I started work on my father. I wheedled and begged and demanded, and he just
laughed. For three whole days, I used begging as a way to avoid thinking of
Tesla. For three days, my father shook his head.
I cried myself to sleep and wallowed in my guilt every night, and when I woke, I
cried more. I stopped leaving the apt. I stopped eating. My mother and I sat all
day, staring out the window. I stopped talking.
One morning, after my father had left, I dragged a stool to the window and
pressed my face against it. My mother clattered around behind me.
"Go," my mother said.
I gave a squeak and turned around. My mother had folded my clothes in a neat
pile and had laid a canvas bag beside it. She had the vid remote in her hand,
and on the screen was a waiver for me to go to school. We locked eyes for a
moment, and I moved to go to her, but she turned and stormed into the kitchen
and started to clean the cupboards, silent again.