He presses his lips together. “Don’t tell me to shut up.”

I exhale loudly.

“You look different, Jame.” He studies me head-on.

I look down at the floor.

“Have you lost weight or something? Are you eating okay?”

We’re interrupted by a knock at the door, thank god. I slip off the bed. As a precaution, I reach out and turn on the TV. It flips on to a menu channel. I fiddle with it frantically until a movie comes on and turn the volume up.

More knocks sound at the door. “Did you order room service?” Dad asks. He’s already checking his phone again.

I use my body to block the view of the room as I open the door about thirty degrees.

“Siri?” My mother squeaks my name quietly, like the surprise of seeing me has strangled her. “What’s happened, what’s wrong, what are you doing here?! What did you do to your hair?” She continues to speak softly, like we’re in danger of being overheard.

“It’s a long story. Come in, Mom.” I open the door a tiny bit more, still blocking the majority of the room from view. Gunshots from the TV drown out our dialogue, and I pat myself on the back for thinking on my feet with that.

“When did you get your hair done? I don’t understand. I’m supposed to be…” She walks past me into the room and yelps at the sight of Dad.

“Grier?! What the fuck are you doing here?”

I gasp at the language. It’s not ladylike. It’s extremely impolite. Trashy. No one likes a potty mouth. My mother broke one of her own commandments.

“Intercourse!” I correct loudly from behind her.

She staggers into the wall next to the closet, looking from me to Dad.

Dad looks only at me, his eyes saucer-wide. I can see the cogs turning behind them.

“Jamie, what the hell are you doing?”

“Jamie?” my mother says.

I quickly turn off the TV.

“What are you doing here, Mara?” my father says calmly. “I’m here because my daughter’s performing a comedy set later. Were you invited as well?”

Mom’s face twists up in confusion. She glances at me. “You’re doing a comedy set?”

I shake my head. “I’m not.”

Dad sits forward on the bed. “What do you mean you’re not? We were literally about to run through your set.”

Mom shoots laser beams at me through her eyeballs. “Siri Martine Maza, tell me what the hell is going on right now. Did you contact your father?”

“Jamie,” Dad says from the bed.

Mom’s eyes dart over to him.

“You’re talking to Jamie, Mara.” He sounds exhausted already, and she’s been in the room for all of sixty seconds.

“I know my kid,” Mom snaps venomously. “This is my daughter Siri, Grier.”