I saw off another bite of lasagna with my knife and review what I’m going to say if the phone rings again and it’s about what went down at school today. But there’s not a single scenario where I don’t get grounded. Grown-up trumps kid like paper beats rock.

Mom leans back in from the hallway and mouths, “Chew, chew, chew,” like I’m five and still in feeding therapy.

I point at the phone. “Talk to your mother.”

Depending on how Grandpa’s been doing lately, this could either be a really quick conversation or a really long one. I take my chances and hit play.

I’m right about the muffins.

When Mom still hasn’t come in by the credits, I push back from the table and roll into the hallway.

She’s sitting on the floor with her legs stuck out and the phone in her lap.

“How bad was it?”

“He locked your grandmother out of the house and called 911 to report a burglary.”

“Whoa.”

“Yes.”

“Did the cops show up?”

“No. He’s done it enough times, she reprogrammed the emergency button on the house phone to go to her cell.”

“Smart.”

“Not smart enough to remember to put out a new Hide-a-Key. She had to get the neighbor to break a window.”

I can picture it: Grandpa whispering into the yellow phone on the wall about voices and eyes looking in at him from the dark. Poor Mema. I wonder which window they had to bust. I lock the brakes on my chair and hold out a hand. Mom takes it and stands up with a grunt.

“Nice.”

“Ellie, you’re twelve. Just wait until you’re my age. You’ll make all kinds of noises you never thought you’d make.”

She tries on a smile, but it slides off. I hate it when she does that, pretends everything’s rosy because she thinks I can’t handle it. But I don’t say anything, just grab her plate off the coffee table in the living room and roll on into the kitchen. I don’t know the last time Mom ate a meal all the way through. I pop her lasagna into the microwave. If it’s not Mema on the line, it’s Lauren, my aide, calling to tattle on me, which—I check the clock—might still happen tonight, with my luck.

I’m not a bad kid, really I’m not.

It’s just that anybody who sees a girl in a wheelchair thinks she’s going to be sunshine and cuddles.

Sorry for having an opinion.