“Maybe,” Tyler said. “But as long as you live under Dad’s roof, it’s
hard to go when he asks you not to, easy to delay just one more year,
until there aren’t any years left. If you start as a sophomore, can you
even graduate?”
We both knew I couldn’t.
“It’s time to go, Tara,” Tyler said. “The longer you stay, the less likely
you will ever leave.”
“You think I need to leave?”
Tyler didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate. “I think this is the worst possible
place for you.” He’d spoken softly, but it felt as though he’d shouted the
words.
“Where could I go?”
“Go where I went,” Tyler said. “Go to college.”
I snorted.
“BYU takes homeschoolers,” he said.
“Is that what we are?” I said. “Homeschoolers?” I tried to remember
the last time I’d read a textbook.
“The admissions board won’t know anything except what we tell
them,” Tyler said. “If we say you were homeschooled, they’ll believe it.”
“I won’t get in.”
“You will,” he said. “Just pass the ACT. One lousy test.”
Tyler stood to go. “There’s a world out there, Tara,” he said. “And it
will look a lot different once Dad is no longer whispering his view of it
in your ear.”
—THE NEXT DAY I drove to the hardware store in town and bought a slide-
bolt lock for my bedroom door. I dropped it on my bed, then fetched a
drill from the shop and started fitting screws. I thought Shawn was out
—his truck wasn’t in the driveway—but when I turned around with the
drill, he was standing in my doorframe.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Doorknob’s broke,” I lied. “Door blows open. This lock was cheap