Chapter 1

There'sa part of me that wants to yell into the phone, "I hate you." But I'm not a ten-year-old anymore, and Dad is halfway across the world in Thailand. The thought of something happening to him on his journey back, leaving those angry words as our last exchange, just because he vetoed my weekend plans at Tasmin's, makes me shudder.

I could lash out about his new wife, tell him she's unbearable. I might even suggest that, next time, he should consider just moving in with his flavor of the month, instead of rushing into marriage. This is, after all, Mrs. Lewis number five since the divorce from Mom. By this point, most people would have sworn off marriage, but not my father.

But this isn't me being a brat, or playing the resentful daughter card, upset because Dad doesn't shower me with attention. That ship sailed years ago. For the past couple of years my therapist and I have had countless sessions where we discussed my father's failed relationships.

All we've come up with is that I need to accept Dad as he is, even if he is a serial monogamist who can't be alone for more than a month. As long as I learn to live with it, I might have a chance at a somewhat healthy future. Let's be honest, most children from divorced marriages are pretty screwed up.

It's not about changing him, it's about not letting his choices disrupt who I want to become.

Grandma always says I have an old soul, which she believes explains my composure, a trait she thinks is innate rather than nurtured by therapy sessions. She sees me as someone who possesses a deeper understanding and maturity beyond my years. She's wrong about me, but I'll never correct her. I love the cool way she describes me to the rest of the family.

But, in reality, my life is a balancing act. I constantly find myself doing whatever Dad wants so he's happy with me, making sure my older sister Isadora doesn't forget I exist, and occasionally reminding Cedric, even if he just thinks I'm his annoying little sister, that I'm still around and need my big brother's help.

However, dealing with my latest stepmother is an entirely different challenge. She's twenty-six, just a year older than Isadora. And yes, Dad could technically be her father, which, let's face it, is pretty unsettling. But what bothers me more than their age gap is her obsession with me. Helen Lewis, just nine years my senior, is fixated on becoming the mother she thinks I've missed since the age of six.

She's convinced I'm in dire need of discipline and nurturing, and she's hell-bent on providing it. But she's doing a pretty shitty job at that if I say so myself. I'm an introvert and since I like to keep Father happy I never break the rules—so why would I need discipline? Nurturing . . . Well, I'm not sure what that would entail but she's never tried to give me a hug. Not even on my birthday.

As far as I'm concerned, I don't need her or whatever she thinks I'm lacking. And, frankly, I question her capabilities. How can someone who struggles to maintain a grocery list or a job for more than a month be expected to properly care for a teenager? She's a paradox. Some could easily say she's a contradiction of control and negligence, a combination that baffles me to no end.

I wonder if telling Dad about the state of the fridge would help. It's practically bare, except for his beer and her shakes, which are off-limits to me and marked with sticky notes that read: Only Helen Can Drink This. It's a small, yet telling, detail of the strange dynamics between us.

No one wants her freaking shakes. She doesn't need to mark them but at least try getting a gallon of milk once in a while.

"You're not even here, Dad," I retort into the phone, my frustration bubbling.

"Let me remind you that your standardized tests are coming up. Are you even prepared?" he questions sharply; it's obvious that he has little to no faith in his youngest child. "Your grades aren't exactly stellar."

Adults always seem to think that being a teenager is a walk in the park. They don't understand the daily battles we face: navigating the mood swings of other teenagers like us, dealing with our own emotional roller coasters, and constantly trying to meet their sky-high expectations. It's exhausting.

Too fucking exhausting.

I wish they could see it from our perspective, just once. Maybe then they'd realize we could use a bit of understanding. Somehow, they could try to give us the benefit and remember what it was like to be a teenager.

"B's aren't bad, and I'm always applying myself," I defend, feeling the need to justify not only my academic performance but . . . well, me.

In our family, where my brother and sister are practically geniuses with their unbroken streak of A's, my B's fall short. But it's not like I'm failing. I do get an A here and there. My grades are decent, at least I think so. Nonetheless, in the eyes of my family, especially Dad, it's like I'm trailing behind, struggling to keep up with the high bar set by my siblings.

"B's won't get you anywhere," he states matter-of-factly, his voice tinged with a hint of disappointment. "Is Cedric helping you study for the standardized tests?"

The mention of my brother gives me a brilliant idea. "I should remind him to do it this weekend, shouldn't I?" I suggest, trying to sound casual yet hopeful over the phone.

"Yes. I'll message him right now to make sure he does," Dad responds. The resolve in his voice is astounding. It's like he just figured out a way to help me with my issues and deterred me from wanting to be away from home.

"I'll probably have to stay with him over the weekend then," I say, with such an innocent voice anyone would think that I'm just being an obedient child.

"Of course. I'll let Helen know about the change in plans," he agrees quickly.

I grin and since there's an opportunity here, I try to push my luck a little bit further. "Maybe I can stay with Tasmin next weekend?" I ask, though I do a poor job at trying to mask the eagerness in my voice.

"No. I think you and Cedric should spend more time together, at least until you pass your tests," he replies, his voice firm and unwavering as if his decision is final and non-negotiable.

This practical solution will help me accomplish my goals while he doesn't have to worry about the nuances of me asking for permission to go to parties or do anything fun. He's just killing two birds with one stone—more like he's killing my social life, but I don't care. Whatever opportunity is presented to me, I will always choose to be away from Helen and her toxicity. At least until Dad is back.

"Okay," I reply, trying to sound disappointed.

"Be good and apply yourself more, okay?"

"Thank you, Dad. I love you," I respond before ending the call, though I wish this conversation could have been different. One where he could tell me about his trip and maybe understand me a little more. Ask me how my week has been going and . . . I don't know. Sometimes I wonder why he's so clinical and cold with us, whereas my grandparents are loving and warm.

Then, I remind myself that I can't change him; I can only change the way I react toward his behavior. I shouldn't take it so personally. I focus on the new possibilities and wonder if I can sway Cedric into letting me visit Tasmin. Maybe not this weekend, but hopefully soon. I can't imagine he's looking forward to the prospect of dealing with his little sister every weekend for the foreseeable future. There has to be a way to work around this, a compromise that works for both of us. The challenge now is figuring out what that might be.