“Yeah, but not dishonestly. Rainey Man!” I offered him my fist, so he’d understand.

When he extended his own hand, it wasn’t to fist-bump. He wrapped his palm over my knuckles—paper beats rock—and nudged my arm down.

“Your mom’s going to be home soon. We should all talk when she gets here.”

“About what?”

“What you told me.”

“I don’t need another woman yelling at me today, Dad.”

Anger flashed across his face like lightning in a cloud. Only for a second. “We’re all going to talk. It’s not going to be what you think. You do need to watch your tone. Believe that. You’ve had a bad day. I get it. Don’t make it worse.”

Fine. Everyone’s lost their mind. “Can I go upstairs?”

“I’ll call you when she gets here.”

The garage door rattled open beneath my window, and Mom announced she was home and hungry. Then it got quiet, at least twenty minutes of what I assumed was conversation about I don’t know what. There was a gentle knock on my door, and Dad let himself in without an invitation.

He sat at the foot of my bed, clasping his hands together. “I get that you’re pissed over a lot of stuff right now, but I’m going to ask you to come down and listen to your mother and sister. It’s something I haven’t been very good at. Me and you have work to do.”

I sat up, confused. “Cressie’s home?”

“FaceTime,” Dad said, holding his phone like a talisman. “Our family meetings are high-tech now.”

I swung my feet to the floor. “Fine.”

Mom waited at the table, her fingers tap-tap-tapping. I sat, determined not to be bullied here. She got Cressie on the screen.

I said, “So what am I getting yelled at about now?”

Mom didn’t answer—I thought this was her show—but looked to Dad.

He said, “The morning after you joined the Purity Pledge we talked. Remember?”

“Yeah, Dad, I remember. You reminded me like an hour ago.”

“I was mad at your mom. We talked about you and that pledge, and she suspected you weren’t doing it for the right reasons. I, basically, told her she was the one who dragged you to church with a bunch of crackpot Bible-thumpers and she shouldn’t get mad at you for wanting to do something with the young people there. I—”

“Told me,” Mom cut in, “I needed to stop overreacting. I was wrong. I didn’t know what I was talking about because he knew his son so well. What harm could you possibly do?”

“Me? What about Newsome. He’s the one—”

“Stop it, son,” said Dad. “We’re not debating Pastor Newsome. I mean, he sounds kind of like an asshole—”

“Del!” Mom snapped.

“Sorry, he does. That’s a different conversation, though. We’re talking about you. Your behavior.”

My behavior. “Of course we are.”

“That’s what I mean, Del. It’s scary sometimes,” said Mom. I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me, my dad, or both of us.