2: 2
2
I went back to my room for a pair of pajamas, and the moment I pushed the door open, I almost thought I'd walked into the wrong room.
A dozen storage boxes were stacked on the floor, and the foot of the bed was buried under Dylan's model parts.
The shelf that used to hold my award certificates and my textbooks now held Chloe's perfume and jewelry boxes.
I stood there a few seconds, then turned and went to the living room. "Where's my stuff?"
Mom didn't even look up.
"The useless stuff I threw out. Your brother and sister have too much, so I put it in your room for now. You're barely home a few times a year. It'd just sit empty otherwise."
"Then where do I sleep?"
Dad was lounging on the couch, looking at his phone, his tone flat. "Just move the boxes into the storage room. You have to ask about a little thing like that?"
I carried the boxes into the storage room, trip after trip.
There was still more than half the space empty in there, and yet they'd insisted on taking my bed.
By the time I'd cleared out enough room to stand, the back of my shirt was soaked through.
I'd barely sat down to catch my breath when Dad frowned. "Why haven't you gone to shower yet?"
"Someone's in there right now."
"Your brother and sister both know how to manage their timing. You're the only one who always drags it to the very end."
I didn't bother explaining. I just unscrewed my water bottle and drank a few gulps.
Almost another hour passed before the bathroom was finally free.
The room was thick with damp heat. The second I shut the door, Mom knocked twice from outside. "Wash yourself properly. Don't be a slob like you were as a kid."
The water came down over my head, and I closed my eyes, and suddenly I remembered the year I first came back to this house.
Back then Chloe always showered first, and by my turn the hot water was almost gone.
There was one family dinner where my aunt laughed and said I hadn't washed behind my ears.
Mom's face darkened right there, and she said I'd grown up with Grandma and hadn't even learned the most basic habits of keeping clean.
The truth was Grandma was just old and couldn't manage it all.
And Mom was no different.
She was busy tending to my brother and sister; she had no time to teach me how to keep myself looking presentable.
After that, every time I showered I scrubbed my skin red, terrified of hearing "You're filthy" one more time.
But all these years, she never once saw it.
When I came out, Dad lowered his voice to warn me. "They're all asleep. Don't blow-dry your hair, it's loud."
I nodded, drying my hair a bit at a time with the towel, then sat down at the desk and opened my laptop.
The application page Professor Fry had sent was still open, the deadline listed at the very bottom. Tonight.
I looked at it for a few seconds, then clicked submit.
Early the next morning, I handed over the printed informed-consent form.
Dad was watching the news and didn't even lift an eyelid. "Go find your mom."
Mom was checking Dylan's homework, going over even a single mental-math problem carefully.
I set the paper down beside her hand. She only glanced at the signature line, picked up the pen, and signed.
I asked, "Aren't you going to read it?"
She put the pen down, her tone offhand. "What big thing could you possibly have going on."
Chloe was off to the side recording a voice message, and Dylan wasn't up yet.
No one knew that in two weeks I would be gone.
And even if they had known, they probably wouldn't have reacted any differently.
