Chapter One October Third
Pine Ridge, New York
“That’s the rent?”
“That’s the rent. Plus, you pay the utilities, sewer, trash...”
“I’ll take it. Thanks, Mr. Wickstaff.”
Mr. Wickstaff intimidates the shit out of me, but the townhouse he’s offering is in a super nice place, in a pretty little town.
Better than any place I ever grew up in.
Maybe the huge dude with a thick accent—Scottish, I think, knows that when I look around this place, I’m seeing the kind of home I wish I’d had, because he coughs and says, “It’s a year-long lease, ironclad.
You break it, and you’re on the line for the rest of the year’s rents—but if you’re a good tenant, my wife and I are willing to offer this place as a lease to buy after the second year.
We love this town. We’re part owners in the local coffee shop.
My wife’s parents and brother live here.
Our first bairn is due early in the new year, and our first niece or nephew sometime in the summer. ”
Bairn. Yep, definitely Scottish.
“Well, I’m a good tenant, you’ll see. Quiet. Work from home. No wild parties. I mean... Look at me.” For once, my scrawny, nerdy, blind-without-my-glasses self is just what the landlord ordered.
Mr. Wickstaff grunts and shoves papers into my hand. “Sign. First and last month upfront, security deposit is half that again.”
I swallow and nod. Well... That’s all the money I have in the world, but I don’t need to dress up to code for MenuGenius, the largest online restaurant ordering platform in the world. I don’t need any new furniture. I can live on rice, eggs, and cereal for a few weeks. Or months.
I sign.
“Welcome to Pine Ridge, Arthur,” Mr. Wickstaff says gruffly and marches off the porch.
“You can call me Artie, everyone does...” I watch him leave. “Uh. Thank you! Bye?”
Nope. He’s back. He’s back, and he has a basket of muffins, pastries, bags of ground coffee, and what I think is an egg pie—there’s a French word for it, but I forget it.
Kids on the Free Lunch program aren’t super up on fancy food names, and we coders at MenuGenius see all food items as scrolling scripts after a few months.
The basket is shoved into my chest with another grunt. “Mr. Minegold will be around sometime this week to give you the community calendar and Welcome Wagon package. Do you have a kettle?”
“A... A kettle? I have a microwave.” What is happening?
Mr. Wickstaff sighs, looks like he has a sudden twinge of appendicitis, and stalks back off the porch again.
This time, he returns carrying a box with a bright gold ribbon on top and a shiny picture of an electric kettle in matte black finish on the front.
“When people come to visit, you’ll want a kettle. It’s how we do things here.”
“Uhhh. I work odd hours. Some of the servers I’m in charge of are in Tokyo and Seoul, so I might not—”
“Every home needs a kettle. Take it.” The seven-foot wall with narrowed eyes and a growly voice thrusts the kettle at me.
“Yes. Yes, I love it. Thank you!” I clutch the box and back away.
My new landlord is scary and generous, and I don’t know what to do. It’s like finding out that the bully you were running from in middle school was chasing after you to make sure you had your lunchbox and bus fare.
“Good lad.” He smiles suddenly, and I smile back.
This time, he stalks off, gets in his car, and drives away, leaving me with muffins, keys, and a kettle.
Well. I guess Pine Ridge is home now.
October 3rd, 2025
Eagle Arch (unincorporated), Alaska
“Your classes are over. Why are you still on that damn device?”
I look up at Father nervously. “I have to do the work for the classes, or I can’t stay in them. It’s free to attend, so I at least need to do the work.”
“Stupid university. What kind of fools run that place?”
“Barton, let her do the work. It keeps her busy, and it’s state-funded. Not by our state, by those godless New Yorkers, so what does it matter?”
My stepmother is far nicer than my father, which is odd, because all the books I have say that the stepmothers are wicked. But my classmates talk a lot when we do our breakout sessions online, and they have lots of different families... None of them sound like mine.
All of them are in New York, which is far from Alaska, and Sarah (my stepmother) says that’s why they can go places and see people.
Father also points out that they’re not freaks like me, with bony growths on my head and birth defects that left me with a weird growth on my spine and skin the color of bubble gum.
But then there’s Cary, who is so funny and so brave.
Half of his face looks like it melted. He was a soldier and stepped on a bomb, and even with one arm, one eye, and all his twisted skin, he has a wife and two sons, and he does something called stand-up comedy.
He makes us all laugh with his wit and the little one-line replies he tosses to each of us like he’s doling out candy.
I don’t think I would like him better with perfect skin.
And then there is Vince, who has metal growths all over his eyes and ears that he calls piercings, and his face is covered in blue. I know they’re called tattoos, but no one talks about them, no one at all!
I tried telling Sarah about it, but she says if I bring it up to Father, he will just take my classes away, and I’ll just have to stay inside and do nothing.
There’s no work in Eagle Arch unless you work on the oil rigs or fishing boats, and Father says they don’t take women.
I think they should make an exception and take me, because I don’t mind the cold.
My skin is so thick that Father gave up trying to beat sense into me when I was just a little thing, because I didn’t even bruise.
Right now, he glares, huffs, and says he’s going back to bed. He has to leave early tomorrow with the launch boat, and he won’t be back for a couple of weeks.
