No Longer Their Backup Plan

1: 1

After my grandmother died, I was brought back to the city.

My mother patted my shoulder. "You're the older sister. Don't take everything so much to heart."

I nodded and took the words seriously.

Chloe Whitman had her own walk-in closet, Dylan Whitman had a room lined with his model figures, and I had a small bed pushed together from spare pieces.

I didn't mind. Compared to the hardships I'd known out in the country, this was nothing.

Not until the day I came home for summer break, standing at the door of the new place, did I learn they'd already switched to a smart lock. No one had thought to tell me.

My phone was dead. I waited from dusk into the dead of night.

They finally came back, shopping bags in hand, chattering about how good dinner had been, how great the movie was.

My father bent over the system, frowning. "Permanent slots are full."

My mother didn't seem to care. "Just send her a temporary code. She won't be staying more than a few days anyway."

Dylan leaned against the doorframe, grinning. "Sis, it's not that we won't register you. It's that Chestnut's got a permanent slot too. Mom says he's here every day, so he counts as a fixed member."

In that moment, I understood all of it.

I wasn't a resident of this house. I was a guest, allowed inside now and then.

That night, I finished filling out the classified project application.

If I was only someone passing through on a temporary code, then when the time ran out, I should see myself out.

1

The sensor light had just come on when my father bent his head to open the lock app. "How many days are you staying this time? A temporary code only opens for seven days at a stretch. When it runs out, say so yourself."

My mother pulled my hand over to register a fingerprint.

She tried three fingers on my right hand. The lock didn't respond to any of them.

She frowned. "Why is it always this much trouble with you? Chloe and Dylan each got it on the first try."

I looked down at my own hand.

As a child I'd lived with my grandmother in a seaside town, drying fish, mending nets, hauling crates.

Later, back in this house, it was always dishes and mopping and cleaning up the kitchen.

Sea wind and cleaning solution together had worn my fingertips hard, the ridges gone shallow.

"What are you spacing out for?" My father was getting impatient. "If it won't register, no one's going to be around to open the door for you later. Don't come complaining then that you can't get in."

I pulled a tissue, wiped the sweat from my palm, and pressed down again.

A few seconds later the lock finally chimed. "Temporary resident registered."

Temporary resident.

My father put his phone away and went into the living room.

The coffee table was covered in shopping bags. Coffee beans for clients, scented candles for coworkers, keepsake trinkets for relatives.

Nothing for me.

I asked, "Where did you all go?"

No one answered.

Chloe was leaning against Mom's shoulder, scrolling through photos, smiling sweetly. "Mom, look at this one. Don't the four of us look like a magazine cover?"

My father leaned in for a look. "That one's good. Chlo always knows how to find the angle."

Without me, they'd taken a family portrait too.

Dylan was crouched down unclasping Chestnut's collar. He looked up and grinned at me. "Sis, don't lose that temporary code. The chip in Chestnut's collar works better than you do. He just taps the door and he's in."

Before I could say anything, my mother waved a hand. "Go wash up first. You reek of sweat. Don't drag all that messy habit from out there straight into the house the second you're back."

I'd stood a whole evening in a hallway with no air conditioning, the back of my shirt soaked through long ago.

But not one of them asked if I was hot, or hungry. They only minded the smell on me.

I turned and went to the bathroom.

The person in the mirror had hair plastered to the side of her face, as ragged as a stray.

My phone buzzed just then. A message from Professor Fry.

"Once you're on the team, it's full lockdown the whole time. Your family situation, have you worked it all out?"

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then wrote back. "Don't worry, Professor. I'll take care of it."

There wasn't really anything to work out.

When someone irrelevant leaves, and when, was never going to be something anyone cared about.