Chapter 4

I walked back into the house and went straight to my room, locking the door behind me. I could hear their frantic voices from the backyard, a chaotic symphony of coddling Caleb and cursing me. For the first time, their anger didn't touch me. It was just noise.

The banging on my door started a few minutes later. It was my father.

"Ethan! Open this door right now!"

I ignored him, sitting on my bed and staring at the wall. The silence from my room seemed to infuriate him more than any argument could have.

Eventually, they left for the urgent care clinic, to have Caleb's "sprained" ankle examined. I knew they would find nothing wrong. When they returned hours later, the house was quiet. I finally unlocked my door and went downstairs for a glass of water.

My father was waiting for me in the kitchen. He didn't yell. He just pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and shoved it into my hand.

"Here," he said, his voice tight with resentment. "Go buy yourself whatever it is you want. Just stop this... this attitude."

I looked at the money, then up at his face. I let a small, slow smile spread across my lips. It wasn't a happy smile. It was empty, hollow.

"What are you smiling at?" my mother asked, her voice sharp with suspicion as she walked into the room. "It's creepy."

I folded the bill neatly and tucked it into my pocket. "I'm just so happy," I said, my voice light and airy. "I'm overwhelmed with joy for Caleb and his incredible achievement." The words were poison-coated honey.

Their faces hardened. They knew I was mocking them, but they didn't know how to deal with this new version of me. The old Ethan would have been crying or yelling. This cold, sarcastic Ethan was a stranger to them.

I walked over to the living room, where Caleb was sitting on the couch, his foot propped up on a pillow, a small ice pack resting on his perfectly fine ankle. He was basking in the attention.

I stopped in front of him and performed a low, formal bow.

"My sincerest apologies, dear brother," I said, my voice loud enough for my parents to hear from the kitchen. "For my unforgivable clumsiness and the terrible injury I have inflicted upon you. I pray you find the strength to forgive me."

That did it.

"That's enough!" my father roared, storming into the room. He grabbed me by the shirt, his face purple with rage. "You think this is a joke? You think you can mock your brother and this family?"

"I was apologizing," I said calmly. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

He didn't have an answer for that. His rage was a blunt instrument, and my precision was disarming him. So he resorted to what he knew best: brute force.

He dragged me up the stairs and threw me into my room. "You are not coming to the party tomorrow!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the hallway. "You will stay in this room and think about what a selfish, hateful person you've become!"

He slammed the door and I heard the lock turn. I was grounded. Imprisoned.

But as I stood in the silence of my room, I didn't feel punished. I felt a profound sense of relief. They had locked me in, but they had also set me free. They had given me exactly what I needed: time and solitude.

I walked over to my desk and opened my laptop. The screen illuminated my face in the dim light. I pulled up the email from MIT, the one I had saved. I clicked on the link to the admissions portal. Then I opened a new tab and started searching for bus schedules.

All the love I had for them, all the desperate hope for their approval, had died in the last 24 hours. It had been replaced by something cold, hard, and unbreakable.

Resolve.

I was getting to MIT. I would find a way. My life was no longer on hold, waiting for their permission. It was starting now. In this locked room.