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thedaltonsanctuary · 4 years

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Welcome SEBASTIAN SMYTHE to the Dalton Sanctuary as a SWITCH RESIDENT. Please send in your blog within the next 48 hours or we will have to reopen your role. You may begin dash activity immediately, no need to wait for anything else once your blog is made.

✎ OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION

ALIAS/PRONOUNS: Grant he/him AGE: 28+ TIMEZONE: CST TRIGGERS: none ANYTHING ELSE: Just that it has been a long time since I’ve been in a group so be gentle! Heh.

✎ IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

NAME: Sebastian Maxwell Smythe AGE/BIRTHDAY: 27 | June 3rd, 1993 GENDER/PRONOUNS: cismale, he/him SUB/DOMINANT/SWITCH?: Switch, Originally classified as a Dominant STAFF/RESIDENT/VISITOR?: Resident SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Homosexual KINKS: spanking, dirty talk, light bondage, marking, biting, light humiliation, cum play, use of toys, power dynamics ANTI-KINKS: forced, gore, vore, blood, knives, weapons, actual violence, animals, furries, watersports

✎ BRIEF BIOGRAPHY

Sebastian Maxwell Smythe was born to two wealthy parents who came from old family money. Maxwell Smythe had all the right connections in the world to study law at the best schools and get internships at top law practices. His father had connections within some very powerful institutions. Maxwell met Sebastian’s mother, Meredith Shelley, in their younger years at a country club. Maxwell worked tirelessly to climb the ladder at various practices around the state of Ohio. Meredith worked tirelessly to keep the family at the top tier of the social ladder. Together they made the Smythe name formidable.

As the singular child to overachieving parents Sebastian spent a lot of time in his youth alone. When he wasn’t being paraded around the milieu of bourgeois society or attending lessons with private tutors Sebastian often asked his nannies endless questions and spent hours at theater houses or watching music videos on television. It was in these spaces which Sebastian learned the addictive power of performance arts. When you were on stage the attention was on you. When you were apart of an ensemble you were apart of something larger than yourself. Sebastian had the best clothes and the finest opportunities. He wanted for nothing; except the love and attention an only child craves. Thus his love affair with performing arts began.

In his middle school years Sebastian’s family had moved to Paris in what his father described as a ‘leg up’ in attaining high office back in the United States. Sebastian spent years in some of the most cultured places and while his parents weren’t pleased with his choices to be involved in theater and dance, they allowed him to pursue these, as long as he kept up his grades.

The other children didn’t always treat Sebastian well, especially when he expressed his opinions that the classification system was stupid and that people were way more varied than the Dominant/submissive binary allowed for. He was sometimes bullied and went through a lonely period in his life without his parents’ support to turn to. They had laid certain expectations at Sebastian’s feet without explicitly saying it in words. Sebastian could tell from the way they talked that they expected him to grow up, become a lawyer, meet a nice submissive woman, and carry on the Smythe legacy upon the foundation his parents had built together. Sebastian resisted in his own quiet ways.

It wasn’t until the angst of his teenage years coincided with an announced move back to the United States that Sebastian made an important connection in his mind.

What Shakespeare said was true: All the World’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. If this was true it meant only one true thing. You could be whoever the hell you wanted to be. He would fashion himself a new identity. One acceptable to his parents and the outside world. One in which he fit in and came out on top at all costs. He had the status and the money to bolster him and shield him from blame. He could play by his own rules and pretend he was playing by everybody else’s.

It was at a Private Preparatory Academy for boys that Sebastian ended up. His father was State’s Attorney. Sebastian played lacrosse and in exchange he got to be in the performing choir at the school. He was top dog in a lot of ways. Wealthy, good looking, talented, smart. Yet he was still troubled. Still alone.

He knew the time of his classification test was nearing and he felt like he was being dragged across hot coals all the way to the day it would happen. Sebastian didn’t believe he was either a Dominant or submissive. He’d learned not to express this to anyone publicly, if only for appearances, and for fear of not fitting in. Yet it was a reality he carried with him every day of his life.

