step foot in class, who hang around smoking pot and drinking? You think they know better than me what’s best for you?”