I roll as quietly as I can into the kitchen and use the light on my phone to sift through the bottom shelf of the cabinet closest to the sink. Tylenol, Advil, allergy meds, antacids, multivitamins, probiotics, and iron supplements. I have the medicine cabinet of an eighty-year-old woman. But I rattle past all that for the big, dark bottle with the childproof lid. It’s sticky around the edges, and it takes a turn or two to get the cap off. The fake grape scent hits me like liquefied Nerds. It’s why I never choose the grape Popsicle in the pack.

I roll over to the sink and hold it up like I’m about to take a swig. It’s almost two-thirds full. That’s like a hundred and fifty bucks, almost a month’s worth of medicine. I very slowly pour it down the sink. The purple finds the drain in a thick swirl. Twice a day since I was six. Twice a day Mom had to use the dropper to feed me these antiseizure meds like a baby bird. But after today’s all clear, never again. I shake it until there’s not a single drop left and then go back down the hall, shimmying my shoulders to a Beyoncé song no one but me can hear.

2 Wrecked

It’s snowing the afternoon we get the next call from Mema. It’s the kind of snow we like best down here, big and wet and so light it piles up half a foot in an hour. All the trees look like they’re wearing mittens.

It’s a guaranteed snow day tomorrow at school, which I’m banking on, since I haven’t studied one minute for my science exam. “This is not a good start,” Mom says when she sees me in the kitchen, getting out the mixing bowls from the bottom shelf and lining the counter with flour and sticks of butter.

But she doesn’t stop me.

I’m aiming to make a fruit galette with peaches we froze last summer from the farmers market. I saw the galette in an old copy of Food & Wine someone left in the guidance counselor’s office next to copies of Parents magazine and Guideposts. The galette looked nice, homey and fancy both, like a big fruit tart dusted with glittery sugar.

I’m elbows-deep in floppy piecrust when the phone rings. Mom is on the couch, surrounded by piles of blue books. The English exams were yesterday and she’s buried in essays. She uses a purple pen because it’s supposed to be more encouraging than red. I say an F is an F no matter the color.

“Mom.” She doesn’t look up. “Mom, phone!”

“What? Oh!” She digs for the phone, which she finds wedged between the couch cushions. She checks the screen and sighs.

“Mema?” I say.

“Mema.”