This angst caused him to act out. In his junior year he nearly blinded a boy in order to win the affections of another boy and he blackmailed someone at a competing school in order to win at all costs. He was found out and though he was never officially disciplined by the school or the law, Sebastian was sent to a military academy for his senior year. There he met Hunter Clarington.

While the two started off with friends in the same circle and shared many traits - a desire to achieve, perfection at all costs, the smug sort of attitude that came with money or good looks - these were also tension points where they collided. They were both 'Dominants’ clashing for top spot at every opportunity. Sebastian never wanted a career in the military but he wasn’t one to let himself get walked all over. He did everything he could to get Hunter thrown out of the Academy.

It was in pursuit of this goal that Sebastian realized he was misguided. He didn’t care if Hunter was top dog in the Military school where they were students. He just cared about getting out of there. This realization led Sebastian to try every little punishable offense to get himself kicked out. He ended up being expelled after hitting an instructor (an offense for which he could have been charged in court).

His senior year education was completed at another boarding school across the states while his father continued his work in Ohio. The two didn’t talk for a long time. Sebastian didn’t even go home during fall break that year. Once his education was completed Sebastian received his classification test. It was a bitter day where Sebastian got lectured on the merits of what being a Dominant meant. On top of the pressures of being a Smythe the young man now had the expectations of being responsible for behaving as a 'true’ Dominant should.

Sebastian spent much of his young adult years miserable. He studied law, partied, went through boyfriends like he went through clothes and kept getting into trouble. His father always got him out of legal scrapes but he’d warned Sebastian he was on thin ice. Sebastian’s poor decision making coincided with too much alcohol and not enough sleep, fatigue, and headaches. All of these indicators were ignored for what they truly were: signs that he was ignoring all of his needs.

Sebastian had become aware of the word 'switch’ in society when that classification became mainstream. It put a name to everything Sebastian always felt but couldn’t put into words. The most heart wrenching thing was that it changed nothing. His parents had an idea of what his life should be and not even performing his identity could save Sebastian. He would muddle through life and he would do as he was told or he would lose the only source of acceptance he so desperately craved.

He’d gotten his undergrad in Business and minored in Economics. He was close to finishing law school at Colombia University when it happened. One wrong decision that changed everything. He got in the car with someone who had been drinking and had an open container on him. They were headed to an after party when the car crashed into a light pole. No one else was injured but Sebastian was arrested and charged.

His father got him out of jail time but when Sebastian came shamefully to his doorstep in Ohio where Maxwell was still a State’s Attorney, he was turned away. His father wouldn’t pay his legal fines and he wouldn’t take Sebastian in. His trust had been frozen until Sebastian could 'man up’ and figure himself out.

With his semester on hold and legal fees at his feet, all family resources, and any friendly faces he’d ever known turned away from him…Sebastian had only one place left to go. The Dalton Sanctuary.

Sebastian feels shame for having to ask for help this way. In many ways it calls into shame his abilities as a Dominant, his long held beliefs about himself as an intelligent and capable person, and it sobers him into realizing his need to deal with who he truly is. No matter what anyone might think of him.

Sebastian must work to accept himself as a switch, to figure out what that looks like, and to figure out who he is without the heavy weight of societal and familial expectations on his shoulders. Can he strip away everything that was put onto him and let himself and his heart finally be free?

As an unwilling resident, Sebastian must find out.

#glee rp #glee ds rp #glee smut rp #mature rp #sebastian smythe rp #sanctuary:admin #accepted

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naturecoaster · 5 years

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Wesley Chapel's History & Presence

Wesley Chapel is an unincorporated census-designated place of 6.1 square miles at the southern border of Pasco County near I-75 and I-275. In 2010, the US Census recorded 44,092 residents. It is one of the fastest growing areas in the United States

