“It’s ketchup. I had some fries after school,” I explained, and he sighed. “I’m sorry! I got hungry!” He winced, draping it over my desk chair, right next to my torn tights.

“Madison!” he said, snatching them up. “What did you do to your nylons?”

“I cut them. Everyone is wearing them like that!” Oh, man. I was not getting out of this.

“These were brand-new!” my dad complained loudly, shaking them.

“Jeez, Dad…” I complained, proud of myself that I hadn’t panicked. Much. “Didn’t you ever wear cutoff jeans?”

Shoulders slumping, he looked at my fingernails, seeing the black nails that I’d been wearing to help Nakita blend in, his gaze lingering on the two red nails I’d half painted. “Torn tights and a lab coat? Wearing shoes without laces? I’ll never understand your fashion sense.”

I leaned over to look at my yellow sneakers. It isn’t fashion sense; it’s fallout, I thought dryly.

“But at least I know you’re eating,” he added, his attention going back to the ketchup-splattered lab coat. “How about skipping the after-school snacks for a while and eating at home?”

“Okay.” I stretched, hoping he wouldn’t look into my bathroom, where my torn shirt lay on the floor. That would be very hard to explain. I felt pretty good, but food was the last thing on my mind. Especially when my dad sat on the edge of the bed beside me and pointedly set my phone on the nightstand.

Crap. I’d forgotten to call Mom.

“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked, looking at it.

“Sorry. I forgot to call Mom,” I said immediately, but his frown deepened, telling me that wasn’t it. Clueless, I fiddled with my comforter, glad I’d changed into my nightgown last night after Barnabas had dropped me off, even if it had put my torn tights and Marty’s lab coat on my dad’s radar. “Is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly.

Is something wrong? I actually asked, “Is something wrong”? Can I sound any guiltier?

My dad waited until I looked at him. “I got a strange call this morning. Some guy named Sneaker.”

“Shoe!” I blurted before I remembered to shut my mouth. For crying out loud. And I’d told Shoe to be good when I couldn’t go five minutes without lying to my dad?

“Shoe?” my dad echoed, touching the phone to make it exactly square with the corner of the nightstand. “You know him?”

“Uh, yes.” I shrugged, trying to look like I didn’t care. “But I never gave him the house number.” Barnabas? I thought. Had he gone to see Shoe last night and tried to change his memories? Son of a dead puppy.

“Pen pal?” I tried, working to keep the question from my voice, but it sneaked in there somehow.