My fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Are you seriously taking my cell because I don’t want to have dinner with someone who’s awful to me? Who bullies my friends, and is cruel to everyone who isn’t in her little gang of followers? I’ve tried to tell you time and again that she’s not who you think she is.”

My mother held out her hand. “Perhaps if you kept better company, these things wouldn’t be an issue. You are who you spend time with, Isabelle. And those girls you run around with are not what I want for your future.”

My back teeth ground together as I slipped my hand into my back pocket, pulling out the device she’d requested and placing it in her palm. No phone meant no emergency line to my best friends, to Ford, to the people who kept me sane amidst the insanity that my mother brought about. I kept my face carefully blank. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’d impacted me in any way. She didn’t deserve to know she had that power.

“Since you insist on acting childish, you’ll be treated as one. Your curfew is now nine p.m.”

I gave her nothing. I was already a prisoner in this home full of people who’d rather judge me than try and understand where I was coming from. God forbid they actually listen to what I had to say.

My mother let out an exasperated sigh. “Why can’t you be more like Violet? She’s polite and helpful, yet you insist on creating trouble and strife.”

It cut more than it should have. If I’d had a dollar for every time she’d said something similar to me, I’d be able to go to college anywhere I dreamed. “But I’m not like her, am I? So, it’s probably safer that I’m gone when your friends are here. You wouldn’t want them to know just what a disappointment I am, now would you?”

“Iz…” Violet started towards me—to comfort or placate, I wasn’t sure—but I ducked out of her hold. I didn’t want her reassurance. I wanted out of this space that felt too tight, as if the walls were closing in on me.

My dad strode into the kitchen, drawn by the raised voices. “Just let her go, Heather. She’s sixteen, she can choose to skip out on one dinner.”

Mom’s glare cut to my dad, a clear threat of the price he’d pay later for defending me. But he was used to her vindictive streak by now and didn’t waver. She turned back to me. “Fine. Be selfish and immature. It’s not like I should expect anything different from you.”