A white, glossy box. My house is the picture of too clean sterility. The sheets blisteringly brilliant and the floors bleached purity. With cloudy sea-glass doors and windows; illuminated prettily with cold, LED spotlights. The house peers at me condescendingly, waiting for me to stain it; maybe I already had. My life already a nasty mark on the too perfect interior. I take forty-one steps exactly to reach the engulfing mouth of the front entryway.

Knock three times. Wait. Knock three more. Every boom the same, every knock equal in length like Jacqueline taught me. She opens the door, as she always does every afternoon at exactly 3:16. A tall, blonde woman, with a translucent face and a pointy nose;  her whole face carries a sharp edge, honed by the house. Her eyes are too big and blue for her face. At some point they could’ve been doe eyes. They’ve collapsed into vacant abysses since then, a waste really. Stepping into the empty, echoing foyer I shake off my jacket. Cue Jacqueline.

 “May I inquire how your day was, Evie?” 

“Wonderful, Jacqueline, thank you for asking. And yours?” 

“Equally as wonderful.”

She tried to hug me once, a few months ago, after this exchange. Long hands lightly twitching, arms half raised. As if she suddenly rememebered she was my mother. As if suddenly the nine months she carried me meant something to her. Regardless of her attack of sentimentality, Jacqueline and I did not, and will not hug. “Dinner is at 6,” she says now. I search her blue eyes. I wonder what hugging her would feel like. Would I feel protected? Would I be overwhelmed with childish affection for her? Built through nine months of bodily connection and shared genetics? 

The cameras click their mandibles and instead of testing my foolish hypothesis I say, “Thank you. I will be ready.” As I’m written to. The clock ticks to 3:20.

Father gets home at 5:18. He walks up the stairs at 5:19, greets Jacqueline, in her room, at 5:20 and finally, passes my door at 5:22. Every night he does this. As he’s done every night since I remember. Father is particular. “Like clockwork, Evie. My life should be like clockwork,” was the last impromptu piece of dialogue we shared. A failed playwright turned office lackey is how he’s known to the world. I understand why he failed so spectaculary at writing; the dialogue he’s written for us is unusually boring, as if the only inspiration he has is a thesaurus and an etiquette guide. 

He expects not to see me till dinner, my entrance isn’t written until the third act. I’ve always been a minor character in Father’s eyes, and minor characters in this house disappear before dinner time. So I sit in my room. It’s unremarkable, same scrubbed design as the rest of the house. It feels like a cell. I think that’s what it’s supposed to feel like. The call for dinner sounds at exactly 5:57 over the PA, Father’s voice booming off the walls. It takes us two minutes to walk down the stairs, one minute to sit in the chairs arranged around the table, and when the clock chimes six, dinner begins immediately. Forks scrape the plates and Vivaldi’s “Spring” begins to crackle over the system. Like clockwork. 

There’s a clock in every room in this cavernous house. Big grandfather clocks that seem to stare into you as they click by. Cuckoo clocks that spit at you every hour, mocking you from their perch on the wall. Small pocket watches nailed by the chain to the glossy walls. They detract from the cotton-swab cleanliness of the rest of the rooms. Father is satisfied with them. We need the clocks.

At exactly 6:03, I ask, “Father, pass the carrots?” As usual, he passes them. Every night. It’s written that they’re my favorite. They’re not. I’m sick of carrots. Father is not. I take more. As I set down the plate my voice breaks the silence. “Thank you father. These are my favorite.” They’re not, but it satisfies him. Like clockwork. I just listen to the ticking. I know the script by now. I don’t even have to think anymore. Jacqueline takes a sip of water. At 6:11 she speaks. ”Father, may you refill my water?” 

“Yes, Jacqueline”

The water dribbles out of the pitcher. Every night he pours the exact same amount into the glass. Seven and a half ounces. I think it’s written somewhere. I can’t remember. Tonight the glass overflows. Another mess for Jacqueline to clean. She should’ve drank more water, and saved herself the trouble. “Thank you father,” she says. Her ice cliff eyes are dark. Her voice is a measured bright. 

I feel robotic, like the ticks from the clocks are my gears turning inside. Father would be satisfied. At 6:20 Jacqueline will ask about his day. At 6:25 Father will ask about my studies. At 6:30 I take my leave. I can see every line written out. Even the silences are timestamped. 

I’m still watching the clock in the middle of this soliloquy. It’s 6:19. I hate the way my heart skips, my eyes dart, my breath catches before every line. Everything is tinged with stage fright. I watch Jacqueline now, awaiting her cue. She puts a piece of steak in her mouth, chews and swallows. Then picks up the knife again, eyeing her final piece of the meat. She likes to finish it before she speaks. You develop small habits like that eventually. As she cuts into it, roughly, the knife catches on overcooked tendrils of meat, I turn my gaze towards the clock: 6:20. 

Silence.

 There shouldn’t be silence, not right now. I can feel the languid crunch of the music stop; the spotlight burns my skin with its sudden intensity. I start sweating. My heart beat picks up it’s pace. I eye Father, his jaw flexes, eyes boring into the top of Jacqueline’s head. She saws on the meat. Demure movements with hidden veracity. I stare at the clock. My vision fuzzes over. I feel tears poke my eyes. Just as Jacqueline’s eyes flip up, the click of the clock bangs through the house. It echoes on the walls. 6:21. Late. Just like that our perfect scene is ruined. Not like clockwork.

“How-was-your-d-” 

Father’s eyes cut into hers and she silences. Everything in the room seems to throb. My vision swims. I watch the clock. Using the minute hand to focus the room. I avoid Jacqueline’s eyes. I avoid Father’s eyes. I stare into my own reflection on the clock. I can hear Jacqueline begin quietly crying to my right. Her stupidity earned the repercussions. The shrill “Autumn” of “Four Seasons” seems too loud, it’s beautiful orchestra paired with Jacqueline’s hiccups. My brain spins. Thoughts move too fast. I reach for anything, any thought, and find nothing. There’s nothing in the script for this. Everything spirals, flushing me with it. 

“What progress has occured with your studies Evie?”

“They have continued going wonderfully, Father.”

My voice sounds desperate but my thoughts restart and resume their measured rhythm. He doesn’t look at me, his gaze is on Jacqueline, the tall blonde, translucent-skinned, blue-eyed beauty. Reduced to nothing but a shriveled mass of snot and tears. Not like clockwork. I am like clockwork. Me.
 “I think I will take my leave”

“Thank you for your time Evie” 

Back on schedule. Father is satisfied. Jacqueline grabs my arm. “Evie, please don’t leave. Don’t leave me.” She repeats it over and over, voice a hiccupy, hoarse whisper. I can feel the tears wetting my arm. I’d imagine this is what a young Evie looked like. Begging her mommy Jacqueline to save her from her naivety and stupidity. I learned naivety and stupidity have consequences. Jacqueline saw to that. 

My father’s eyes meet mine. Our faces are both expressionless. Cold, dark, our eyes sick with repulsion. I yank my arm out of her grasp. She squeaks, sinking into her chair burying her head into the tablecloth and under her hair. I breeze out of the dining room at 6:33. Right on time. The clock ticks. I am satisfied.