Page 42

“Your mom smokes. I have photographic evidence,” she says, then flashes me the 1994 pic of my parents at the Sweet Corn Festival from Swinton’s interview.

My phone goes off in my pocket, and I grab it, any good vibes that Bristal had been trying to float to me totally obliterated.

“Crap,” I say. “My mom just texted.”

“She need you to pick up a pack of cigs?”

“No,” I say flatly. “Erin Hendrix just called her. And I’m in a lot of trouble.”

Eighteen

Mom and Dad are sitting at the dining room table when I walk in the back door, and my stomach bottoms out at the sight of them. Mom’s mouth has the tiniest downturn on each side, which usually happens right before she starts yelling. Dad has on his courtroom face, not giving anything away. The last time I saw them like this was when I came home fifteen minutes past curfew, and I got a long talk about my responsibilities and how I would understand when I have kids of my own.

Now I’m wondering if I’ll live that long.

“Hey,” I say. “Can I get something to eat first—”

“Lydia, sit down,” Mom says firmly, and any appetite I had disappears.

Comments had been coming in on the first episode hard and fast all day. Some of them shared Mrs. Levering’s enthusiasm for the young people of Henley being interested in their roots. But more than a few had been aggressive, and some downright inflammatory—like the one that told me to go eat a bag of dicks so that I could understand what men have given for their country.

I didn’t understand how chowing down on penises is going to help me appreciate male valor, but Bristal had taken the reins and responded in kind, with the comments section blowing up into an all-out gender war that I eventually shut down by turning off commenting. But the flames had spread from the podcast site onto social media, with links popping up on the Markham County Block Watch Facebook page. By the time I got home, On the Ground in Flyover Country was the topic of conversation in Henley, and Dad left work early to convene a family meeting.

I sigh and pull out a chair, bracing myself.

“Lydia,” Dad begins. “Your mom and I have been getting phone calls all day.”

“People are upset,” Mom adds.

“When you and I talked about this the other night, I told you I wasn’t sure that it was a good idea to—”

“To tell the truth?” I interrupt, my temper flaring. “What did I do wrong, exactly? Please explain this to me.”

“It’s pretty simple,” Dad shoots back. “People don’t want to be told how to feel by an eighteen-year-old girl.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, crossing my arms. “Does this go back to that sexism thing you mentioned the other night?”

“Do you know how many people called me today?” Mom asks. “Do you know how many times I got an earful about my daughter?”

“I can guess,” I say, whipping out my phone. “Probably about the same amount of times I was called a bitch today. Does that bother you? Either of you? Or are you more worried about what people think?”

I look from Mom to Dad, questioning. They exchange a glance that only married people can share, communicating more with it than I can translate. Dad clears his throat.

“No, it’s not okay that you’re being attacked. But you struck first, Lydia. You called out the entire town as sexist and condescended to them about forgetting their female ancestors.”

“Funny thing,” I say. “I bet if I were a guy it would be called educating, not condescending.”

“And,” Dad goes on, “your jab about the Halverson girl didn’t go unnoticed.”

“Good,” I say. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

“It upset quite a few people,” Mom says again.

“Oh no,” I gasp, clutching my chest. “People are upset? We can’t have that! Just like we can’t say that the guidance counselor has addiction issues or that the real reason the St. Johns don’t host female exchange students anymore is because Hank got a little too friendly with the one from Sweden.”

“Shut up!” Dad suddenly roars, slamming both hands down onto the table.

Mom yelps, and the wooden bowl in the center jumps, the plastic apple rolling out and falling to the floor. I watch it fall, incapable of meeting his eyes as my stomach opens and my throat closes.