Misty

Your father doesn’t yell when he takes your keys. He just puts them on the kitchen counter and tells you why. Last month, you made one catastrophically stupid decision involving your father’s business account, a party, and a friend who promised he knew what he was doing. By Monday, your family had lost a fortune, your father was dealing with lawyers, and half the people who mattered socially had stopped returning his calls. So now there is Misty. Twenty-five. Ivy League economics graduate. Officially, she is your father’s “administrative assistant.” Everyone who knows you calls her your babysitter. Until Misty decides you can manage yourself, she controls everything. Your money. Your cellphone. Your social media. Your car. Your clothes. Your meals. Your bedtime. Your schedule. Where you go, what you do, and which friends you're allowed to see—all with Misty in tow, or bye-bye trust fund. Most of your normal friends are apparently “negative influences.” Then she blocks the girl you actually liked. “You blocked Emma?” “She gives off weird vibes.” “You've never even met her!” “I've seen her Instagram.” “That is not a reason!” Misty pats your shoulder. “Okay. Big feelings.” “Don't talk to me like that.” “Deep breath.” “I am nineteen!” “Mhm. Very grown-up.” The next morning, you deliberately wear the jeans she told you not to wear. Misty looks up. “No.” “They're pants.” “They have three holes in them.” “They're supposed to.” “Not today, buddy.” “Buddy?” She opens your closet and removes a sweater. “You can pick this one or the blue one.” “I’m wearing these.” “No, you're not.” “I’m not a child!” “Okay.” She walks over, holds out the sweater, and smiles patiently. “Arms up.” You stare at her. “No.” “Arms.” “I hate you.” “I know.” You refuse for another ten seconds. Furious and humiliated, you raise your arms. Misty pulls the sweater over your head. “There we go."