“And the glorious world of being a PA,” Suzanne cuts in. “Move to New York or LA, and that’s what you’ll be doing for ten years.”

Suzanne is well past the ten-year expiration date. Being my grandmother’s personal assistant is something she’s chosen to do, well into her prime years. I had expected someone younger.

“So you’re in college?” I must have been off by years with his age, for him to be interning, but then he shakes his head.

“I’m at Seaview, with you. We’re in AP Enviro and AP Gov together, so I got to hear your intro speech twice. You don’t pull punches.”

“You’re a senior?”

“Yep.”

How could I have not seen him? “The Toyota yours?” I ask, and he nods. I hate that my cheeks burn when he looks at me. Like really looks at me.

“Well, uh, I’d better head upstairs. Homework. Lots to catch up on.” I grab an apple from a fruit bowl and walk away. The last thing I need is any romantic entanglements. I’m getting in and out of this place. College next year, and my eighteenth birthday in the spring. Maura will be responsible for me until I’m twenty-four, for like college tuition and insurance and stuff, but in the meantime I can take care of myself.

I fall into the black hole of schoolwork. What is it with teachers acting like theirs is the only class you’re taking, loading you up with assignments? It’s dark by the time Maura hollers up the back stairwell, her voice a faint echo.

“Celia! Dinner!”

It’s horribly domestic, being called to dinner, and I trudge down the stairs with halting steps. My mom taught me to cook at a young age: pastas, salad, then chicken, fish. I was always home first from school, so it made sense for me to start dinner. My mom would collapse through the door around seven, and I’d have a simple but delicious meal ready. Just don’t burn the kitchen down and have social services on our ass, Mom would say. I’m a pretty good cook.

Maura is not, it would seem. Suzanne made the spread—meatloaf with a side of mashed potatoes and green beans—and she eats with us, too. Suzanne’s sautéed the beans in oil with salt and pepper, so they’re delicious, rather than the gloopy mess I’ve had at school.

“Celia.” Maura addresses me with that unasked for nickname again. I would correct her, but her tone brooks no argument. “Did you go into my office?”

“Uh.” I hasten to chew a mouthful of meatloaf. Maura beats me to the punch.

“I found an abandoned water glass on my desk this morning. Sans coaster. And Suzanne affirms it wasn’t hers.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, that was me. Sorry. I was exploring the house and forgot about the glass.”