“Extra crispy on the bacon,” I tell my dad. “And scrambled cheesy on the eggs.”

“Cheesy eggs and super-dead bacon. Coming right up!”

I wait for the door to close behind him before I throw my sheets back and slink out of bed.

Last night was my first solo night with Dad at his new house, and this morning will be our first solo breakfast. I guess most families get together for dinner, but with Mom’s crazy client schedule, our thing was always breakfast. So rolling out of this bed knowing that only Dad will be waiting at the kitchen table makes Monday morning feel even more Monday than it already does.

I reach into my closet and pull out my own personal uniform—jean shorts, black high-top sneakers, and a black-and-white-striped T-shirt. Dad wears the same coveralls to work every day. When I was a kid I asked him why he never wore different colors, and he said that geniuses wear the same thing every day so they can save their brain power for more important decisions. I don’t know if I’m a genius, but I like the idea of saving brain power. So for me, it’s usually dark shorts, pants, or even a skirt and a black-and-white-striped shirt. Sometimes a headband if I’m feeling sassy. Miss Flora Mae says I always look like I’ve just robbed a bank, but that she can appreciate my consistency—whatever that means. My closet might be a little boring, but at least it makes it a smidge easier to deal with the limited clothing options out there for a thirteen-year-old girl who’s nearly sized out of the juniors’ department.

After getting dressed in a striped T-shirt, black denim shorts, and a yellow headband, I shut the door to my new bedroom behind me and stand there for a minute in the dark hallway. Dad’s bedroom, with the door wide open, sits at the end of the hallway, but just past my room is something Mom’s house never had—a third bedroom. I think Dad’s third bedroom probably just has a bunch of his old stuff in it. But I feel a little funny going in it since the door is closed.

Most houses on our street have only two bedrooms. They’re all the same style—except, of course, Miss Flora Mae’s, which has a style all its own. I call Mom’s house Sweet Pea Headquarters 1.0. We used to live in an apartment above Mom’s practice downtown, but when Nana died when I was in kindergarten, she left us her house, and it’s been home ever since. Dad’s house—or Sweet Pea Headquarters 2.0—is the bigger version, with a third bedroom and a wider garage.

Dad tried buying furniture that looks like all the stuff in SPHQ 1.0, but there’s no good way to copy Nana’s kitchen table, complete with scratches on the legs from when Cheese was a kitten. The whole place kind of reminds me of the Halloween costume I bought at Green’s Grocers last year. From far away, I looked exactly like the zombie prom queen I’d envisioned in my head, but the longer I looked, the easier it was to see that nothing about my costume was close enough to the real deal to actually be scary. Honestly, the scariest part about it was the tag on the inside that said KEEP AWAY FROM OPEN FLAME! HIGHLY FLAMMABLE MATERIAL!