Dad sighs and steps down, pausing to look at me through the steps of the folding ladder. “Do you think I wouldn’t like to tell Cloutier that no other unit on her floor has cockroaches? That maybe the reason she has them is because of Mr. Cloutier’s study, which she condemned without emptying after he left, meaning that the thing that’s causing the cockroaches is probably in there, inside her own apartment?”

It’s not every day that I trigger a rant from Dad, who continues to talk as he maneuvers into the pantry for a new light bulb and then proceeds back up the steps to screw it in.

“And when I go up there tomorrow and suggest checking that room, she’ll rudely tell me to mind my own business before being overwhelmed and canceling the whole thing, sending me back here until the next time she sees a cockroach and storms down here.”

He exhales as if to stop himself from revisiting years of similar grievances and indignities. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t truly, sincerely enjoy telling that woman to go somewhere and do something? Hmm?”

I don’t know what to answer to that so I just focus on folding the ladder for him. It’s not fair, I want to say, but the no shit is already echoing in the back of my head.

“You’re very smart, Henri,” Dad says, clasping my neck and flicking the switch a few times as the light blinks over our heads. “There’s no use complaining about it and wishing the world was different. This isn’t how we change things for ourselves.”

Right. Punctuality. Work Ethic. Education. Not Counting Other People’s Money.

“I still hate it,” I mutter.

“I know. So . . . Montreal? Don’t leave me hanging: how was the trip? Good?”

“Yeah, it was cool. It’s a cool city. Parts of it felt like a less crowded corner of Manhattan almost. Y’know, with a bunch of French thrown in there. I could really see it, actually. I mean, see me, there,” I venture.

Dad hums, throwing himself onto a seat at our kitchen table and leaning back to sigh heavily.

“It’s not Columbia, Henri.”

And there it is again.

“Look, it’s good you have options—that’s very mature of you—but you won’t need them,” he says, all fatherly and comforting. “Columbia is almost here. All your hard work’s about to pay off. I know it is.”

Right.

“You’re on top of things at school, right?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course.”

“Grades and everything?”

“Dad,” I say, filling my voice with as much easy confidence as I can right now. “Everything’s good. Montreal was just a backup. Mr. Vu says it might even make me more competitive for Columbia. It’s all about CU, baby!”