“It was a very distracting outburst,” Mrs. Young explains, her voice riddled with confusion. “She yelled at another student in the middle of the cafeteria. That’s really out of character for Sweet Pea.”

Why do they have to talk about me like I’m not right stinking here?

Mrs. Young continues. “I just wonder if things at home might be contributing to this kind of behavior.” The way she says it isn’t mean or judgmental. Just like she actually cares.

Mom looks caught off guard. “Well . . . I—I . . .” She clears her throat. “Sweet Pea’s father and I have gone to great lengths to keep this divorce as civil as possible.”

Mrs. Young nods.

Vice Principal Mendes leans forward. “Perhaps Sweet Pea doesn’t feel like she has space to express herself and her feelings about the divorce, and so she’s taking it out on her friends. Publicly.”

Mom turns to me. “Is that true, Sweet Pea?”

I don’t even know how to answer that. All those words basically sounded like one giant, jumbled-up math equation. “Am I in trouble?”

Mom turns to Mrs. Young for the answer. “Vice Principal Mendes and I discussed it and we think it would be best to send her home for the rest of the day, give her some space to think on her actions. But she’s welcome back tomorrow. Luckily, she already did her presentation. She can come in early tomorrow to finish her essay questions and multiple choice.”

“But my brain can’t even think before eight a.m.!”

All three adults turn to me with a not our problem look on their faces. Even Mrs. Young.

“Fine,” I mutter.

Mom spends the whole drive home on the phone, rearranging the rest of her day’s appointments. As she hangs up from her final call, she pulls into the driveway but doesn’t immediately turn the car off.

“Do you want to talk about what happened today, Sweet Pea?”

I shake my head.

“Are you and Oscar fighting?”

I shrug. “It’s silly. It’s just a misunderstanding.” I think about how I did basically tell him to ditch me in my letter to him, so maybe I deserve this.

Mom’s phone vibrates where it sits in the cup holder. She picks it up and reads the incoming message, smiling for a moment before realizing, Oops, I’m supposed to be having a heart-to-heart with my clearly upset daughter.

I sit up a little higher and take a peek at her phone. Sam. Her boyfriend. “Are you serious?” I throw my hands up in the air. “Are you seriously distracted by your boyfriend right now? At this very moment? You’re supposed to be the parent!” I remind her.

“Sweet Pea, baby.” She goes to put a hand on my knee, but I flinch away.

“Do whatever you want. Call your boyfriend, for all I care. Tell him you love him and want to have a million babies,” I say. “I’m going to Dad’s.”

“But it’s not his night,” she says, like going over there on any day that doesn’t belong to him is somehow as preposterous as rainbow-colored unicorn poop.