It’s later that night and Dad crosses his arms and leans against my door, my confiscated phone in his hand. Mom stands next to him, one hand on her hip. She is quite frankly disappointed, but I can see the gears turning in her brain. She is so desperate to get to her desk, to write this down, to keep it in her folder of miscellaneous scenes that could make it into a future manuscript.

“I’m not sure you’re in a position to negotiate,” Dad says. “Natalie, that wasn’t some silly prank. You ruined a concert! The Harvest Festival’s attendance doubled this year thanks to Star Wars excitement. You made us look amateur.”

“Natalie didn’t cause a flash thunderstorm, Aaron,” Mom says, somewhat in my defense.

Dad shakes his head. “It’s not about the thunderstorm. It’s about the intent.”

“It wasn’t to ruin the concert,” I say.

“Just Reid,” Dad says. My non-answer is answer enough. He shakes his head and strokes his beard, the disappointment clear on his face. “Why? I know you didn’t mean for the speakers to blow, but you still didn’t even think twice about messing up a major event—”

Mom interjects. “Natalie messed up, but you’re going to get a do-over—”

“—with even more pressure to deliver than before—”

“—and Natalie is still crushed over a play that should exist but doesn’t because the school district cares more about a good publicity hit than what’s best for their students. We’re lucky they still value you, Aaron. We really are.”

Mom doesn’t even know about HAVE A HE(ART), but she summed it up in two seconds.

She is pretty much my hero.

“Natalie.” Dad’s tone softens. “If this is still about Melted… did it not occur to you that I could help?”

“Every artist faces rejection,” I say, throwing his words back at him. “You wanted me to move on.”

Dad shakes his head. “I wanted you to talk to me. Why don’t you ever just talk to me?”

I shrug. Because we don’t talk about real things anymore. Because it’s pointless to talk to someone who will never listen.

“I’m keeping the phone.”

“Aaron,” Mom says, her voice sharp. They’re supposed to reprimand as a team, but Mom is so not into this, so I know the sentence will be minimal at least.

“One week,” Dad says. “I think that’s pretty generous.”

And suddenly, I am furious. Not at the phone loss, but because he’s only ever my parent on his terms, and of course this—Reid—is the root of his anger. He puts so much time into Reid, molding him into the conservatory protégé of his dreams, and now he thinks he can just—what? Be my dad because I screwed up?

“I will never understand you, Natalie.”

There it is. The truth of all truths.