John Boyette was born in 1875, the son of John “Berry” Boyette and nephew of Thomas Ashley Boyette. He is shown with his wife Blanche, and children, Johnnie, William, Ruby, and Vera. Photo courtesy of Cletia Pierce, from Images of America: Wesley Chapel by Madonna Jervis Wise. (e2679) The pioneer Boyett(e), Gillett(e), Godwin, and Kersey families received land grants in the area in the 1840s. The real influx of settlers, however, began around the War Between the States when the Stanleys and Coopers arrived. A historical marker has: “Originally called Double Branch for the twin creeks that flowed across the Boyette land, the community was named for the Methodist chapel that stood on the northwest corner of SR 54 and Boyette Road.” The church itself was named for John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement. The name “Wesley Chapel” appears in Hernando County school board records from 1877-1878. At this time, Pasco and Citrus Counties were united as part of Hernando County. Previous Names for Wesley Chapel

Alligator hunting in the swamps of Wesley Chapel. Lonnie Tucker on far left is guiding the two visitors through the swamp. Photo courtesy of his daughter Anna Jo Bracknell, who said it was typical for him to harvest 3 to 4 gators per evening. From Images of America: Wesley Chapel, by Madonna Jervis Wise. (e2656) A popular nickname for the area at that time was Gatorville. It was not because of University of Florida either. In September of 1887 voting precincts were established for the newly-formed Pasco County. Wesley Chapel was designated Precinct 4. A post office operated in the area from 1897 to 1902. The post office was called “Wesley,” and maps during that period have the shortened name “Wesley” and some school board minutes also used the shortened name. Since its founding in 1878, the Double Branch Baptist Church (now the First Baptist Church) has served as a focus for Wesley Chapel community life. The church has had three buildings in its long history. Henry Ryals was pastor in the first building in 1880, Ed Bryant the second in 1935, and Lynn Foster the third in 1970. Early Wesley Chapel Industries

Cuts Manning, a log roller at the sawmill. (Florida State Archives) The turpentine still and sawmill represented early industries, though cattle ranching and hog farming on the then open range, crop farming, and citrus growing predominated. When times were hard people turned to charcoal making and even moonshining to survive. Most roads began as wagon tracks between the farms and ranches and the locations where goods were sold. Eventually these were improved, paved and today have names like State Road 54!

Born on July 25, 1876 in Quitman, Georgia. Moved to Pasco County as a young man and married Ellen Osburn. Agent Waters was shot and killed along with Pasco County Deputy Sheriff Arthur F. Crenshaw from ambush on October 4, 1922. They were returning from a ranch after completing the execution of a search warrant for bootleg liquor. The name of John V. Waters is inscribed (East Wall, Panel 27, Line 5) on the National Law Enforcement Memorial in Washington, D.C. (State of Florida Archives) In 1925, there were 3 incidences of arrests, deaths and illegal moonshine production in Wesley Chapel reported in the Tampa and Dade City newspapers. The moonshine operations continued through 1927, with Federal Marshalls uncovering numerous stills and confiscating thousands of gallons of liquor and mash.

Moonshine and a still in the attic. (Florida State Archives) A prominent local name, Strickland, and a Sicilian distiller named Sangiorgi were some of the many people whose copper stills, liquor, weapons, and mash were confiscated from the local swamps and deep woods during Prohibition. Wesley Chapel begins Growth with Electricity in the 1940s Luther Daniel Smith was instrumental in bringing electricity to the community of Wesley Chapel in 1940s while he served on the Withlacoochee River Electric Cooperative Board. In 1956, the Highway 54 West Bridge was built west of the Eagles Flea Market. The 1960s saw the construction of I-75, connecting the area with travelers from the north and south.

Double Branch Baptist Church Groundbreaking. Photo provided by Madonna Jervis Wise, author of Images of America: Wesley Chapel. (e2651) In 1971, a new sanctuary was built for the Double Branch Baptist Church and the former one was torn down. The Wesley Chapel pioneer cracker home of Daniel Smith, built in 1894, was donated to Cracker Country in 1979. This hands-on museum is housed at the Florida State Fairgrounds, Smith House, and shares the story of frontier life in Wesley Chapel.

