“A Harvard man. Impressive,” my dad says. My father went to a small community college back in Michigan, and despite his own obvious success, he’s obsessed with fancy credentials. About five years ago, my dad went to a Wharton Business School executive conference, and even now, he’ll say, “When I was at Wharton…” and not correct other people when they assume he actually graduated from there.

“Well, not yet,” Levi says.

“Chloe is going to SCC,” my mom declares, and I don’t only want to kill her, I also want to die.

“Mom!”

My dad elbows my mother in the ribs, and she looks at him, confused, then looks back at me.

“What? You totally are,” she says.

“She has to get in first,” my dad says.

“I like to be optimistic. I have it on my vision board,” my mom says, and I wonder if she might have broken Raj’s rule and had more than one glass of sauvignon blanc. Maybe it turns out a woman can’t live on celery and endive alone.

“I didn’t know you wanted to go to SCC,” Levi says, and I look away. There’s a reason I don’t talk about college with him. My distant reaches are his safeties.

“It’s a long shot for me, so…”

“The good news is that Harvard and SCC are on opposite sides of the country. I don’t think your arms are that long,” my dad says, and laughs, like this is funny. It is not funny.

“Oh my God,” I say.

“Joking!” he says. “I’m so sorry you got stuck with the worst parents in the world who let you have full run of the house, with a boy no less, while we were busy doing the hard work of raising money for kids with cleft palates. The wine was terrible, by the way.”

My dad winks, and my mom links arms with him to lead him up the stairs.

“Don’t worry. We’re going before you disown us,” my mom says.

“Too late,” I call out after them.

“Are they always like this?” Levi whisper-asks, once my parents are out of earshot.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Explains a lot,” Levi says, and I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Now

My mother sits hunched at the head of the table, looking strung out. She’s dressed at least, after having spent most of the past month, like me, in old pajamas. Today she’s wearing an ivory silk blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt and sensible navy flats. I imagine this ensemble was labeled “serious business” in her closet by her stylist. We’ve been summoned for a family meeting, which in this new bizarro version of our lives, means my parents, Isla and me, and ten lawyers plus Paloma.