I hoof it out the front door, letting it slam behind me, and stomp away in defiance of another one of my mom’s rules: if a door is slammed on purpose or by accident, it must then be immediately closed again four times quietly.

Mom’s texts start coming when I’m barely more than a block from home.

How dare you leave like that?

Your father has always upset you. How can you expect me to send you to England where I can’t even look out for you?

The late afternoon sky pisses rain on me the entire half-hour walk, and my anger is the only thing that keeps me warm. In spite of the jagged feeling, I’m drunk on some strange power — the power to walk away from my mom. It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. Until today, I’m not sure I knew that I could. What will the impact be? Our contract has always been that I’m good, that I’m quiet, that I help her or get out of the way.

I don’t know if I can do that anymore.

Her texts keep coming.

We’ll talk about this when you get home. What time will you be back?

Answer me right now, or you’re in deep trouble.

SAMANTHA! ANSWER ME OR I’M GOING TO CALL.

I huff, frustrated at her ability to know exactly the threat that will get me to respond. Don’t smartphones exist so that humans have plenty of ways to communicate without having to talk? I text her a halfhearted apology, telling her I’ll head home later and let her know when I’m on my way.

By the time I arrive at the smallish strip-mall coffee shop, I’m soaked and freezing. My anger has faded, and I’m ready to drink plain hot water if it’ll warm me up. I shove open Coffeehole’s battered front door. About three-quarters of the tables are occupied with West Hills’ usual mix of teenagers and gossipy suburban moms. A low hum of conversation fills the room, punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter that rises above the folksy music. From behind the counter, the fauxhawked barista raises an eyebrow at my drowned-cat chic, smiling as I approach. My discomfort with the situation dials up to eleven.

I skim the menu, picking the thing that sounds closest to hot chocolate without giving away that I’m a total wimp who would gladly drink chocolate milk with every meal given the opportunity.

“Mocha with extra whip, please,” I say. Hopefully the milk will make up for the dinner I decided to forgo by running out on Mom.

“Did you go for a swim?” Fauxhawk gestures at my sodden sweatshirt.

“It’s raining,” I say.

“What? In Portland?” she teases.