“Do you know why you’re here?” her father asks.
Emma swallows. This is the first question, always. If you don’t answer, your punishment will be more severe. But if you guess wrong, you’re only inviting worse.
“I don’t know,” Emma says.
Her father’s hand moves slowly, almost absentmindedly, to the small table beside his chair. Only then does she notice the thick fold of printed pages there. She can only see a sliver of what is on the top page, but she recognizes it, and her stomach twists. It’s the UCLA application, which she printed out at school. Which she buried in her backpack in the back of her closet, where her parents wouldn’t check.
“You didn’t tell us that you were looking at out-of-state schools,” her father says. He says it lightly, like it’s a tidbit she has forgotten to share, like it doesn’t matter.
“My guidance counselor said I should apply widely,” Emma says with a shrug. “It doesn’t mean I’m actually going. I know you want me to stick with an in-state school.”
“It’s not a matter of what we want. It’s what’s right for you,” her mother says.
“Why do you even care?” Emma blurts out. She looks between them. “Why does it matter where I go to school?”
“You belong at home with your family,” her mother says sharply.
“But why?” Emma asks. “It’s not like you need me to work at the business or help around the house or anything. You don’t even like me.”
“That’s enough,” her father says. “Your mother and I decided—”
“Mom decided,” she says, interrupting him, and his eyes flare. She knows that she’s crossed a line. But it’s too late now; she presses on. “Mom decided that we all have to live here and go to school here so we turn out just the way she wants, except I’m already not what you want, so what’s the point?”
“You need guidance,” her mother says, but her father holds up his hand.
“Irene, that’s enough,” he says. “We are under no obligation to explain ourselves to you, Emma. Your parents have made a decision regarding your education; your job is simply to accept it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Emma says. She knows she should shut up. She knows she’s making it worse for herself, but she can’t stop. “Why can’t I just go to school where I want and come home on the holidays like everyone else?”
“You need to speak to your elders with respect,” her father says.
“Respect? Why should I respect you?” she asks.
“Because I am your father,” he says, and his voice is dangerous, but for once she doesn’t heed the warning.
“Why should I respect a father who cheats on my mother?” she demands.
The slap is hard enough it sets her staggering, lights popping in front of her eyes. It isn’t her father who moved but her mother, hand still out in front of her, fury in her eyes. “Don’t you dare speak to your father that way,” she says.
Emma clutches her face, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re mad at me? What about him? I’m telling the truth. He cheated on you. He cheats on you all the time. He—”
“My business is none of your concern,” her father says, rising from his chair.
She looks between them and realizes her mistake. “You already knew?” she asks.
Her mother’s face is still; there’s the smallest of tremors, starting at the edge of her pinky finger, stealing up the side of her hand. She notices, covers that hand with its opposite, as if to hide it. She takes in a small breath. A flutter of her eyelids, a tremble of her lip—and her voice steady as she says, “We’re done here.”
Emma laughs, because that’s the only thing left to do. The only sane thing in the face of the absurdity of it all. “You’re pathetic,” she says. “This is all so fucking pathetic. I can’t believe you’d just stand there knowing what he did.”
“Irene,” her father says, “Emma and I need to have a conversation in private.”
Irene stalks out of the room without a word, and Emma is alone with her father. Her father, who has been quiet and calm for too long.
“We have let you get away with too much,” her father says. “You think that you can live under our roof and disrespect us. It’s time you learned that actions have consequences.”
Emma stands, righteousness crumbling into dread. Her father remains in his chair. She looks beyond him to the door, a quick flick of the eyes, a brief fantasy of running. She knows it wouldn’t do any good.