I try to cut the beef into even cubes, but working in haste makes me sloppy. Meat juice runs off the cutting board and onto the counter, which is the last thing I need my mom to see when she walks in. I spill egg noodles on the floor when I go to pour them into a measuring cup, and when it comes to the sour cream . . . well, I decide measuring isn’t worth it.

My phone buzzes again.

Will: Help what the duck do girls like to talk about??

As if a robot would know, I joke. Then I decide to throw him a bone and give him the same advice that worked for me earlier. Ask her questions.

Will: About what???

Me: TV, comics, Planet Quest . . . LITERALLY ANYTHING.

Kitty will talk enough for both of them if he gets her started. She’s always one of the first to jump into class discussions, usually while I’m still pondering what one obligatory thing to say to make sure I get my participation points.

I barely have the onions chopped when my phone sounds again. I huff in irritation. Of course the busiest night in my entire history of text messaging is the night I don’t have my shit together and am running behind. I already have half a snarky text to Will mentally composed before I pick up the phone, but the message isn’t from him.

Zoe: *wonders where Humphrey is now*

My heart sings.

Me: *points to him sleeping in his nest* *warns you away from the little flames that shoot out when he snores*

I throw the onions in the pan to sauté, watching my phone with bated breath.

Zoe: *peers curiously around his cave*

Me: *admires the glittering of all his treasure*

I hear the garage door rumbling open on the other side of the wall. The cutting board is still covered with roast beef and meat juice, and the dishwasher is only half unloaded with the door hanging wide open. I snatch up the mail, bolt down the hallway to the living room, and set the pile of credit card offers and advertisements on the coffee table as an attempt to divert Mom.

“Hi, honey!” Mom says as I zoom into view. Even at the end of a long work day, she looks so put together in her gray suit and silk blouse. Her hair is the same ash blond as mine, but she mostly wears hers in an elegant twist as opposed to my haphazard ponytail.

“Hi!” I try for enthusiasm, but it comes out sounding more panicked. “I started dinner if you want to go ahead and relax. The mail is on the coffee table,” I say, gesturing to the living room.

“That’s so sweet of you.” She sets her keys in the dish and slides her purse into its cubby beside the door. “How was school? And was your lunch okay?”