I don’t even have to look at my father’s face to know how stupid I look right now. He shakes his head and sighs, then looks at me like he wants to say something but never does.

He turns to leave, and I scramble after him. “But Dad, I’m literally broke. What am I supposed to do? Max out all my credit cards like poor people?”

“You know the deal.” He doesn’t slow down. “You’re not getting a dime until you’re clean. That’s not up for negotiation.”

I roll my eyes and fold my arms, stopping at the doorway as he marches into the hall. “You’re such a dictator now that Mom’s gone.”

That finally stops him like I knew it would, and he glares at me like I’m a petulant child. I know he expects me to take back that last insult, but I avoid his eyes and refuse to retract it on the basis that it’s the truth.

“September is right around the corner, you know.” He speaks softly, but his voice is smug. The air between us is so different now. “If you don’t sober up soon, there sure will be some happy tigers roaming around.”

My eyes fall down the length of him, then back up. “You won’t really give all my money to charity,” I say, calling his bluff.

He sets his jaw and turns to walk away without another word. And then he’s gone, his footsteps loud on the floor as he descends to the first level.

I all but slam my door shut.

My heart goes into overdrive as I snatch my phone from my bed, beating against my chest like a warning. I find Mei’s contact and start a new chain.

The test came back positive. Wtf? Call me ASAP.

By the time my phone rings, it is a whole twenty minutes later and I’m at the local drugstore heading straight to the medicine aisle. I click Mei over and hit FaceTime. I need to see her; I need to know if she’s lying or not. Her face appears on screen after a few seconds of a bad connection. She’s wearing no makeup and is dressed in a sleeveless black leotard, her hair tied up into a catastrophe of a bun, a cup of liquid crack in hand. Iced coffee isn’t her only way of getting through the grind of being a soloist at the New York City Ballet, but definitely one of her tamer vices. She’s that slightly gaunt, nineties-model thin, but it looks good on her.

I wait until she pushes into the bathroom to speak, but she’s quicker. “This better be good, bitch. I was about to break my record.”

I frown, noticing the line of sweat on her forehead. “For what? The number of corns accumulated on a single human foot?”