Chapter 2: The Room She Turned Upside Down
"Say that again," Dad said quietly.
Tara crossed her arms.
"You heard me. I'm not living with someone who steals from me.""
"I'm seventeen," I said.
"Where exactly do you expect me to go?""
She turned toward me.
"Perhaps you should have considered that before taking something that didn't belong to you.""
"I didn't take your money!""
My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated myself for it.
Tara's expression softened just enough to become more insulting.
"See? This is what I'm talking about. You get emotional whenever someone holds you accountable.""
Dad stepped between us.
"Both of you, calm down.""
Tara threw up her hands.
"Oh, of course. We have to calm down because Ethan is upset. But nobody seems concerned that I was robbed in my own home.""
"Nobody robbed you," I said.
"Then where is my money?""
I had no answer.
Not because I'd taken it.
Because I had no idea where she'd put it.
Dad crouched beside the bed and began helping me gather the notebooks scattered across the floor. His hands moved slowly, as though he was trying to repair something that couldn't be fixed with a screwdriver.
"Let's start over," he said.
"Tara, when did you last see the cash?""
"This morning. I put it in the small zipper pocket of my purse before breakfast.""
"What time?""
"About eight.""
"And then?""
"I went to the pharmacy.""
"How long were you gone?""
"Maybe forty minutes.""
Dad nodded thoughtfully.
"Did you take your purse with you?""
"No. I left it right here.""
She pointed toward the stairs, toward the kitchen below.
I remembered seeing the purse there when I'd come downstairs at eight thirty. I had walked past it to get a glass of water, then returned upstairs with my homework.
I hadn't even opened the refrigerator.
"I came down once," I said.
"To get water.""
Tara turned sharply.
"Exactly. You were downstairs.""
"For thirty seconds.""
"Long enough.""
Dad stopped gathering the papers.
"Tara, you can't accuse him just because he was in the same room as your purse.""
She looked at him as though he'd slapped her.
"I can't believe you're saying this to me.""
"I'm saying we don't have proof.""
"We have common sense.""
"No, we have a missing fifty dollars.""
Tara picked up my empty backpack and dropped it onto the bed.
"Fine. Let's search the rest of his things.""
"There's nothing else," I said.
"Then you shouldn't be worried.""
She reached for the small wooden box on my desk.
I moved before I could stop myself.
"Don't touch that.""
Tara paused.
The box had belonged to my mother. It held a few photographs, a silver necklace, and the handwritten recipe cards she'd left behind. None of it was valuable to anyone else, but I kept it locked because it was the one place in the house where I could still feel close to her.
Tara noticed my reaction.
Her mouth curved into a thin smile.
"What's in here?""
"Nothing that belongs to you.""
"Then open it.""
"No.""
She looked at Dad.
"Daniel, did you hear that? He's refusing to cooperate.""
Dad stood.
"Ethan, open the box.""
I stared at him.
"That's Mom's.""
"I know.""
"Then why are you letting her do this?""
He looked exhausted.
"Because I need this situation resolved.""
For a moment, I considered refusing.
Then I remembered that Dad was the only person who could stop Tara from making my life unbearable. If I fought him now, she'd use it as proof that I was hiding something.
I unlocked the box.
Tara lifted the lid and examined every photograph.
She picked up the necklace, held it toward the light, then dropped it back into the box.
"Nothing," she muttered.
She sounded disappointed.
That hurt almost as much as the accusation itself.
She wasn't searching because she wanted the truth.
She was searching because she wanted to be right.
After another ten minutes, Tara finally stepped away from the desk.
"He's hidden it somewhere," she said.
"Or he spent it already.""
Dad straightened.
"That's enough.""
She looked at him.
"Excuse me?""
"I said that's enough. You searched the room. We found nothing. We are not going to keep tearing his things apart.""
For the first time that morning, I felt a flicker of relief.
Then Tara pulled her phone from her pocket.
"Fine. I'll call my sister. She can tell me whether I'm being unreasonable.""
She walked into the hallway and dialed.
I could hear every word.
"Claire? You'll never believe what happened. I came home and found out Ethan had stolen fifty dollars from my purse.""
A pause.
"No, Daniel is doing his usual thing. He thinks I'm supposed to tolerate everything because the boy lost his mother.""
My stomach tightened.
She knew exactly which wound to press.
