“You had another car and you sold it or wrecked it or I don’t know what.” The family came to Arizona in a Buick that was older than Michelle, but when Momma got the black Cadillac the Buick disappeared and nobody’s seen it since.

“That car was on its last legs.” Momma keeps her voice even, like nothing’s wrong, like they’re not about to throw mugs. “I know, why don’t you walk? The exercise’ll do you good.” Momma likes to exercise whenever she isn’t too busy working or being Randy’s girlfriend or doing Momma stuff. Sometimes she walks over at Gateway nature park and sometimes she does jumping jacks in the garage and sometimes she even jumps rope with Alex. She’s as thin as Michelle is thick, but Michelle says it’s not from exercise.

“It’s five miles!” Michelle crumples the Pop-Tart wrapper up in her fist. “And it’s going to be what, eighty-five degrees today? Ninety?”

“Fine. Randy will come get you, then.” Momma chugs the rest of her coffee and leaves the mug in the sink with the other dishes. They don’t have a dishwasher, just a big box-shaped empty space under the counter where it will go. Most days they use paper plates.

“Will you text him? I want to see you text him.” Michelle squints like she’s trying to see inside Momma’s skull.

“Really?” Momma asks, but Michelle doesn’t blink. “Jeez. Last I heard kids were supposed to respect their parents.” Momma picks up her phone and begins to peck at it with her ruby-red nails, narrating as she types. “Work-ing late. Please get M at Walgreens at—”

“Tell him I’ll be at the library on Shea. Five p.m.”

“At library on Shea at five. T-H-X. Send.” She puts down her phone and the noise sounds like a slap. “Happy?”

Michelle swallows the rest of her coffee in one big gulp. She grimaces. “Are you kidding? I haven’t been happy in years.” She shoves her math book into her bag and stands up. “Alex, c’mon, sweetie, we gotta catch the bus.”