She worked Mrs. Park hard, impressing her by throwing into her Korean some awkwardly formal English: I tell you, isn’t that something? To see it is to believe it, believe you me. The girls had never seen their mother join so agreeably into conversation, and for hours at a time. Together the realtor and Mrs. Park nibbled all afternoon on kimchi, chestnuts and seaweed crackers, gulping down liters of tea brewed from expired corn. Sometimes, the lady brought over snacks made from red bean paste and Mrs. Park would whoop with joy. Today, she made Mrs. Park clap like a circus seal when she showed up with a Styrofoam box of gummy dill dumplings.

Mira barged into Rosemary’s room. “Everything about her is so fake,” she said. “What if Ma’s being had?”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” Rosemary turned back to her library book on Pre-Raphaelite painters. Her sister snatched it from her.

“John Everett Millais. Is he famous?” Mira flipped through the book, seeing pages upon pages of auburn-haired maidens dancing in forests, kissing knights, floating still on top of lakes. “He’s got three names. Just like a serial killer.”

“Give it back. It’s for Workshop.”

“Are you studying to be, like, a waitress at Medieval Times?”

“No.”

“Please, Rosie, tell me you’re not going to start wearing those puffy Ren fair dresses like all the chubby Goths at school.”

“Shut up.”

“Please don’t become a chubby Goth, Rosie.”

“Go away.”

“I haven’t told you about my termite plan yet.” Mira bounced on the bed. “House-buyers hate termites, right? And termites love stinky, damp places. So I was thinking if we flooded the basement and attic with our pee, we’ll start, like, a super infestation, then Ma won’t be able to sell the house. And, though we’ll have an incredibly stinky house, we won’t have to go. End of story.” She beamed.

“Of all the stupid things you’ve ever said, that is the stupidest I’ve ever heard.”

Mira sat catatonic, disbelieving, for a minute. Then she bolted.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Quellie Soo was explaining the concept of “staging.” In order to have a successful open house, Mrs. Park needed to “stage” the event, to give the buyer the impression that they’d stumbled onto a happy place inhabited by happy people. For that to work, Mrs. Park couldn’t have their furniture and effects packed up or shipped away just yet—the house had to look lived in, as if its owners had simply stepped out for a pint of milk for the cat. Vacation photos in gold frames, Quellie said, were key to a smooth sale. New curtains and paint, too. Mrs. Park had to consider making these upgrades because too many flaws were visible; there was no way they could show the house in its current state.