No such luck. I could see them through the front window as I approached the door. They were sitting on the couch, side by side. Both of them staring straight at me as I reached for the doorknob.

I let myself in, my chest heaving, my face hot. I stood in the doorway. “Good . . . morning?”

Dad was already dressed for the day. His hair was wet, and I could see the tooth marks from his comb. Mom was in her robe. Her hair was tangled and crazy. She looked like she had the flu.

“Have a seat, Leah,” Dad said, like he was in some work meeting. He pointed to a chair.

I heard him, and I tried to move forward. I willed my feet to walk, but they wouldn’t obey. It was like I was frozen in the doorway, trying to catch my breath.

“Sit down.”

This time, I did. I unstuck my feet and stepped forward, took a seat in a chair across from them. Then, as my breathing returned to normal, Dad yelled and yelled. Mom just sat there, with her hand over her mouth. Like she was trying not to yawn, or trying not to cry. Maybe both. I don’t know. But Dad was on fire. It was like he hadn’t talked to me in a year, and now he wanted to use up all the words. He went on and on. All about how our relationship depended on trust, and I had broken that trust, and he wasn’t sure what it would take to earn it back, and if they couldn’t trust me, everyone’s life would become much less fun.

Fun? I thought. Is that what this has been? But I didn’t say it.

After a little while, Dad’s face was all red and Mom put a hand on his arm, and she took a turn. Like they were wrestlers, and she was tapping in now. She talked about how they weren’t mad at me—well, they were, but they were mostly just worried. She talked about how they were just trying to keep me safe. About how this was a scary age, thirteen.

“Lots of kids you know are going to be doing bad things,” said Mom. “We’re not idiots, Leah. We remember. We’re not the kind of parents who don’t know what goes on. We just want you to be honest with us. We don’t want you hiding, and sneaking, and lying. Can’t we be honest? Can’t we be friends?” Then she paused, as if she expected me to actually reply to that.

“Umm, okay?” I tried. Even though the moment didn’t feel especially friendly.

I was trying to think of what else I could possibly say when suddenly Dad stood, picked up his travel mug and phone from the coffee table, and said coldly, “This is far from finished, young lady. But I need to leave.”