It’s actually funny, Reid had said, his mouth full of Froot Loops. You’re funny. Then he smiled at me and I almost forgot how much I hate him.

When I reached for the box of Froot Loops and it was empty, I remembered.

Mom stands. “I guess I’ll have to take Reid’s word for it.”

“Off to do some productivity sprints?” Dad asks.

“More like prep,” Mom says. “Now that my syllabus is approved, there is so much prep.”

Dad waves at his chaos binder, like exhibit A. “Relatable.”

It’s going to be Mom’s second year teaching creative writing at Emerson College, a side hustle that pays the bills while she impatiently waits for inspiration to strike. And bills we do have. Mom spent most of June in Ft. Lauderdale looking for a caregiver for my bubbe, after she fell down the stairs and broke her hip. In July, our air conditioner busted in the middle of the hottest Massachusetts summer in, like, two hundred years. And a few weeks ago my dad learned that his budget for new supplies got cut in half—forcing him to purchase new music for the fall Harvest Festival out of pocket. All summer, it has been one unexpected expense after another.

Mom always says bad things happen in threes.

I say don’t pick a career that relies on creative whims to pay the bills in the first place.

“All romance writers this semester?” I ask.

Mom nods. Romance is her brand, the literary space where she has made her career. Readers have been waiting nearly four years to see how she follows up The Lola Diaries.

“Maybe it’ll be inspiring,” Reid says.

“That’s the hope,” Mom says.

“Nirvana always gets me through a long prep session,” Dad suggests. “Just don’t forget Delia has lessons with Rabbi Sarna at three.” My twelve-year-old sister is in full bat mitzvah prep mode, eating, sleeping, and breathing Vayishlach 36:40.

Mom waves away his reminder. “We have a tasting with the caterer after.”

Dad nods. “Four-thirty.”

“Good luck today, Lee.”

Mom squeezes my shoulder then tucks her laptop under her arm and retreats to her office in the name of class prep, leaving me alone with Reid and my dad. Pretty much the worst combination. Before I have a chance to form words, they’re in their own musical world.

“Six weeks until the Harvest Festival,” Dad says.