Chapter 4

On the last afternoon before fall break, Dad's charcoal Bentley waited outside school.

Three monogrammed suitcases filled the open trunk. Mom adjusted Sofia's scarf while Dad carried the tablet she had left in class. All three were laughing until they saw me.

Mom moved in front of the car door. "You hate too much sun. Bermuda wouldn't suit you anyway. Staying here to work on applications would be a much better use of your break."

Dad didn't unlock the car or ask the driver to take my bag. They thought I had come to beg for an invitation.

"I'm not going with you. My meal account was frozen yesterday. Mom's share of my living allowance never arrived."

Relief flashed across her face. She rummaged through her handbag. "We're late for the airport. Victor, send her something for now."

Dad didn't move. "It's your school year."

"She's also your daughter."

"I paid her exam fees last month. You can't keep dumping every bill on me."

In front of the gate staff, drivers, and passing students, they discussed me like an invoice mailed to the wrong address.

Sofia dug through her purse for her earbuds. A black leather case fell out instead, and a new car key bounced onto the pavement.

Across the drive, a white Porsche wore a champagne-colored bow.

Sofia snatched up the case. "Mom and Dad bought it as a reward. It has nothing to do with you."

Dad's irritation vanished. "Her GPA went up point-oh-three. Hard work deserves recognition."

I didn't look at the car. "What happened to your class rank, Sofia?"

Her smile froze.

Mom answered for her. "Rankings aren't everything. She chose more challenging classes."

"Film Appreciation and Event Planning? How are her core grades?"

"Emilia." Mom's voice went cold. "Do you have to ruin every happy moment she has?"

The public honor roll told the real story. Extra credit in Event Planning had nudged Sofia's GPA upward while all three core grades fell. Her rank had dropped from thirty-eighth to forty-fourth.

They understood the report perfectly. Whenever Sofia needed rewarding, any number could be made to look like progress.

Dad folded his arms. "If you're so obsessed with grades, worry about your own. Didn't your advanced calculus score fall from a hundred to a ninety-seven?"

It was St. Gabriel's hardest exam in five years. The class average was seventy-one, and Ms. Harper had sent a copy of my paper to the state mathematics society.

Dad remembered only the three points I had lost.

"Do you know my class rank?" I asked.

He frowned as though the question were pointless.

Mom climbed into the Bentley. "Enough. If you were half as mature as Sofia says you are, you wouldn't chase us for money while we're trying to catch a flight. I'll handle it when we land."

Before the door shut, I heard her mutter, "Every time I see her, she has her hand out."

The next day, my meal account was still locked. I messaged Mom twice. She didn't answer, but she posted nine photos of Sofia on a private yacht.

Dad's assistant relayed his response: [Please contact Ms. DeLuca during the current school year.]

Maya finally pushed her meal card toward me. When I refused it, she bought two dinners and pretended the cafeteria had mixed up the order.

At ten that night, Mom remembered the transfer.

Meanwhile, Dad asked in the family thread whether Sofia had packed motion-sickness patches and enough sunscreen. Mom sent a dozen replies.

They remembered Sofia couldn't have dairy, which pillow she slept on, and the twenty minutes she had once felt seasick.

They weren't forgetful. They weren't incapable of responsibility.

They just didn't love me.

Once I admitted it, I slept better than I had in years.