Saddlebrook Resort post card, about 1982. Saddlebrook Resort formally opened in 1981, with a car-free walking village design, allowing guests to walk throughout the resort without the need of a transportation system while providing sanctuary to nature. Thomas L. Dempsey was the visionary for this award-winning golf and tennis resort in Wesley Chapel. Wesley Chapel's Education and Housing

Wesley Chapel School (1926-27) The two-room schoolhouse was located where the current parking lot of the current First Baptist Church of Wesley Chapel (off SR 54) now is situated. It would be the parking lot to the left of the church if you are facing the front of the church. One room was designated for the 1st through 4th grades and the second room was for the 5th through 8th grades. Photo courtesy of Wayne Sweat, from the new book "Images of America - Wesley Chapel" by Madonna Jervis Wise. (e839) Wesley Chapel began growing at an unprecedented rate about this time. 1998 saw the construction of the Sand Pines Elementary School, the community’s first modern school. Today there are eight public elementary schools in Wesley Chapel, as well as two middle schools and two high schools. In fact, the Double Branch Baptist Church was renamed the First Baptist Church in 1999, the same year as Wesley Chapel High School opened. In 2006, Wiregrass Ranch High School opened to meet the growing demand of families moving to Wesley Chapel. There are many housing and apartment complexes that were built on the ranches and farms of yesteryear.

Epperson Ranch opened with the Crystal Lagoon in Wesley Chapel. In 2018, Epperson Ranch opened the Crystal Lagoon, the first man-made clear water lagoon in the U. S. This 7.5 acre freshwater lagoon is available to both residents of the Epperson Ranch and the public. Wesley Chapel's Shopping and Dining The first outdoor mall to be built in the area is The Grove, a 445,000 square foot complex that includes a Cinebistro movie and dining theater. The Grove is located in the northeast quadrant of I-75 ad State Road 54.

Enjoy dining served at the movie theater at the Cobb Theater in The Grove shopping center. One of those is Wiregrass Ranch, a 5,000-acre ranch that was owned by the Porter Family. In 2008, The Shops of Wiregrass, an open-air retail and entertainment destination located on the corner of State Road 56 and Bruce B. Downs Boulevard, opened there.

The Shops of Wiregrass is a popular Wesley Chapel shopping and dining destination. Florida Hospital Wesley Chapel opened a $150-million hospital and wellness center on part of the land in 2012. In 2015, the Tampa Premium Outlets shopping mall brought discount designer retail to the area and continued the wave of development to the west side of I-75/I-275. The abundance of state-of-the-art retailers, restaurants and amenities have caught the eye of people from around the world who seem to be moving to Wesley Chapel in droves. Wesley Chapel's Sports Tradition Continues

The largest hockey complex in the southeast U.S., premiere golf and tennis academies and more make Wesley Chapel a great place to grow your sports skills! The largest hockey complex in the southeast United States is in Wesley Chapel. Advent Health Center Ice was opened at I-275 and State Road 56 in 2017. It has four full-sized ice rinks, as well as a kid-sized rink and offers classes in figure skating, hockey, curling as well as tournaments, open skates and dry rink activities. Rentals and events are available. Saddlebrook has continued its tradition of tennis and golf education, opening the Saddlebrook Preparatory Academy to provide an accredited comprehensive education program while they are attending the Saddlebrook Tennis Program or Golf Academy

Wesley Chapel is an unincorporated area at the southern border of Pasco County, approximately midway between the east and west borders. It is a unique part of Florida's Nature Coast. Arkyan Is Wesley Chapel part of the Nature Coast? Wesley Chapel continues to grow in population and amenities. In an area that was pre-designated for economic growth and development, the Connected City is focused on the next-generation experience of its residents. This is not simply rooftops, streets and commerce, this is Smart Homes, autonomous vehicle paths and a business core designed to attract and support the best and brightest, according to Pasco County. And, though Wesley Chapel seems more like a bedroom community of Tampa, its location within Pasco County makes it part of Florida’s Nature Coast. There is certainly a lot of shiny new stuff there along with a history that is common to the rest of our area.

