D. Come clean and actually communicate with both parties.

Each option seemed selfish and unfair to both O’Connors. If I acknowledge that it’s selfish, it means I can do it anyway, right?

Dracula came by our table, plopping down our latest pop quizzes: 105 percent for Carter; 69 percent for your boy.

“Hell yeah—”

“No, Nick, not anymore.”

“Right.” I needed to do better. “Six-ish work?”

“Sounds good.” While our other classmates compared quiz grades and debated whether points were unfairly deducted, Carter returned to poking Sir Whiskerton with the scalpel.

Option C it was.

I needed to get a wig.

Coach Dad drove me home at 5:00 p.m. that evening. After I’d told him my tryout had gone well, he’d smiled the whole fifteen-minute ride.

“Atta boy, Nicky,” he said as we walked into the house. “Who’s the man?”

“Okay, thanks, Dad.” I pounded his fist.

“Mm, smells good,” said my dad when we reached the kitchen.

My mom stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce, basil and garlic taking over the kitchen. And here I was thinking she didn’t know how to cook. Her pink bathrobe was already tied tight around her waist. “Light interview day,” she said.

On the days my mom didn’t have a lot of work, she usually spent her free time napping. I guess the rest of her life took a lot out of her.

“How was school?”

“Pretty good,” I said. “But . . .” I explained to them about how I was doing in biology and that I could use some extra help. “I know I’m grounded. Is there any chance I could hang out with Carter tonight so he could help me?”

My parents exchanged a look.

“How are you failing biology?” asked my dad.

“Technically not failing . . .” technically that would be a 65.

The pot clanked as my mom stirred it more aggressively. “How about Carter comes here?” It wasn’t a question.

I hesitated. When I lie to my parents, I try to lie by omission—the stuff I tell them is true, but not the whole story. I’d learned, in my years of having to tell girls what they want to hear, that trying too hard was a dead giveaway. They gave me no choice.

“He’s hosting a study group at the library,” I said. “Would going there be okay?”

“You can’t be failing biology,” said my dad, “We have the L-W game coming up, the school won’t let you play.”

“I’m not failing. I need extra help.”

My mom gave a reluctant sigh. “Home by nine. How are you getting there?”

“I was thinking that I could drive?” Even though my parents had their mad-cop/disappointed-cop routine now stitched into their DNA, maybe, possibly, my dad wasn’t disappointed? For once?

He put his hands up in defense. “Whatever helps you get there.”

The garlic began to overwhelm our kitchen. The smoke detector beep beeped in protest.

My mom fanned the stove. “Bike tonight. You can have the car back this weekend.”