Maybe when he’s gone, I can ask Sarah about the books we’re reading. One is set in Alaska, and there are lots of people in it. Lots of towns. People with friends and family, people who travel and fly to other places.
And in one book, there’s a man like Father, who keeps his children locked up in their apartment, but it’s in Chicago, and it’s called a “project,” and he has guns and cocaine under his bed.
But he keeps them from going to school, and keeps them in their rooms when people come over, and shouts at them and calls them worthless.
The story is uplifting, though, because the eldest sister gets her three siblings to safety one night, and they end up with a nice family from Arlington Heights and start a foster care organization in the 1970s.
All of the stories are true. The class is called “America, Ourselves,” and we’re reading nonfiction from a huge list of options. I have to read the options available for free online from the school’s library, but that’s okay.
My parents don’t know it, but I’m allowed to take out up to fifty books at a time, and I don’t seem to need as much sleep as they say. I’ve been reading every day since the end of August.
Reading makes me happy.
And sad.
And concerned.
My classes make me happy, too, and they keep me quiet and busy, which my father said would be harder and harder to do since I’m “an adult.” They still treat me like a child. I know that now.
Today, my classes made me miserable, though.
In Psychology 101, Sofia wasn’t in our breakout room.
Lesha said that Sofia had to leave and go to a women’s shelter because her partner, Stacey, put her hands on her.
That the partner is emotionally and physically abusive, and Lesha finally convinced Sofia to go before she can’t go.
And now... hours later, I’m hoping Lesha won’t mind that I’m using the class messaging app that’s only supposed to be for group work to contact her. The syllabus says any violation of that will result in expulsion from the class and, maybe, the college program.
I’m afraid to get kicked out, but...
Imogene: Lesha, I have a question. Could you help me?
Lesha: Sure thing, Jelly Bean.
I love Lesha. If we were nearby, I’d say we were friends, but Father says friends are people who are with you, who care about you, and want to be with you. Family can’t be friends because they’re stuck with you.
Imogene: If someone were only allowed to go to online courses, never allowed to leave the house, make friends, or go places, would you say that is normal?
Lesha:...
Lesha:...
Lesha: Does the person want to go out? Find a job, date, do stuff outside?
Imogene: Yes, but she never has.
Lesha: It sounds like that person needs to leave a very dangerous situation.
Abuse isn’t just hitting, it’s neglect, deprivation, and control.
That person sounds like they are deprived of company, love, and the chance for happiness.
It’s not good for someone’s mental health to always be alone. Why is this person in that situation?
Imogene: She’s got a birth defect. People would stare at her.
Lesha: Let them stare. What are they going to do, make her feel sad about the way she looks? She already sounds sad. She’ll find the people who aren’t dickheads. Hell, she’ll find you, and you wouldn’t care about that. You have a good heart, even if you won’t let us see your face.
Imogene: It’s an old computer. It has no camera.
Lesha: It can’t be that old if it has a microphone and can handle the classes online stream, Jelly Bean. Sounds like someone wants you to think it doesn’t have a camera. Hey. Is this woman we’ve been talking about my pal Imogene?
Imogene: I’m your pal?
Lesha: Hell yes. Girl, if this is your situation, get out of it.
I hold my breath before I type, listening. If Sarah or Father burst in right now, I don’t know what they’d do.
What could they do that’s any worse? I’m already in prison. My spine straightens up, and I type.
Imogene: I don’t know what I’d need to get out of it.
Lesha: Money and a bus ticket. Or in Alaska, a plane ticket.
Imogene: I don’t have either of those things.
Lesha: Shit.
“Imogene! Stop that typing! I can hear you, you rotten little selfish bitch! Hardworking people need to sleep, and you’re tapping on their walls all the time!
Tomorrow morning, I’m going to go through your history and make sure you’re only on sites related to those classes!
” Father suddenly roars, making me bite my lip.
I type so slowly, softly, letting one finger press down the key before it can lift up the next one, silent as snowfall.
Imogene: I have to go. I’ll figure something out.
Lesha: You don’t have a degree, right?
Imogene: No.
Lesha: Find some of these nanny sites that are like “no degree required, we’ll pay for your room, your food, and your travel.
” There are other kinds of sites like that, too, so be careful.
Don’t want to go from bad to worse. Make sure it’s a good site, a site rated by the Better Business Bureau, the kind with a phone number and real people who answer.
I don’t tell her I can’t use the phone. That I’ve never used a phone, never seen a baby... Never even seen my own baby pictures.
Lesha: It’ll get you out of there. Then you can always find a room and get another job. Set up a bank account. There are lots of jobs that don’t require degrees.
But they probably all require some kind of account to put money in, some identification...
I need help, and I don’t know how to get it.
I wonder if Sarah knows that Father isn’t treating either of us right?
Should I tell her, or not?
What if she does know, and she doesn’t care?
Typing softly, I thank Lesha and leave the messenger.
I can’t search for anything right now. Father said he’ll be searching my computer tomorrow.
I go to the college library page instead and open my online psychology textbook.
Child Development: Nurture vs. Nature.
Hm. That seems like a good place to start if I ever intend to end up with a job as a nanny.
I hug myself tight. Or a little family of my own.