“Super-Sander” is how Scott once described Steve. Steve’s a floor layer and works at a DIY superstore. He’s not such a bad guy, even if he does insist on calling me “Fanman,” as if he can’t remember my name. Scott’s usual name for my stepfather is “Fanman Steve.”

I count to five, swallow hard once, twice, count again, and then force myself to go inside.

“Have you done your homework, Sam?” my mother shouts out. Her glass is empty.

When did I have time? I want to call back. When? I go to my room without answering.

A few minutes later she’s standing by my door, her body shrouded in a dressing gown. She smells of pancakes, with a whiff of alcohol. “Have you practiced your French vocab?”

“Hmm.”

“The tests are in three weeks.”

“Yes.”

“You know what that means, don’t you, Sam?”

“Yes, Maman.”

It’s the same dialogue every day, and we already had this conversation earlier in the car when she picked me up from Kister Jones’s. My mother is terrified that I might lead an unstructured life.

“Sam, those tests are really important if you want to make something of yourself and have a good career.”

“So Steve didn’t pass the tests back in his day?”

A sharp intake of breath from my mother. I have no idea why I said that. It wasn’t fair, and she can’t help the fact that I’d rather be somewhere else—anywhere but here. Anywhere but living this square life with Steve calling me Fanman.

“I know you missed school this afternoon, Samuel.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Where were you?” My mother looms over me.

“Here and there,” I mumble. “I was at Forbidden Planet. The new Pratchett just came out.”

“Samuel,” she says, “you skipped school. And you weren’t at Forbidden Planet because I rang them. They know you there. So . . . where were you?”

My mother would feel betrayed if I told her the truth and said that I was at the hospital, as I have been every day for the last two and a half weeks. It’s always been this way. Every time I suggested I had any hint of love for my father, my mother would act hurt and say nothing for days on end. That’s why I keep lying to her now. “Scott and I were smoking.”

Scott would laugh his head off at this, as the only time I took a drag on one of his Lucky Strikes I felt dizzy and had to lie down for half an hour.