Tru forced himself to maintain eye contact. The urge to look down, to see if his hands had formed into fists, was almost undeniable. But he held his gaze steady. Dared his father to look away.

His father never looked away.

“Do you think it’s funny?” his father asked. “Did you have a good laugh over making me look stupid in front of our guests? In front of our neighbors?”

Tru failed to see why neighbors would be more polite company than other guests, but clearly his father thought the distinction worth emphasizing.

“Did you?!” he roared.

Tru hesitated only a moment before saying the words that rushed to his tongue. “You don’t need my help to look stupid.”

The fist came at lightning speed.

One solid punch to the ribs, where bruises wouldn’t show. Few things could sink a rising political career faster than allegations of domestic abuse. Couldn’t have the public seeing evidence that the beloved and respected David Dorsey beat his son. David Dorsey was far too important for that.

It took every ounce of Tru’s strength not to buckle over at the blow. The pain was nothing he hadn’t felt before. Neither was the humiliation. The helplessness.

Over his father’s shoulder, he could see his mother. Standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, her face blank and unseeing.

In a lot of ways, that was worse. To have his mother stand there and do nothing, say nothing, hurt him more than any blows his father delivered.

Which gave him the strength to ask, “Is that all?”

Another blow.

Two more.

Tru kept his own arms clenched carefully at his sides. He had learned that lesson the hardest way. Once he had struck back. Once he couldn’t stop his own fist from defending himself, from getting in a blow of his own.

His father, the great and powerful district attorney, had called the police.

Oh, the irony.

It took him a moment to realize the blows had stopped. Tru dared a glance down and saw that the fists were gone. The rage had passed.

He didn’t wait to be dismissed. Just pushed past his father, letting his shoulder knock into the older man on his way by.

The taunt did its job. Tru felt hands on his shoulders, and then he was stumbling forward. Headfirst into the edge of the refrigerator.

His mother gasped.

Tru stood up, felt at the warmth spreading across his face from above his right eye. His hand came away streaked with blood.

That was his victory. He had pushed his father to the point of making a visible mark. No one might notice the cut tomorrow, and even if they did they might not question its origin, but for as long as it remained, he would know that in this fucked-up relationship, he still had some semblance of control.

If he were lucky, it would leave a scar.

Chapter Six

“Morning, New York,” Tru says as I climb into his car.

Why am I not surprised that he drives a bright yellow Mustang?

I grumble something that could be interpreted by the generous as Morning or by the realistic as Shut it.

“Not a morning person, I see.” He puts the car in gear as I buckle my seat belt. “Would coffee help?”

I flop back against the headrest and groan, “God yes.”

“Ask and ye shall receive.”

I roll to the side to say thank you.

That’s when I notice the cut above his right eye. “What happened?” I ask.

“What?” He turns to look at me and I nod at his cut. “Oh that.” He shrugs. “Run-in with the refrigerator.”

“Looks like the refrigerator won.”

“Not before I got in a few good swings.” His tone is light and his mouth forms a smile, but there is a certain heaviness in his eyes.

While his attention is on the road, I have the chance to really study his face for the first time without him noticing. Individually, his features might not be the most attractive. His cheekbones are a little too sharp. His nose may be too long. His lips could be too full, if that’s even possible.

And that hair. He takes disheveled to a whole new level. I don’t think any two strands on his head are going the same direction.

But as much as I don’t want to admit it—and wouldn’t confess it under pain of torture or death—together they make a really appealing package.

He’s looking a little less J-Pop today, with a gray plaid shirt over a Godfather tee and dark gray jeans instead of the suit jacket and tie he wore yesterday.

We are in and out of the coffee shop in less than five and back on our way to school. With my triple latte steaming beneath my nose, I’m actually starting to feel human.

“Mind if I turn up the tunes?” he asks.

I shake my head, and seconds later The Librarians are blasting through the car. The button-pusher gets points for good taste in music. I’m sure I would still rather take the bus, but this is a major improvement over riding with Mom. If for no other reason than the silence is way less awkward. It’s almost a comfortable one.

While he drives and rocks out, drumming on the steering wheel, I pull out my tablet and work on the Graphic Grrl character sketches I’d started on the roof last night after dinner. I’m careful to keep my screen angled away from him. His attention should be on the road, but I can’t take any chances.

Good music, plenty of caffeine, and no family-drama tension. I could get used to this kind of commute.

Tru either knows some shortcut to campus or he’s a traffic genius because in half the time it took Mom yesterday, he’s pulling up by the main entrance.

“Door to door service,” he says.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.

“Got an errand to run first,” he says. “Catch you in seminar.”

Okay, weird. I stuff my tablet into my backpack and then climb out. Almost before I’ve even shut the door, he’s squealing away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” I call out lamely as he disappears.

Must be a critical errand.

Aimeigh is just walking up from the student parking lot. “Hi, Sloane.”

“Hey Aimeigh.”

“Don’t you have chem first period?” she asks. When I nod, she smiles. “Me too.”

We fall in step as I follow her lead to whichever building houses the science classrooms, glad I don’t have to whip out my tablet to check the map.

Aimeigh and I have polar opposite personal styles. Today she’s wearing a rainbow of colors. Royal blue jeans, a neon orange and pink tee, purple wristbands, and scuffed yellow All Stars.

My All Stars are black. Which matches my black jeans, black one-shoulder tee, and black tank top. Even my underthings are black, not that anyone is going to get a glimpse. When Mom met me in the kitchen with a glass of juice and a pair of toaster waffles, I thought for sure I was going to get another lecturing look. But she just sighed and put another pair of waffles in the toaster. Maybe I’m wearing her down.

Last night I went through my boxes of clothes—didn’t unpack them, just dug through them—and I’m pretty confident that if I do laundry every weekend, I can make it indefinitely in all black. Longer if I don’t mind re-wearing jeans two or three times.

For the sake of protest, I think I can manage.

“If we sit at the same table,” Aimeigh says as we walk into the chemistry classroom, which is in Building D, “we’ll be lab partners. Danziger always assigns them on the first day.”

“Great.” I climb onto the stool next to her.

Something about Aimeigh reminds me of Tash—maybe it’s the fashion sense, or the insider info, or just the fact that she seems intent on being my friend—and that makes me feel just the tiniest bit closer to home. Especially since I haven’t heard from Tash since the text convo on the roof two nights ago.

A pair of guys at the table in front of us is talking animatedly about something. I’m paying more attention to getting out my tablet and setting it up to take notes. Until I hear one of them ask, “Did you see the Artzfeed post about Graphic Grrl?”