Every conversation we walk past is about college. Parents either bragging, defending, or trashing the schools where their kids got in, were wait-listed, or rejected. Anyone under the age of eighteen has a look of already being so totally over it now. I should be grateful. I got into City College with a very decent financial aid package. Whatever happens, that’s something to be happy about. Or at least relieved. After all, there’s an alternate reality in which I was expelled and am awaiting a courtroom appearance for fraud.

“Don’t be nervous,” Ma says. “You’re going to do great.”

“You know . . . there’re probably going to be a few parties afterward,” I try.

“Not on your life.” Dad snorts.

“Not for eight more days,” Ma says, stacking two sushis on top of each other and erasing them in one quick bite. She traded her monthly night off with another trainee at the fire station to free herself up, and Dad busted out his suspenders and fedora for the occasion. The fedora has been coming out a lot.

I’ve been “grounded” since the Columbia incident—which is apparently a thing. To paraphrase Ma: Since it’s the first and probably the last grounding of your natural-born life, we’re going to make it count. The heart-to-heart with Dad was not, as it turns out, adequate punishment for my transgressions. I’m nervous for the debate, but it’s mostly the chance to do something other than go to class, FATE detention (aka “Reflection Hour”), and then straight home with brief, timed windows for my dog walks.

Luckily, Ming will sometimes tag along and even let me use his phone to catch up on the world since Dad somehow learned how to brick my phone to block everything except incoming calls. I couldn’t have asked the world for a more consistent best friend.

I also shuttered the Uptown Updogs website a few days ago. The truth is that I’ve built enough of a client base that I don’t need to recruit anymore. I don’t want another big lie floating over me and don’t have to wait for some other shoe to drop and screw me over. My current hustle is good karma.

“Holy crap!” I exclaim, spotting the fidgety figure behind Dad, looking around like he’s stepped into a zoo. “What are you doing here?”

“Supporting the next generation, nephew.” Lion smiles. “I might even make a generous contribution.”

His hair is freshly faded, there’s a series of gold rings on his left hand, and his three-piece black suit looks not necessarily expensive but proper and sleek in a way that catches the attention of at least one woman with a silk scarf wrapped around her arms as she walks by us.

“This place looks like it has a very well-stocked chemistry lab,” he comments after throwing a wink my way.