he walk down my drive feels like I'm walking on Death Row. Each step feels loud and heavier than the last, but I don't slow down. Slowing down only prolongs the inevitable, and I want this over with.

Deep breath. In my head, I'm rehearsing what I'll say when I get to them. I'm sorry, I'll say first to appease them, but it wasn't Max's fault. Justin started the fight, and Max was just defending me. Not that I think this will work. My parents aren't exactly the understanding type, but maybe if I try to reason and get them to listen, this won't have to end in tatters.

I'm nearly at the end of the driveway. The house stands tall and proud in the distance, but its sight no longer comforts me. Once upon a time, this house was my haven, the one place where I felt happiest; now, it's a place I avoid.

Their frosty expressions greet me at the door. I fall to a stop a few feet away, taking the pair of them in. Mom has been crying. She's not usually one for tears, but today her eyes are red and blotchy, shadowed by faint dark circles. They've been arguing all night; I can tell by the bags that sit beneath Dad's eyes and how they both seem so unraveled. By this time, my parents are usually preened and proper, ready to start the day – things must be worse than I thought.

They don't say a word as they step aside to let me into the house. I hold my breath, walking further into the hallway before turning around. It seems absurd when I think about how afraid I am. These are my parents, the people who raised me. How can facing them be terrifying?

And yet I am. Terrified, I mean. Last night, as I hurried after Max, the look on my mother's face was enough to let me know this indiscretion will not be forgiven. Which begs the question: what now?

I don't have to wait long for an answer. Dad trails into the living room first and takes a seat on the sofa, followed by Mom. I sit opposite, hands folded in my lap as I try to stop my foot from tapping. My stomach feels like it's being shredded.

Dad leans forward to place his hands on his knees. He's had several cups of coffee; I can tell by how his fingers start to tap against the cotton of his trousers. It's not often that someone as prim as my father appears so...unraveled.

"You are not to see that boy again," Dad starts. His voice is stern and somewhat clipped, a sign that he's angry. It's a rare occurrence to see my father like this, so my mother sits tensely beside him. "This is for your own good, Alyssa. You're being manipulated by that–"

Somehow, I find my voice. "Max isn't manipulating me." I want to add, you are, but I'm not quite that strong yet. "If anything, he's the one person who isn't."

Silence fills the room as the three of us stare at one another. Mom glances at Dad before turning back to me. Despite the red and teary eyes, she's a little more put together than he is. Her hair is glossy and pulled into a bun, her makeup dewy, and she's selected a pale yellow dress for the occasion that brings out her tan. If I could forget about the party by some stroke of luck, I could look at her and think all was fine.

"Alyssa," she says now, her voice soft, which means I'm not going to like what she says, "You're being blinded by your feelings for that boy. "You can't see him for what he is the way we can."

My fingers clench as I take them both in. How can they possibly sit here and talk to me about manipulation? How do they have the audacity?

"Look," Dad snaps, rising to his feet, "this isn't up for discussion, young lady. That act your little friend pulled last night was unacceptable. Do you know how much damage control your mother and I will have to do? And I can kiss that business deal goodbye."

"Not just the business deal," Mom says sullenly, "have you thought about college, Alyssa? Your dream of going to an Ivy League School is hanging by a thread. If Daddy can't find a way to get us out of debt, we won't be able to afford it."

My heart squeezes. College was supposed to be my one escape from the pair of them. I'd dreamed of going off to Yale, for once able to be independent and out of my parents' control. I'd meet new people, new friends and discover there's more to life than just money and shopping; there's more to life than this.

Breath held, I look at them both. Maybe college is off the table, or at least that one, but there's always a solution. But even if there isn't, what I've found since meeting Max far outweighs what I've lost, I'm sure of it.

"I love you," I say, my voice breaking, "and I'm sorry for what happened last night, but none of what's happening right now is my fault. Your business deals going wrong is not my fault." I get to my feet, tilting my head to look straight into Dad's eyes. Something about them seems different all of a sudden – less familiar. Once upon a time, I would look at my dad, and I'd be hit with this feeling of safety. Now when I look at him, it's like looking at a stranger. "I can't keep putting my life on hold to save this family. I'm done."

Mom's expression falters as Dad stares me down. She gets to her feet, standing beside us like she's preparing herself to break us up. "Now, honey," she says, somewhat nervous, "I know we're all upset, but let's not make any rash decisions."

"No," Dad says, still staring at me, "Alyssa needs to realize just how much we do for her. Maybe having to fend for herself for a little while will make her appreciate everything we've done."

For about a second, a thousand thoughts cross my mind. Maintaining my friendships at school will be impossible without access to money. So will any chance of training at the gym if I'm busy working a job. Which means in the space of three seconds, my father has shattered what's left of my life, and now I'll be left to pick up the pieces.

I open my mouth – to say what, I don't know – but in the end, it doesn't matter. Dad storms out without listening to what I have to say, and my mother and I are left alone in the living room, the silence all but deafening.

Her eyes soften. It looks like she wants to say something. God, how I want her to say something. Anything. The tiniest reassurance or declaration – a sign that she loves me. That I am more important than money. But then she turns, crossing the room until she gets to the door, and my heart sinks.

She stops suddenly, still teary-eyed, and half turns to face me. I think this is it, the moment my mother will prove to me that she's on my side, but instead, she proves the opposite "I hope that boy is worth it," she says and walks out.

I'm on the brink of tears as I head up to my room, but I don't let them fall. I'm tired of crying. Tired of hurting. If this is the way my parents want it, then this is the way it's going to be.

As soon as I'm ready, I pack a bag and drive to the gym, even though I hadn't planned on going until later. I can't stay in that house anymore, not with them, and right now, I need to punch something. I pull up outside and kill the engine, certain it won't be long before my dad takes my car, too, but for now, he's too angry to think straight. That gives me time to prepare.

Slinging my bag across my shoulder, I head up the steps and into the gym. The place is relatively quiet – it always is on a Sunday – but I prefer it this way. I drop my bag in the corner and head straight to the equipment box, grabbing some gloves before turning to one of the heavy bags.

Then I hit. From the moment my fists hit the leather, I feel it: quick, sharp bursts that rattle my knuckles and make me dizzy. I haven't allowed myself to feel it until now, but now it's as if there's a tidal wave of fury desperate to break out of me. I let it all out, channeling the rage through each punch, and by the time I'm finished, I'm so exhausted, so drained of emotion, that I collapse against the heavy bag.

"Hey," says a soft voice behind me.

I turn around and see Maddie. She studies my face, her eyebrows furrowed with what I'm certain is concern, but she doesn't ask what's wrong. Somehow, she always knows just what I need and when I need it. Instead, she says, "You know, there's a local promotional event in a few weeks. They're looking for a newbie female lightweight. Do you want me to put you forward? It might be nice to have something to work toward."

For a second, my heart flutters. The idea of fighting an actual opponent is terrifying. But imagine. Imagine being able to prove to Justin just how wrong he was. Or looking my parents in the eye and being to tell them I won a boxing fight. Imagine looking in the mirror, eyes wide, and being able to say that to myself.

I turn to Maddie, the anger I'd felt earlier replaced with something else: courage. "But how will I know if I'm ready?"

She smiles, and it's the kind that both reassures and comforts me, the kind only a friend can give. "The only way you'll know if you're ready is to do it."

I turn back to the heavy bag, my thoughts racing as fast as my heart. Maybe the only thing I'll achieve by fighting is embarrassing myself, but I'm tired of only doing things to please others. For once, I want to do something for myself. "Okay," I say, turning to Maddie, "I'll do it."

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