I’ve been in new houses, all white and beige and clean. The silence of them eats me alive.

At least this house has one thing going for it.

“Dinner,” I yell up the stairs. I head straight for the kitchen and pull out a bowl of leftover spaghetti from the refrigerator and plop it in the microwave. I tap my fingers on the tiled countertop as I wait.

It beeps, and I set three plates out, spooning spaghetti onto them in heaps.

I’m still alone in the kitchen.

“Guys,” I yell again.

Parker and Jacob stomp down the stairs, drowning out any of the subtle creaks and groans with their chatter. They take the two seats next to each other. Figures. I end up alone on the other side, watching them.

Parker and Ava Perry. We share a last name. It should be me and him, with everyone else on the outside. Jacob’s the bio-kid of the house. He doesn’t need Parker the way I do. But I keep my feelings off my face these days. When we first got here, Parker and Jacob bonded instantly over video games and Star Wars and zombies. They acted like they’d been friends forever. Or brothers. But I noticed Parker cutting his laughs short when I was in the room and looking at me like I was a fragile thing his laughter might hurt. It did. It does. But I want this for him. I’m glad he loves it here.

I pull out two quarters. “Do you want to see a trick?” Mom did card tricks every night at the dinner table. I’d cheer, and Parker would too, but he doesn’t remember it. I wish I could give him those memories to hold on to, but this is the best I can do. Mom gave me these quarters when I was five to practice sleight of hand because my fingers were too small for playing cards, and I’ve never used anything else. I tuck one quarter between my thumb and palm, hidden from my audience. The other quarter, I press into the back of my hand. “I can pass this coin through my skin.”

Parker rolls his eyes. “I already know how you do that one, Ava.”

“I don’t,” Jacob says.

“She’s got two quarters.” Parker blows the whole thing.

I let my hidden quarter clank to the table. For a second, I keep the other one pressed into my hand. Sometimes I get the urge to push it straight through my skin, like it would just go—no trick, just real magic. I dig it in a little and nothing happens except for an angry red line when I give up.

I used to try stuff like that a lot as a kid, especially after Mom died, when I needed a little magic that wasn’t pretend. I don’t know why I still do it.