“And how was the coffee, Nick?” Having heard this lecture many times before, I said it in my head as she said it aloud: “Was it worth it?”

If Mr. Hoover had asked me that, I’d have mouthed off. I’d have said yes, of course it was worth getting disciplinary action on my permanent record and jeopardizing my chance of a soccer scholarship. Hot diggity dog. And I’d have frolicked off to whatever class I was probably blowing off. Probably biology.

“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it a little more than my last apology.

She lifted her World’s Best Wife mug to her pale lips and drained the last of her tea. She didn’t bother pushing back—we’d been down this road before. While my dad and I had both woken up at the crack of dawn, somehow I was late to school and he was able to get there early to tutor eighth graders about the Oxford comma. Besides, it was my soccer scholarship at risk. If I even got a scholarship. If I even made a college soccer team. If my mom didn’t kill me first.

“I’m going up.” Her chair legs scraped against the floor.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Lock the door if you go out.” She rinsed her mug and examined it with her hand towel at the ready, sure to dry every last drop. With a satisfactory nod, she plodded up the stairs. I glanced at my iPhone, a hand-me-down from Carter: 6:50 p.m. New record.

A text message blinked in my palm. You coming over?

I leaned back and ran my fingers through my dark hair. Carter O’Connor was my best friend for three reasons: First, he knew what my phone password was (and I didn’t even have to show him). Second, he liked The Hangover as much as I did (maybe even more). Third, he had a sixth sense for when I simply couldn’t stand being home, and always welcomed me to crash at his place.

Thanks, man. I texted back.

That’s what it was like when your parents simultaneously treated you like a kid and a grown-up, and their emotional unavailability was both suffocating and lonely. Carter always understood that. And from the way gym class went this morning, it looked like Eliza might too.

Boo hoo. Poor me.

Yeah, I know.

When I occasionally complained to Madison about my family, she’d mock me and say, “Wahhhh, your life is so hard. Check your white, male, upper-middle-class privilege. Sheesh.”

And then I’d have to say, “I’m not denying that I’m another cog in the system of white male supremacy, Madison.” Because I know that’s exactly what she would want to hear, whether or not it was true, or if I even understood that. “Hashtag blessed.”

Madison would roll her eyes and we’d fight about it some more, and eventually I’d ditch her to go hang out with Carter and Austin, my fave (white, middle-class) buddies.

Real talk: whenever Madison called me out on it, of course I became crazy-aware of the fact that my bros and I have it made. Though, it’s not about the privilege we’re born into, it’s what we do with it that counts, right? Whatever that means.