“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Get out.”
I did not answer.
My eyes went straight to the trash can beside her desk.
A corner of thick, textured paper stuck out from under a pile of tissue and shopping tags.
I reached down and pulled it free.
It was an envelope.
Torn open.
Addressed to me.
Jack Reynolds.
The return address belonged to Grandpa Arthur.
My hand tightened around the paper.
Chloe jumped off the bed.
“Give me that.”
I turned slowly.
“Where’s the check?”
Her face changed for half a second.
It was quick, but it was there.
Panic.
Then the spoiled confidence returned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Grandpa sent me a graduation gift,” I said. “A check. Five hundred dollars, right?”
She crossed her arms.
“You’re getting a free ride to college anyway.”
The words hung between us.
Then she added, almost casually, “Mom said I could use it. I needed retail therapy. I’ve been stressed because everyone keeps talking about you.”
For a moment, I could not speak.
Not because I was confused.
Because I finally understood exactly how far they were willing to go.
I walked back downstairs with the torn envelope in my hand.
Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, whispering sharply.
I placed the envelope on the table.
“Care to explain why my fifteen-year-old sister is wearing my graduation gift on her feet?”
Dad frowned.
“What is this about?”
“Chloe opened a letter from Grandpa addressed to me,” I said. “She took the check inside and bought designer shoes. She says Mom gave her permission.”
Dad turned to Mom.
“Susan?”
Mom’s face flushed.
“Richard, she was upset. She’s been crying all week. She saw the amount and made a poor choice. I was going to replace the money for Jack eventually.”
“A poor choice?” I repeated.
Mom looked down at the counter.
“It was temporary.”
“It was my mail,” I said. “My graduation gift. My money.”
Dad lifted both hands like he was calming down a difficult customer.
“All right. Let’s not turn this into something bigger than it needs to be. Your mother handled it poorly, but Chloe is going through a difficult time emotionally.”
I stared at him.
“You’re defending her.”
“I’m asking you to be mature.”
“She stole from me.”
“She is a troubled young girl who made a bad decision,” Dad said. “You are a grown man. Stop being petty over a few hundred dollars.”
A few hundred dollars.
I had worked twelve-hour shifts for “a few hundred dollars.”
I had crawled under cars in winter for “a few hundred dollars.”
I had skipped lunch shifts and worn the same boots until the soles split for “a few hundred dollars.”
Dad leaned forward.
“We give you a roof over your head, don’t we? Consider it rent.”