Jamal: Mom, she says way worse to me. And she never lets me in her room so how come I gotta let her in mine?

Mom: Jamal.

Jamal: Okay, I’m sorry, Whit . . . [quietly] that you trolls live in hovels.

Dad: Guys.

Whit: I don’t let you in my room because you refuse to use deodorant.

Mom: Jamal, we talked about hygiene.

Dad: Guys.

Jamal: Mom, she’s lying! Smell my pits! Smell me! Quincy, stop laughing!

Quincy: Your family’s hilarious. I can’t help it.

Dad: GUYS! DO YOU WANNA HEAR MY DAMN QUESTION OR NOT?

Mom: Language, Andre.

Dad: I only said damn, baby. That’s hardly—

Mom: Andre Alexander Anderson.

Me: Awww shoot, Dad’s in trouble.

Dad: What else is new? Okay, here goes: What do you want to be when you grow up? Jamal, you go first.

Jamal: Why me?

Dad: ’Cuz you’re my child and because I like Q better.

Whit: Dang, Dad.

All of us: *laughing*

Dad: Okay, so whaddya gonna be?

Me: Fine. Uh. When I grow up I wanna be . . . a llama.

Dad: Boy, can’t you be serious for thirty seconds?

Me: Thirty’s pushing it. I can do ten, though.

Dad: Q, how about you? What do you wanna be?

Me: Oh, that’s easy, Mr. Anderson. I wanna be the host of Later Tonight.

Dad: Wow. Now see, that’s how you answer the question. That’s great, Q. I can definitely see you on that stage, mic in your hand.

Me: Me too. I see it too.

When the video stops, Autumn looks at me, says, “Wow. That was cool.”

I nod. “I can’t wait to show Whit these. Our family journal.”

Autumn kisses my cheek.

A handful of minutes later there are five e-tickets for tomorrow’s taping on Autumn’s phone. She found them on one of those buy-or-sell sites, which of course meant we paid handsomely for what are normally free tickets, but.

“Don’t tell Q we paid for these,” Autumn says.

“Of course not,” I say. “Why would I tell him we . . .” But I manage to snag the joke before it completely sails over my head. “I hate you,” I tell her.

“Couldn’t if you wanted to,” she sings.

She taps her phone screen and then a beat later my screen lights, chimes. “Sent everyone their ticket,” she says. I pick up my phone, but she takes it from my hands, sets it back on the kitchen table.

And I won’t tell you that right now the pull of Autumn’s brown eyes is stronger than the stingiest black hole, or that I am instantaneously, wholly swallowed by them, or that at their center I see the entirety of our joint future, spiraling in either direction like a double helix.

That would be beyond cheesy.