The generic dorm furniture, some sort of cheap wood covered in a plastic-y coating meant to make it look like slightly less cheap wood, is still piled up outside my room. A bright yellow notice has been taped to it, letting me know I will be fined if it’s still in the hallway by a certain time tomorrow. I crumple the note and push open my door. I toss the paper onto my new desk, and it slides across the stainless steel.

It’s almost noon. Which means it’s three in New York. And eight in London. I sigh. I really don’t like calling my parents when I’m still struggling to think through the remnants of last night’s booze, but if I don’t soon, I’ll be in much more trouble.

I climb onto my bed, its ridiculous thread count beige linens wasted on a captain’s height twin extra long mattress. I try to get comfortable, rearranging the white and tan throw pillows, which are covered with embroidery and anything but cozy, but with this hangover it’s no use—it feels like someone is stabbing me with no less than three tiny knives. I pull out my headphones with a click and dial.

“Hey sweetie!” my mother sings over the phone. “Give me one second, I’ll patch in your father...”

I clear my throat as the dial tone sounds again. I picture the sound bouncing across a map, from a California dorm room to a sitting room in Hyde Park, and then ringing in a busy office on Wall Street.

“Hart and Smith,” the voice of one of my father’s many assistants says over the phone. I used to know their names, when I was six and would come visit his office, dragging Matchbox cars across grand windows, pretending they were driving along the streets of downtown Manhattan so far below. But then came boarding school for me, and his promotions that meant there was a rotating team of high-heeled blondes when I came by his office once a year.

“Hi, yes, this is Marcy. His wife. I’m on with our son, Braden. He should be expecting the call, if you wouldn’t mind patching us through?”

“One moment,” her voice singsongs. The phone rings again. I stare at the cracked ceiling, the one part of the dorm room that my mother couldn’t replace.

She does this every time. The furniture thing.

I don’t want it to look like a dorm, I want it to look like your home, she said. Like I had any conception of what a stable home was.

“Hello.” My father sounds tired, as usual.

“Hi, Dad.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I, uh, just got to school yesterday and wanted to call.” I reach for the string hanging from the blinds covering my small, square window. “Sorry to call you at work. Mom’s in London so...”

“Hey there!” my mother interjects.