Wesley Chapel is one of the fastest growing areas of Florida with tons of options and amenities. Image courtesy of Pixabay My eldest son chose to live in Wesley Chapel, even though he was raised in Brooksville. As a young man, it was more appealing to him to live in a multi-story apartment complex with twenty chain restaurants that will deliver to him at any time. He still loves to come out and kayak, fish and walk in the woods. He would rather drive to the outdoor recreation. I would rather drive to the shopping and restaurants. Florida’s Nature Coast has it all and Wesley Chapel is an important part of that. Read the full article

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krissysbookshelf · 7 years

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Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: Who's That Girl by Blair Thornburgh!

Nattie has always been that under-the-radar straight girl who hangs out in the cafeteria with her gay-straight alliance friends.

She's never been the girl that gets the guy, let alone the girl that gets a hit song named after her. But when last summer's crush, smoking-hot musician Sebastian Delacroix—who has recently hit the mainstream big-time—returns home to play a local show, that's just what she gets. He and his band have written a chart-topping single—"Natalie"—which instantly makes Nattie second guess everything she thought about their awkward non-kiss at that June pool party. With her once-normal life starting to resemble a gossip magazine, Nattie is determined to figure out if her brief moment with Sebastian was the stuff love songs are made of—or just a one-hit wonder.

LEARN MORE

CHAPTER ONE

Everything weird started the day my dad brought home the yurt.

“Robert?”

Anne McCullough, alias Mom, was peering through the windows of our back door, cup of coffee in hand, and frowning. Robert Schwartz, alias Dad, had taken the station wagon somewhere early that morning and was now puttering around in the yard. But since puttering was one of those activities Dad did to relax, like separating the recycling or buying dress shoes on eBay, I wasn’t exactly concerned.

“Nattie?”

Natalie McCullough-Schwartz, alias Nattie, alias me, was sitting at the kitchen table, chomping through a noontime bowl of granola. It was Saturday, after all, so I was entitled to loaf around for a bit, reading and eating cereal to the soundtrack of the college radio station that my parents had playing 24-7.

“Whuh?” I responded without looking up from my phone, where I was completing my normal Saturday-morning Pixstagram catch-up session.

“Where did your dad go this morning?”

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “Groceries or something? I was asleep.”

My mom was still frowning. She had her grayish auburn hair piled up on top of her head in a knot, which could have been either an intentional artistic look or just the result of not having brushed her hair yet. I was sporting a similar style, but for the latter reason.

“Sam? Did you see my husband go anywhere?”

Huang Xueyang, alias Sam Huang, was sitting at the desk in the kitchen, eating breakfast and probably checking his email from his family in China, and shook his head. Perhaps to assuage parental guilt over their blatant negligence of every school-related activity from signing permission slips on time to “not forgetting the date of the parent potluck for the third year in a row,” the McCullough-Schwartzes had been first to volunteer when the Owen Wister Preparatory Academy needed host families for foreign exchange students. So, since the beginning of the last school year, Sam Huang had been part of the clan. It was like suddenly having a fifteen-year-old brother, which I liked because it meant I always had someone to split a microwave lasagna with, my mom liked because it meant we were putting the spare bedroom to good use, and my dad liked because Sam played classical guitar and was “the son I never had,” which made Sam and me feel kind of equally uncomfortable.

My mom looked out the door again.

“Robert?”

Even though it was October, we still had the screen door up, because procrastination is a McCullough-Schwartz family value. So my dad should have been able to hear her, but she wasn��t getting a response.

“Robert?”

There was a definite tone now. Sam poured another bowl of Cocoa Puffs. I scrolled down my phone. At the top of my feed was an artsy shot of the Donut, the front-lawn sculpture at Owen Wister Preparatory Academy that was actually called something like Concentricity of Knowledge, a photo that was intriguing because one, it was a Saturday, so no one was at school and two, it was posted by user sebdel, alias Sebastian Delacroix, who had left Wister forever when he graduated. Or so I had thought.

“I think he’s . . . Is he unloading something from the car? Sam? Nattie?”

Sam smiled but shook his head. I wasn’t going to move, but Mom clearly wanted someone involved and I, as her flesh and blood, was beholden to her will.

“Nattie. Come here.”

