My chest got tight, but I held out the phone to my mom, who was sitting across from me. Her face got tight, which was strange to see, because before we moved here my mom always had a really soft, nice face. Still, she took the phone, got up from the table, and went into her room.

“He is such a jerk,” said Kate.

“He is not,” I said.

She started talking, but I ignored her and dug my fork into the pot pie. You would love these pies. I found them at the local grocery store in the frozen section. My mom was buying stuff for smoothies and sent me to get frozen raspberries. I came back with four pot pies. The label says they are made by a local lady who calls herself Mrs. Perfect Pie. She’s got good self-esteem and she’s right about her pies. They are super tall. Like pot-pie volcanoes. So far they are the best thing about living here. Not to be negative. I put my fork into the pastry on top and a cloud of steam puffed out, which was satisfying.

“Ugh, that thing is full of trans fats,” said Kate, who does not like to see people enjoying themselves. That’s what my dad used to say when she criticized our food at dinner. My dad isn’t very skinny, and he says it’s because he enjoys his food too much. He says Kate needs to start eating normally because she’s too skinny. But he also used to tease my mom if she ate too much, even though my mom is very skinny from doing so much Pilates and yoga and stuff.

My mom’s voice was rising in the bedroom. They were arguing now. I ignored it and lifted the whole pastry top like a lid. You can’t enjoy a pot pie properly if you’ve got a burned tongue.

“How about next time you don’t answer the phone when Dad calls?” said Kate. “Maybe then we can have one lousy meal without a big argument and Mom in tears and the whole dysfunctional dinner package?”

I rolled up the pastry top into the world’s tastiest trans-fat burrito and ate it. If I ever meet Mrs. Perfect, I plan to shake her hand and tell her she’s a genius. I’ll definitely bring a few Mrs. Perfects when we come home.

“Thank you for asking how my third day was,” said Kate. “It was amazing. I joined band, was invited over for a sleepover by three intellectually fascinating girls, and a number of handsome and sensitive boys asked me on dates.”

I stared at her.

“Gotcha,” she said. “My day was terrible, thanks. People here are incredibly lame. And you? How was your day?”