Why Did She Call Me A Thief In Front Of Grandma While My Tablet Was Still Recording

I didn't move at first. I couldn't. The chandelier was buzzing faintly over the table and the daylight coming through the sheer curtains was so bright it made the glasses throw little white spots on the white tablecloth. Everyone was still standing around the long table where they'd pushed back their chairs. No one had sat down for lunch.

My handbag was right there in the middle of it all. Light-colored, slouched open a little at the top. I kept staring at it because it was easier than looking at her.

She was still in the doorway. The woman in the white one-shoulder dress, the short blonde bob tucked perfect behind her ears, her gold necklace catching the light. Her mouth had gone from that tight smile to something hard.

"Don't just stand there," she said. "Dump it out."

I felt my ponytail slide over my shoulder when I finally looked up. My throat was dry. "What? I just got here." That was all I had said, and it hung there, stupid and small.

My grandma lifted a hand. She was at the head of the table in her blue jacket over her gray dress, her gray hair in its bun, her hands flat on the back of one of the dining chairs. She didn't look at the blonde woman. She looked at me.

"Enough," she said. Her voice wasn't loud. It cut through anyway. "We are not shouting in this dining room."

The quiet after that was worse. I could hear the house — the refrigerator hum from the kitchen, a car going by outside, my own breathing.

I glanced past the handbag to the wooden hutch against the wall. The pink-cased tablet was still propped up there between the plates and the framed photos, angled toward the table. The little green light was on. I had left it recording.

Grandma nodded toward the empty space at the side of the table. "Come here," she said to me. "Step forward. Stand where everyone can see you."

I made myself walk. Two chairs, three. My flats made almost no sound on the rug. The men in suits near the far end shifted to let me through, but nobody spoke. One of them wouldn't meet my eyes. The smell of warm food was coming from the sideboard — rolls, something with butter — and it made my stomach turn.

I stopped by the table, close enough to touch my bag. My hands were shaking, so I tucked them against my beige ribbed sleeves.

"Now," Grandma said. She looked at the other woman. "Say plainly what you're asking for. Once."

The blonde woman folded her arms. "I'm asking for her to open her bag. Right now, in front of us. If she has nothing to hide, it takes ten seconds."

"It's my bag," I said. My voice came out thinner than I wanted. I cleared my throat. "You can't just —"

"I can when it's my house too," she cut in. "Turn it over. Let's all see."

I looked at Grandma. I wanted her to tell me I didn't have to. That was what I kept waiting for, that she would say no, this isn't how we do things, sit down and eat. Instead she studied my face for a long second, then the bag, then me again.

"She's asked in front of witnesses," Grandma said, slow and even. "You can say no. But you understand how a no will sit in this room."

That landed heavier than shouting would have. A couple of the cousins exchanged a look. Someone set a water glass down too hard and the clink made me flinch.

I stared down at my bag. The strap was folded over. Inside I knew there was just my normal stuff — my phone, my wallet, keys, lip balm, the folded practice schedule I'd printed that morning. Nothing that should have mattered. But having all of them stare at it made it feel dirty somehow, like they'd already decided what was inside.

My breathing got fast. I pressed my palm flat against the tablecloth to steady myself. The linen was warm from the sun.

"Please," I said, and I hated how it sounded. "I was filming my dance. That's why the tablet's on. I set it up this morning before anybody —"

"Then prove it," the blonde woman said. "Open the bag."

I looked at the hutch again. The tablet lens caught a little flare of daylight. It was still watching. That steadied me more than anything else. If it was recording, then whatever happened next was being kept straight.

I reached out and pulled the handbag a half inch closer to me. The leather was soft and sun-warmed.

Grandma's hand stayed on the chair. "Take your time," she said. "But decide."

I swallowed. My heart was beating so loud I was sure the men at the end of the table could hear it. I thought about picking up the bag and walking out, about saying no and living with the look that would follow me for the rest of the day. I thought about how much I wanted to just belong at that table.