“What’s your mom gonna say when she comes home and finds your room like this?” Oscar asks, his shiny black hair swirled into a perfect mold, using his latest discovery from the drugstore: pomade, a sticky hair product that comes in a glass jar and Oscar swears is a miracle.

I shrug as I take a second to process the damage. My room looks like someone came in with a giant eraser and just wiped away half of the whole place, leaving the other side in its usual state of perfectly organized mess—unmade bed, mismatching socks stuffed under the bed, and stacks of old homework and newspaper clippings piled up on my nightstand. “I won’t be home to find out. It’s Dad’s night.”

Since there are only seven days in a week, every other week Mom and Dad take turns with who gets me for three nights and who gets four nights. Mom says it’s “imperative” that neither of them is perceived as the “dominant parent,” but if you ask me, all you have to do to figure out which of my parents is in charge is ask yourself who’s making the rules to begin with. If you guessed Mom—ding, ding, ding!—you’re right.

I split the books by alphabetical order. Mom’s house gets A through M and Dad’s house gets the rest. The division of all my other belongings was much slower and more snooze-worthy. But as Oscar constantly reminds me, if I ever need anything, I’ll be two houses down the street, separated only by Miss Flora Mae’s hulking two-story house.

“At least you didn’t cut your sheets in half,” he says and reaches down for a box with SWEET PEA’S DESK STUFF scrawled across the side.

“Lift with your knees!” I say, mimicking what I’ve heard Mr. McMullan shout at his employees from behind his desk at Love’s Hardware.

“I wasn’t built for grunt work,” says Oscar as he heads for the door. “You got the last box?”

“Yup. See you over there.”

I squat down to tape the flaps of the final box shut before standing, doing my best to lift with my knees. What does that even mean anyway? And why did I cram so much stuff in this box?

But then, just as I steady myself, a growling meow vibrates from inside the box.

“Holy crud!” I snap and drop it on the rug. Another meow, this one a little softer. “Oh, Cheese! I’m so sorry.” I rip the tape from the box. “Cheese, you gotta forgive me, buddy.”

Cheese is my fifteen-pound orange tabby. No wonder the thing was heavier than I expected! He leaps from the box full of random desk clutter and saunters out of my bedroom, his tail slapping the door frame.

“Cheese!” I call once more. “I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.” What can I say? The cat can hold a grudge. Like kitty, like owner.

I tap my index finger to the side of my head, hoping I’ll remember to give him a few extra treats tonight to make up for my rude behavior. Cheese was our big family Christmas present when I was six years old. I was given the honor of choosing his name and decided to call him Cheese, because he . . . looked like cheese? I don’t know. I was six, okay? In hindsight, I should have named him after my favorite cheese: Havarti.