“It’s fine,” I say. “Pays the bills.” I think about telling my parents about my book deal, but they have no reason to believe me. And when my dad hardly even reacted to my admission of my previous lies, I realized he probably never believed me to begin with. My accomplishments, or lack thereof, don’t seem to matter to him. I realize, from reading Freud, that perhaps I’d projected my disappointment with myself onto him.

Also, now that he’s ruined my life with his cheating and lies, he is indebted to me. He is beyond guilty, and I enjoy the power over him this gives me. He gave me a MacBook for Christmas (for my readings) and a gift certificate for acting lessons, which I’ve been too afraid to use.

“It’s more than fine—” Thomas says.

I interrupt him, eager to take the attention off myself. “How is teaching?” I ask my dad.

“Also pays the bills,” he says with a smile.

We eat Chinese food for dinner, and Thomas and my dad do most of the talking, and when I hear the word “Dodgers” I zone out and focus on my orange chicken. A few times I look up and my mom is glaring at me, but I’m starting to think that might just be her face.

When there is a break in conversation, Bo says that he is enjoying Pale Fire, a book I read in high school.

My dad says, “I’m glad,” and my mom says, “Nabokov is demented,” and for the very first time I understand why he married her.

Thomas steps in to ease the tension. “This orange chicken is bomb.”

Soon I am pretending to eat my mom’s terrible chocolate cake and feeling depressed, when there is a knock on the door.

“Are we expecting someone?” my mom asks my dad.

“No,” my dad says with confusion.

The knocking gets louder, like banging. The doorbell rings too. Then ringing and knocking at the same time.

I feel excited. I am so bored. My dad starts to get up.

“I’ll get it,” I say.

I walk across the gross plush carpet to the front door, while the knocking continues, escalating in volume. It reminds me of Marta. I remind myself that I am all caught up on rent, with plenty to spare, and she is definitely too lazy to come to Riverside to find me.

I open the door and am confronted with an overwhelming scent: sunscreen and coconut and cigarettes and champagne. It smells kind of nice. Not “pleasant,” exactly, but more interesting than the sterile smell of my parents’ home. I also see big blond hair.