05.

ISABELLA

I wake up the next morning feeling heavy, like I hadn't slept at all. The memory of handing over the last dollar to my dad is a dull ache in my chest. I can't face Hardin yet. I need a plan.

I drag myself out of bed around eleven. The house is quiet, which usually means one of two things: they are either passed out or plotting.

I open my door, and the acrid smell of stale cigarettes and burnt coffee hits me instantly. Both parents are in the living room. My dad is slumped in his armchair, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and my mum is chain-smoking on the sofa, a haze of smoke thick above her head. The curtains are drawn, making the room dark.

I need to feel strong. I need to feel like the girl who got a scholarship, not the one who's still yelled at for dirty dishes.

I go back into my room and pull out an outfit. A dark denim mini-skirt that hit mid-thigh... definitely shorter than my usual look... a fitted black top, and my worn leather jacket. I usually reserved this look for concerts or actual dates, not for a noon trip to the university. But today, I need the confidence boost. I even put on a little extra eyeliner.

I take a deep breath, grab my small backpack, and walk back into the smoky living room.

My dad doesn't move, just blinks slow, heavy blinks through the smoke. My mom, however, sits bolt upright, taking the cigarette out of her mouth.

"And where the hell do you think you're going dressed like that?" she snaps, her voice harsh. "Honestly, Isabella, look at you! That skirt barely covers your ass!"

"It's noon, Mom," I say, trying to keep my tone neutral, pushing down the surge of instant humiliation. "And I'm leaving. I have to go to Greenville."

She stands up, stubbing out her cigarette violently in the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. "Noon? You think that gives you the right to parade around like a little tramp? What is that outfit? Are you trying to get some boy to pay your deposit for you?"

I feel my cheeks burn. "It's just a skirt, Mom. And no, I'm going to the university to sign my final acceptance papers for the scholarship. I'm meeting the registrar."

Her eyes scan my outfit, lingering on the jacket. "And what is that? That jacket? Is that new? Where did you get the money for that? You gave your father all your wages yesterday. Did you steal it? Did you take more money out of the account?"

"It’s not new!" I almost shriek. "I’ve had this jacket for three years! And the top is from a thrift store! Stop it!"

My voice is too loud. My dad finally stirs, shaking his head slowly. "Don't raise your voice in this house, Isabella. And your mother has a point. You look like you're heading to a bar, not a campus. Fix yourself."

"I am fine," I insist, fighting the urge to clutch my jacket tighter. I don't want to cry. I won't. "I'm not changing. I'm late."

"Late for what, exactly? It's barely past eleven in the morning!" my mom sneers, checking her wrist.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Crap. It's 11:45.

"No, Mom, it's almost twelve! It's not early, I need to go. I have an appointment."

"A little Miss High-and-Mighty now, aren't we?" my dad drawls, his words slow and laced with disdain. "Talking back to your parents? Since when are you so disrespectful?"

"I'm not being disrespectful," I say, my voice shaking. "I'm just correcting you. I need to leave."

My mom takes a step toward me, her eyes narrowed to slits. "Leave? You really weren't joking last night, were you? You actually got in? You're going to that fancy university?"

"Yes, Mom," I whisper, relief mixing with the crushing anxiety. "I told you. I got the scholarship. I'm going."

She stares at me, then burst out in a high, brittle laugh that sent shivers down my spine. "And who, pray tell, is going to pay the bills here once your little adventure starts? Who's going to make sure there's food on the table? Who's going to clean up around here? You think this house runs itself while you're off studying Latin or whatever nonsense it is you want to do?"

The selfishness of it, the absolute lack of care for my future, hits me like a physical blow. They aren't angry about the skimpy skirt or the time; they are furious about losing their maid and ATM.

"You know what?" I choke out, tears suddenly welling up despite my determination not to cry. "I don't care! That's not my problem anymore! You guys are grown adults! Get a job! Go get a life that doesn't revolve around draining your daughter! Figure it out yourself!"

It's the most defiant thing I have ever said to them. And it's too much.

My mom's face goes from pale to scarlet in an instant. Her hand shoots out and slaps me hard across the cheek. It isn't a gentle reprimand; it's a furious, stinging blow.

I gasp, reeling back, more from shock than pain. My eyes fly to my dad, who's still just watching, puffing on his cigarette, his expression blank. He does nothing.

"Don't you ever," my mom hisses, her voice low and dangerous, "talk to me like that. Ever."

The tears finally break through, hot and immediate. But I don't stay to let them win. I don't scream or fight back. I just turn and run.