Reluctantly, I tore myself away from creeping on Sebastian Delacroix’s Pixstagram feed and stood up. She took a pull from her coffee and narrowed her eyes, pointing out into the backyard.

Dad was definitely out there, wearing his weekend polar fleece and covering his balding head with one of his grimy bandannas. Next to him, on top of the maple leaves that no one had raked yet, was a stack of various pieces of wood, a beat-up red toolbox, and what seemed to be a heap of fabric.

“Looks like it,” I said.

“I can’t believe this,” Mom said. “And neither of you knew anything?”

She cast a hard look back at the room, where Sam Huang was now kind of cowering.

“Sam,” Mom said slowly and a little too nicely, “you know you can tell us anything. I mean, tell me. Especially about my husband’s whereabouts.”

“I . . .” Sam Huang darted a glance at the door. “I wasn’t supposed to say.”

Mom was not having it. “Come on, Sam. Where did he go?”

Sam Huang fidgeted again. “He said he was going to pick up something for the lawn. And that it was a surprise.”

“Aha.” Triumphant, and indignant, Mom swung open the screen door and started off across the yard. I unrolled my sleeves and followed, because it was chilly and I was curious. The ground was cold and a little mushy under my bare feet, but not cold enough to make me go back for shoes.

“Robert? What’s going on here?”

Mom marched right up to the edge of the little clearing Dad had made with his supplies in the corner of the yard, and folded her arms. Around us, the air was thick with mystery, and also fog. I tried to put it together: we already had a toolshed, and both Sam and I were way too old for a swing set. I had begged for a trampoline for my last birthday, but Mom insisted they were death traps, and she was probably right, given the way Dad tended to construct things. The McCullough-Schwartz basement was a graveyard of splintered IKEA dressers and oblong birdhouses no self-respecting blue jay would nest in.

“Oh, there you are!” Dad said, as if he’d completely missed her entreaties from the kitchen. He straightened up and mopped his face with the bandanna. He was beaming. “Looking good, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

My dad’s grin faltered just slightly.

“The yurt. Of course.”

“Nattie?” Sam Huang appeared, holding my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table. “You have a message.”

I took my phone and unlocked it to discover not one message, but three.

From: Tess Kozlowski

JAMBA ALERT

where are you

it’s important!!!

“What’s a Jamba alert?” asked Sam Huang. “Is it an emergency?”

I considered. Last May, Tess had found herself mysteriously subscribed to text alerts about smoothie deals from Jamba Juice, which we both thought was hilarious, and so, naturally, ever since then, we have referred to every text message, whether smoothie-related or not, as a Jamba alert. I knew our role as a host family was to be ambassadors for the American people, or something, but this was a weirdness that went beyond national cultural differences and into the weirdness of my particular group of friends.

“No.” I locked my phone again. Tess was my best friend and the person I trusted most in the world, but she was also the most liberal person I knew, both in her politics and her definition of important. So I knew whatever her deal was could wait until after the yurt. Whatever that was.

“The what?” Mom was saying.

“Yurt,” Dad repeated, like this was a word people used every day. “The traditional dwelling of the nomadic peoples of the steppes of Central Asia. It’s a sanctuary.”

“Robert,” Mom said slowly. “We don’t dwell in the steppes of Central Asia. We dwell in the suburbs of eastern Pennsylvania.”

“Right, but that’s just the beauty of it. It’s like an escape, for the family, right here in our backyard.” Noticing me, he wiggled his eyebrows. “Whaddya think, Nattie Gann?”

Natty Gann was the name of a plucky Depression-era orphan from a 1980s Disney movie that no one except my dad seemed to remember. It was also his favorite, dadliest nickname for me.

“I thought you said you were going to build a hot tub one day,” I said.

Actually, the putative yurt was taking over the exact space where I’d envisioned having our spa. I’d always wanted to have a cool place to put my friends—Tess, Tall Zach, and Zach the Anarchist, alias the Acronymphomaniacs, which we called ourselves not because of any actual nymphomania, but because we were fond of abbreviations and also belonged to a club with an uncommonly unwieldy acronym. It had just sort of stuck.

