I wonder if his “good times” involved him bullying other kids, making them feel small in so many ways. I can picture him: cokehead, music guy, long hair—he was probably pretty good-looking, I hate to say. But undoubtedly a complete douchebag. I shudder at the thought of all the girls he must have cornered in some smoke-filled basement or manhandled in the high grass of a field party, talking about Nirvana.

“I still hang out with most of those guys. One of them got me my first job. Talked the manager into giving me a chance, and I bailed another guy out when … well, anyway.” He grins, impishly. “All of us, we were like this—” He crosses his first two fingers.

“I remember those parties, too,” Mom chimes in, smiling at Reg. “So many memories. Those were the days.” She turns to me. “Whose party is it?”

“Uh, Sienna Martin.”

“Oh, I remember her.”

“Yeah.”

“Is Lottie going?”

“I have no idea.”

Lately I’ve seen Lottie hanging out with a group of kids other than Paige and Breanne. Kind of the nerdy science kids: they are always near the labs, and whenever there are partner assignments in Biology, Lottie chooses one of them. I don’t know if something happened between her and the others, but I have to say I’m glad she’s not hanging out with them, or at least doesn’t seem to be. But we haven’t been paired up for anything since our doomed papier-mâché project. Lottie’s sculpture of my face looks like a giant potato. It doesn’t help that she decided to run with it and painted it like Mrs. Potato Head, complete with “eyes” all over and some cartoon facial features stuck in random places.

“You two fighting or something?”

“No, Mom.” I roll my eyes. I don’t know. Yes. No.

I ran into Lottie in the bathroom the other day. She asked me if I was going to the party while she was drying her hands.

“Yeah, I think so. You?”

“Probably. See you there?”

“For sure,” I said, feeling lighter as she left the door swinging behind her.

“Are there gonna be guys there?” Reg asks, grinning like he and I are in on something.

I think about Aidan, and all the comments online. There is a hatred burning in my chest. It’s like Dee is standing behind me, whispering in my ear.

“Are you a feminist, Mom?” I ask, leaning in the doorway, on my way out of the room.

“Oh, please, honey. I’m a realist. I love men.” She winks at Reg, who kisses the air.

And I’m out.

*   *   *