“If anything you’re avoiding me, Siri Martine.” She fills her water bottle at the refrigerator.

“I’m right here.”

She screws the top onto her water canteen. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see my texts yesterday.” Before I can respond, Mara yanks open the garage door and leaves.

The iPhone buzzes with a text.

Mom: I’ll see you for dinner tonight. Still on for Greek casserole?

I almost roll my eyes, but I catch myself. This woman is turning me into Siri.

Me: Yep.

Mom: You have an 11 am appt with Dr. Sparrow on Sunday. See you at 8.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rings. I peek into the foyer to find Papa looking in through the fogged side window. He waves.

I unbolt the front door and throw it open.

Papa’s standing outside with his hands in his pockets. He shrugs. “I think we need to talk, sweetheart.”

The two of us sit down at the table.

“What’s up, Papa?” I ask. “I have an appointment in the city at twelve.”

“It’s 8:30. I think you’re fine.” He folds his hands.

“Does Mom just beep you the second she’s in distress or something?”

Papa sits back. “Your mother and I talk. I’m her father. She’s been calling more often since you got back. She’s worried about you. You haven’t cooked or baked anything since you returned. Over the summer, you were channeling your emotions into an activity. Now you’re disappearing, holing yourself up in your room, defacing your mother’s bookcase.”

I guffaw. “That can hardly be considered defacing. I moved the books around, Papa. Mom is completely overreacting.”

How often is Siri fooling around in the kitchen with food? I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours.

“Your mother notices more than you give her credit for. As do I.” He raises his fluffy gray eyebrows.

I execute a Siri sigh–eye roll combo. “Enlighten me, Papa.”

“You’re not wearing your white sneakers.”

I glance down at my new red boots. Ugh. “I spilled something on them.”

“Don’t you have three pairs?”

“I’m changing it up.”

“You picked up a jelly donut instead of the ridiculous one with the sprinkles and strawberry icing that you pick up every single time I bring them over. There’s no music on. You don’t have headphones in your ears. You’re acting out in strange ways, like you’re trying on an entirely new personality. Does it have to do with something that happened at the retreat? You can tell me.”

I make a flustered noise and smack the table with my hands. “How could I possibly tell you anything? You’re like an extension of Mom. She’s using you to talk to me like her personal puppet because she’s too chicken-excrement”—I put unneeded emphasis on the ridiculous non-curse—“to have any sort of meaningful talk with me herself.”