“He said he’d think about it,” Mom corrected.

Bzz. Bzz.

I thumbed my phone unlocked again.

From: Tess Kozlowski

nattieeeeee come hang out

“A yurt,” Dad said soberly, “is much better than a hot tub.”

This I took issue with. Because while I knew that, as a teenager teetering on the verge of adulthood and also the college process, I should have capital-G goals like “achieving purposefully,” “actionizing change,” and “not failing the math portion of the SATs,” my number one actual goal in life was just not to be weird. A hot tub was different, sure, but in a cool way. (Well, literally in a hot way, but the point stands.) A yurt, though, would just be a monument to strangeness and eccentricity—and for what? I couldn’t put it on a college application unless maybe I was applying to something like architectural school. And even then they’d probably flunk me for being too weird.

“Now, just a second, Robert,” Mom said. “We haven’t even discussed this.”

“Right, I know. But I was browsing the online yesterday night, and someone in the city was getting rid of this yurt kit for practically nothing because he had nowhere to put it, but I had to act fast or else he was just going to donate it to charity. I picked it up this morning.”

Dad looked proud, but Mom looked positively pained.

“What on earth are we going to do with a yurt?” she asked.

“What on earth would a charity do with a yurt?” I asked.

It took Dad a minute to come up with an answer. “Hang out,” he said. “Do some art projects. Or just get some nice peace and quiet, you know? The guy told me the yurt is intentionally built with a low ceiling and door, so you can’t get in without humbling yourself—”

“It’s built that way to keep the heat in,” I pointed out, vaguely recalling a social studies class.

Dad wasn’t listening. “We’ll get some cushions out here, a couple of candles, maybe a cast-iron stove to burn up some logs. . . .” He got a dreamy look in his eyes.

Mom looked like she’d rather burn the raw yurt materials than any logs. Even though she is, professionally, a creative person, Mom is not a big fan of Dad’s weekend projects. Maybe it’s because she gets to build frames for beautiful paintings all day and he’s cooped up in an office doing whatever it is executive directors of nonprofit voting-rights advocacy groups do all day, or maybe it’s because he’s left one half-dug koi pond too many in our front yard, but either way, the McCullough-Schwartzes do not have a good track record with home improvements.

“You can’t just start building a yurt in our backyard, Robert,” Mom said. “It looks . . . ugly.”

“Well, sure, it looks ugly now,” Dad said. “But soon it’ll be a circular canvas tent!”

This did not placate Mom. “What will the neighbors think?”

“It’s not for the neighbors,” Dad said. “It’s for us. Look, Sam Huang loves it.”

Sam Huang did not look like he wanted to get involved in an altercation between his host parents. I briefly wondered what would happen to him if they got divorced. Or to me, for that matter.

“We need to have a place to relax,” Dad said. “It’ll be good for us.”

Mom pursed her lips. “Does the place to relax have to be so . . . visible?”

In my pocket, my phone buzzed for the billionth time.

From: Tess Kozlowski

NATTIE JAMBA ALERT GET HERE OR ELSE WE

WILL ALL BE VERY SAD

:’( :’( :’(

I decided it was probably time to indulge Tess. And also get dressed, because it was twelve fifteen and I should probably do something more with my day than Pixstagram stalking. I was curious about the outcome of the whole yurt-stravaganza, but knowing my parents, the odds of a swift resolution were about as good as me applying to architectural school.

“I’m . . . gonna go see Tess,” I said, and backed away slowly.

“Great,” Mom said, in a tone of voice that was anything but great.

“Have fun!” Dad said brightly.

“Bye, Nattie,” said Sam Huang.

The screen door slapped behind me as I crossed the threshold back to the warmth of the kitchen and the bowl of mush that had once been my breakfast. When I stomped down the back stairs ten minutes later, Mom and Dad were at the counter, Dad gesticulating wildly and Mom laughing over a fresh cup of coffee, Sam Huang was set up at his computer watching guitar videos on YouTube, and beneath everything else, as always, the radio was softly playing an unfamiliar song.

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