She wasn’t wrong. I really was in a pair of checkered pajama pants, a plain black T-shirt with a pocket, and flip-flops. At least I was wearing a bra, which was something of a feat when your nipples hurt for a minimum of six out of every twenty-four hours. But hey, that was a vast improvement over aching twenty-three of twenty-four hours every day, so we were making progress.

Second trimester, here I come!

We piled into the car. I’d just slammed the door closed when my mom, fresh off her workday, pulled into the driveway. Fridays were her casual day, so she was in jeans and a T-shirt...that was turned inside out, the tags sticking out in the back, the seams out and proud for the world to behold.

I rolled the window down.

“Menu shirt?” I asked, motioning at her getup.

Devi was confused. “Wait, what?”

“Menu shirt,” Mom repeated, climbing from the car. “It’s when you hit your shirt more than your mouth when you’re eating and get stains, but no, not this time. I forgot about the No Logo’d T-shirts rule. Grabbed your Bucks T-shirt. Now it’s an inside-out shame T-shirt.”

“Well, that’s fair. I mean, that’s how most Starbucks drinkers should feel. Shame,” Devi said.

My mom leaned on my car door to eyeball Devi. “You’re such a New Englander.”

“It’s true. I’ll probably die with a Dunkin’ Donuts cup glued to my palm.” Devi smirked.

“Okay, smart-asses, where are you off to?” Mom flicked at a lock of my hair that refused to stay inside of my plastic clip.

“Sara met a boy,” Devi said, only she said it that way—the rotten-school-kid way that totally warranted the jab I levied at her side.

“Oh, man. Don’t we remember the last time you met a boy?” Mom asked.

“Good news, everyone! I can’t get pregnant again yet, so no need to worry!” I snorted at them. “His name is Leaf and he’s just being sweet. I’m sure he’ll back right off when he learns about the fetus.”

“His loss. You’re a great girl. Whoever you’re brewing in your belly’s going to be great, too.” Mom swooped in to press a kiss to my temple.

Immediately, I smelled the cigarettes.

Just like Mom. To keep a smiling face for me and then to freak out in the privacy of her own car with a pack of Marlboros.

“Stop smoking,” I said. “You’ll puke out your lungs if you don’t.”

“Going inside now. So I can get nagged by my other mother.” Mom pulled away from the window and grabbed her day bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

“You smell like a chimney. A chimney’s butt,” I called after her.

“No, you smell like a chimney’s butt.”

“Love you, Mom.”