"I've tried being patient," she continued.
"But I can't keep living like this. I told Daniel he needs to kick him out.""
She lowered her voice, but not enough.
"Honestly, I think the boy is becoming just like his mother.""
I stopped breathing for a second.
Dad heard it, too.
His face changed.
"Tara," he said sharply from the bedroom doorway.
She glanced back at him.
"What?""
"Don't bring his mother into this.""
She shrugged.
"I'm just telling the truth.""
"No. You're being cruel.""
Her expression hardened.
"Then perhaps you should decide whose side you're on.""
She ended the call and walked back into the bedroom, holding her phone like a weapon.
"Here's what's going to happen," she announced.
"Ethan is going to apologize, and Daniel is going to make sure this doesn't happen again.""
I shook my head.
"I have nothing to apologize for.""
Tara moved closer.
"You think you're entitled to everything in this house because your father feels sorry for you.""
"Stop it," Dad said.
"No, Daniel. You stop it. You let him get away with everything.""
"What exactly has he gotten away with?""
"His attitude. His disrespect. His constant demands for money.""
I laughed once, unable to help myself.
"My constant demands? I bought my own school supplies last month.""
"With money your father gives you.""
"With money I earned mowing lawns.""
She blinked.
Then she turned to Dad.
"See? He thinks he's an adult. Perhaps it's time he learned what being on his own really means.""
Dad rubbed his face.
"Ethan, go downstairs for a while.""
I looked at him.
"You're sending me away?""
"I'm asking you to give us a minute.""
I waited for him to correct himself.
He didn't.
So I walked past Tara, stepped over the notebooks she'd scattered, and went downstairs.
At the kitchen table, I sat with my hands folded in front of me.
I could hear their voices above me, rising and falling behind the closed bedroom door.
Tara spoke rapidly, listing every imagined offense I'd committed since she married Dad.
Dad answered in shorter sentences.
Then came a silence.
I stared at the kitchen counter.
Tara's purse was no longer there.
She'd taken it upstairs.
A moment later, Dad came down alone.
He looked older than he had that morning.
"Your stepmother is very upset," he said.
"She wants you to kick me out.""
"I know.""
"Do you believe I stole it?""
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
That hesitation told me everything.
"I don't know what to believe," he admitted.
I pushed my chair back.
"Then believe me when I tell you I didn't do it.""
"I want to, son.""
"But you don't.""
He sat across from me.
"I need some time to figure this out.""
I looked at the man who had taught me to ride a bicycle, helped me build science-fair projects, and stayed awake beside my bed when I was sick.
I wanted him to defend me without needing a reason.
I wanted him to remember who I was before Tara told him who I might be.
Instead, he reached across the table and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Please don't make this harder than it has to be.""
I stood up.
"How much easier do you want me to make it? I've already let her search every inch of my room.""
He didn't answer.
I went upstairs and began putting my belongings back where they belonged.
I folded the clothes Tara had thrown onto the floor. I gathered my pens from beneath the dresser. I stacked my books in the order I'd arranged them that morning.
When I reached the desk, I noticed the grocery receipt beside the lamp.
It was creased down the middle, with a faint stain near one corner.
I remembered picking it up from the kitchen counter the previous evening and using it as a bookmark while I checked my homework.
I'd meant to throw it away.
Instead, I'd left it there.
I picked it up, glanced at the printed list of groceries, and almost tossed it into the trash.
Then I noticed the writing on the back.
A few words in blue ink.
A date.
And the number fifty.
I stared at it for several seconds.
The handwriting looked familiar, but I couldn't immediately place it.
Then I remembered seeing the same looping letters on the notes Tara left around the house.
My pulse quickened.
I carried the receipt downstairs.
Dad was standing beside the refrigerator, staring at nothing.
"Dad?""
He turned.
"What is it?""
"I think you should look at this.""
He took the receipt from my hand.
At first, he barely glanced at it.
Then he turned it over.
His eyes moved across the handwritten note.
He read it once.
Then again.
And when he looked up, his expression had changed completely.
"Ethan," he said, his voice suddenly careful.
"Where did you find this?""
"On my desk.""
He looked toward the stairs.
Then he read the note one more time.
May you like
Because the handwriting belonged to Tara.
And the words she'd written were about a fifty-dollar payment made that very morning.
