Story code: ST-000549
Part 2: The Screen Still Worked
I stayed bent into the third row of Denise’s SUV with my charger in one hand and the broken tablet in the other while the dismissal whistle kept chirping outside. The screen was a mess of cracks and dark streaks, but that old thumbnail had not been my imagination. It was there for a second, then gone when the display dimmed. “Tessa?” Denise called from the curb. “Where is his bottle?” Not Are you okay. Not Come here. Just the next task. I plugged the charger into the adapter between the seats and held the cord at the angle that made the battery symbol appear. My reflection broke into pieces across the glass. I hit the power button twice. Nothing. Then a faint lock screen came up under the fractures. Outside, Landon said, loud enough to carry through the open hatch, “Mom, why is she in our car?” Our car. Denise’s shoes clicked closer on the pavement. “Tessa, we need to go. People are waiting.” I typed my passcode with my thumb and waited through the lag. The tablet opened to the last gallery folder I had used months ago. Half the screen was blacked out, but the left side still showed rows of tiny images. Balloons. A grocery receipt. A short video of my apartment sink leaking. Then older pictures as I scrolled with careful taps. “There you are,” Rina said quietly from behind the open hatch. She didn’t lean in. She just stood where I could see her sandals by the bumper. “Do you need a minute?” “Maybe,” I said. Denise reached the hatch and stopped when she saw the tablet in my hands. Her face did not change much, but her voice flattened. “This is not the time to dig through junk. Get the bottle and let’s move.” Junk. The folder jumped when my finger slipped over a crack in the glass. A still image filled the working half of the screen. I knew that banner immediately before I could read it. Gold letters taped crooked over the fellowship hall stage at the church Denise used to drag us to for every program. My own face was younger, rounder. Landon was maybe six, holding the side of my shirt and grinning with one tooth missing. Denise stood between us with both hands spread wide across our backs like she was presenting us. I pinched to zoom until the letters sharpened enough to read on the good side of the display. WELCOME MORGAN FAMILY. Rina let out a small breath through her nose. She had seen it too. Denise looked over my shoulder and immediately said, “That was years ago.” I turned in the seat to face her. “He just told people I’m not really family. You stood there and let him.” She glanced toward the curb where Ms. Alvarez was still moving students toward cars. “Lower your voice.” I was already speaking low. That was the part that made people listen. Landon appeared at Denise’s side, still wearing the ribbon. “What is she doing?” Denise stepped a little so he could not see the whole screen. “Nothing. She’s making this take longer than it should.” “Then tell her to stop acting like my sister,” he said. He looked past Denise into the car and then at me. “Say it. Tell Ms. Alvarez.” There it was again, that need for the adult sentence. He did not just want to say it. He wanted it stamped out loud. Rina folded her arms, not angry-looking, just steady. “I heard what was said at the table,” she said. “So did other people.” Denise gave her a quick smile that did not hold. “It’s a family misunderstanding.” “Then maybe don’t make it public next to the cones,” Rina said. For a second nobody moved except the line of cars inching forward behind us. Somewhere up front, a kid shouted goodbye through a half-open window. Ms. Alvarez looked our way once, then back to her clipboard, but she had definitely noticed that we were not leaving. The battery climbed from one percent to two. The photo stayed up. I swiped sideways and found another one from the same night. Then a video thumbnail. My pulse kicked hard enough that I had to brace the tablet against the seat. “Tessa,” Denise said, and now there was an edge in her voice I only usually heard when she was late and needed something from me. “I need your hotspot on for the school app. My phone won’t load the updated pickup code, and the office changed the release system this week. Turn it on so we can get out of here.” I just looked at her. That was the first honest thing she had said all day. Not honest in the moral sense. Honest in the practical one. She had denied me in front of the school, but she still expected my plan, my password, my errand brain, my backup. Landon stared at her. “Why does she have to do it?” Denise snapped, “Because yours is a watch and mine won’t connect right now.” He pointed at me again, more uncertain this time. “Then she needs to help and go.” Help and go. I tapped the video thumbnail. The file opened with no sound at first, then the speaker crackled. The image shook, then steadied on the church stage. It was old, but clear enough. A younger Landon climbed onto a folding chair and shouted into the room, “That’s my sister Tessa!” while Denise laughed from somewhere near the person filming. The clip stopped after four seconds because the battery warning covered the screen. Nobody said anything. Even from the curb, with kids loading into minivans and teachers waving traffic through, that tiny burst of sound sat there between us like something dropped on concrete. Ms. Alvarez started walking toward the SUV, clipboard held against her chest. Denise put out her hand, not touching me, just holding it there. “Tessa,” she said, very carefully, “give.