“It’s FaceTime,” I say as panic washes over me. Mom can’t see my face. Well, the face is unchanged, but she can’t see my hair and my clothes. “She will be pissed if she sees my new look.”

“No problemo,” Aunt Lil announces, then heads to the closet and pulls down an Ikea blue bag from the shelf. She digs around and comes up with a bright pink ball cap in one hand and a pineapple beanie cap in the other. “What’s your flavor?”

“Neither,” I say.

“Good choice,” she sings, and puts the pink cap on my head. Mom has seen me in ball caps; she doesn’t love it—too masculine—but she’s seen it. I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and detest what I see.

“I’m allergic to pink,” I say, pulling the pineapple beanie on my head instead. That’s how much I dislike pink.

Mom picks up on the first ring and I see her face, a little too close to the camera, against the backdrop of the brown leather chair in our living room. There’s no doubt that Randy is next to her in the La-Z-Boy. Above them hangs a deer head from Randy’s hunting trips. I never liked that deer head—I swear its eyes would follow me at night. “Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Hi, honey. That’s an interesting hat.”

“Aunt Lil is teaching me the way of the pineapple.”

Aunt Lil puts a hand on my shoulder and lowers her face into the camera. “Just trying to teach the finer things of life to him.”

I watch Mom’s face tighten. Aunt Lil’s grip on my shoulder goes from loving to deep tissue massage. She knows what she said. “To her, of course.”

“Mom,” I say, “did you get a haircut?”

“Oh, yes, thanks for noticing. Randy didn’t,” she says.

“You look great. And how is Trish?” I ask. Aunt Lil gives me a look and mouths, “Trish?” I shrug. She’s been Mom’s hairdresser my whole life.

“Always up to trouble,” she says with a laugh. Trish is single and ready to mingle. Mom always loves her bad dating stories. “But enough about Trish; how’s your school?”

“It’s a great school, Mom. The classes are tough—I do homework on the weekends now,” I brag.

“Now that’s impressive,” Mom says. Aunt Lil gets up and straightens things in the room, listening but staying out of the way.

“And,” I continue, “the acting classes are going to change my life. If I can keep up.”

“When you want something, you don’t give up.”

“Are you talking about the Easter Concert?” I ask, evoking one of our inside jokes.

The phone shakes as she laughs. “You didn’t leave Pastor Tim alone until he let you sing the solo.”