“I remember he had a lot of tattoos.” Another thing Wendy hated. Why would one want to deface one’s body? She wondered if she should tell Shy about her new job before she told Roy. “It’s completely inappropriate for a teacher,” she added, chickening out.

“I don’t mind.” Shy was used to her mother’s declarations about what was appropriate or inappropriate. She ripped open the package of Nestlé chocolate chips and poured them over the batter. They resounded against the metal bowl like beach pebbles.

Wendy grabbed a chip and popped it into her mouth. “But how can you pay attention when your teacher’s body is scrawled all over with ink?”

Shy refused to take her mother’s bait and begin an argument. “Oh, did Daddy tell you? I joined the table tennis team. Mr. Streko is the coach. Practice is every afternoon starting Monday, and we have our first match next Thursday. You told me I needed extracurriculars for college.”

Wendy opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of white wine. She didn’t like how obsessed Shy was with her teacher.

“What about that nice boy? How will you have time for a boyfriend if you’re playing table tennis all the time?” She put her glass down and lined up the baking trays next to the mixing bowl.

“Liam?” Shy scraped her hands against the rim of the bowl to remove the excess dough. Her mother had no idea that Liam had been involved with the schoolyard fire, she realized. That he stole pot from his mom. He was not a “nice boy.” She was pretty sure her mother wouldn’t think so, anyway. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s not her boyfriend,” Roy repeated from the doorway, holding his laptop against his chest. He’d gotten in the habit of carrying it around with him from room to room. They made them so small and light these days it was no trouble. “I made the same mistake. Apparently if he hasn’t officially asked her to be his girlfriend, it’s not official. Therefore they’re ‘just talking,’ which means they actually talk and probably kiss, but he’s still not her boyfriend.”

“You’ve kissed him?” Wendy demanded. Of course she was the last to know. When it came to Shy, she was always the last to know.

“Dad,” Shy protested.

“I’m just guessing from the look on your face,” Roy said. “I’m not a writer for nothing. I notice things.”

“That’s great, Dad,” Shy complained. “Thanks.” She wasn’t about to give them any information.