As I stared at the road in front of me, Kael’s quietness allowed me to continue thinking about the slow unraveling of Mrs. Fischer the First. Her decline was subtle, with each episode lasting only a few days and mostly peaking when my dad was at work. She had two personas for most of our life, and we watched her switch gears in an instant from military wife to a woman falling apart: the paranoia, the anxiety, the messiness of her ashtrays on the porch, and the stains on her clothes. By the summer after eighth grade, her mania had completely taken over. She woke up later and later, took fewer showers, stopped dancing, and even stopped pacing. She would stare at the wall in silence for hours, and even her fairy tales turned sinister and eventually burned out.

“You think I’m funny?” Kael’s voice drew me out of my memories of my mom just as a knot in my chest was beginning to move up toward my throat.

He was eyeing the green light above us. I pressed the gas.

“What?” I faltered, clearing my throat. I was reliving my childhood while he was still on a question I had asked him. My chest was aching, and focusing on his cool voice and his steady eyes helped fade the image of my mom.

He turned his body toward me. I kept my attention on the road. We drove past a Subway and it reminded me of my brother always craving their cookies when he was stoned.

“People don’t usually ask other people if they’re funny. It kind of ruins the joke,” he said, and stared out the window.

I gave him an annoyed look. “Do you want me to apologize for asking you about your humor? Is this a thing?” I turned onto the main road and tried to figure out where I was.

“No. Not a thing.”

“Okay, so we’re going to my dad’s house and not only am I late, which he hates, he’s kind of . . .” I exhaled, trying to pinpoint such a complicated man with one word. “He’s sort of—”

“Racist?” Kael asked.

“What? No!” I felt a little defensive over his question, until I turned toward him and saw the look on his face. It said that he figured that was what I was going to say and that I couldn’t find a tactful way to say it.

I didn’t know what to think about that.

“He’s not racist,” I told Kael as we drove. I couldn’t think of anything my dad had ever said or done to make me believe he was. “He’s just kind of an asshole.”

Kael nodded and leaned back in his seat.

“This dinner will drag on longer than it should. Too much food for three people. Too much matching cutlery, too much everything.”