She gave me a once over, visibly unimpressed with my appearance. Her eyes critically assessed me like I was a parasite that had infiltrated her home and needed to be exterminated. Weston didn’t seem to notice. He opened the pantry, grabbed a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and two bananas then pulled a couple of cold cans of Cherry Coke from the fridge.

“We’re going downstairs,” he said.

“Weston Allen,” Veronica began.

“Night, Mom,” he said, guiding me in front of him toward a door down the hall. I grabbed my backpack and walked slowly, unsure of where to go.

“This one,” Weston said.

I opened it, and he walked past, using his elbow to flip on the light, revealing a flight of stairs leading to a lower level. When we reached the bottom, we walked into a vast room with couches, a couple of televisions, a gaming system, a wet bar, exercise equipment, a pool table, and an air hockey table.

That one room was bigger than my entire house.

“Whoa,” I said quietly, letting Weston lead me to the couch.

“This is my space. They won’t bug us down here.” He unscrewed the lid of the salsa, and the bag of tortilla chips crackled as he unrolled it. “You hungry?”

“I’ll take that banana,” I said, pointing.

He tossed it to me. “I’ll wait.”

“For what?”

“Until you finish your homework. I’m going to find us a movie to watch.”

I watched him while he pushed buttons on the remote without looking at them, turning on the DVR and browsing the movies on demand. I pulled out my textbook. A piece of notebook paper stuck out from the page I needed, and I worked on the nine questions I had left to answer. It took only about fifteen minutes to finish, and Weston remained quiet, keeping his word.

Once I closed my book and packed away my things, he excitedly returned his focus to me. “Do you want to watch Triple Thunder, or The Dark House on the Hill?”

“Both sound equally . . . entertaining.”

“Triple Thunder it is.” He pushed a button on the remote, and the screen turned black for a moment. He chose a few more options; then the movie began, opening with a sweaty guy running for his life in a desert.

Halfway through the movie, Weston leaned back against the couch cushion, his size twelves crossed at the ankle on top of the ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. I had a more difficult time relaxing.

Weston looked over at me, back at the television, and then back at me.

“What?”

“You’re so uptight. Do you want me to take you home?”

“I just . . . I don’t think your mom likes that I’m here. And I . . .”

Weston’s phone chirped. Alder’s name lit up the display. He read the text in less than a second, then shot one back.

“What if your mom mentions to Alder that I was here?”