“I’m home!” Tick yelled as he shut the front door. His four-year-old sister, Kayla, was playing with her tea set in the front room, her curly blonde hair bouncing with every move. She sat right next to the piano, where their older sister Lisa banged out some horrific song that she’d surely blame on the piano being out of tune. Tick dropped his backpack on the floor and hung his coat on the wooden rack next to the door.

“What’s up, Tiger?” his mom said as she shuffled into the hallway, pushing a string of brown hair behind her ear. The cheeks of her thin face were red from her efforts in the kitchen, small beads of sweat hanging on for dear life along her forehead. Lorena Higginbottom loved—absolutely loved—to cook and everyone in Deer Park knew it. “I just put some cookies in the oven.”

Righto, Mr. Chu.

“Mom,” Tick said, “people stopped calling each other ‘Tiger’ a long time before I was born. Why don’t you just call me ‘Tick’? Everyone else does.”

His mom let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve ever heard. Do you even know what a tick does?”

“Yeah, it sucks your blood right before you squish it dead.” Tick pressed his thumb against his pant leg, twisting it with a vicious scowl on his face. Kayla looked up from her tea set, giggling.

“Lovely,” Mom said. “And you have no problem being named after such a creature?”

Tick shrugged. “Anything’s better than Atticus. I’d rather be called . . . Wilbur than Atticus.”

His mom laughed, even though he could tell she tried not to.

“When’s Dad gonna be home?” Tick asked.

“The usual, I’d guess,” Mom replied. “Why?”

“He owes me a rematch in Football 3000.”

Mom threw her arms up in mock desperation. “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll call and tell him it’s an emergency and to get his tail right home.”

Lisa stopped playing her music, much to Tick’s relief, and, he suspected, to the relief of every ear within a quarter mile. She turned around on the piano bench to look at Tick, her perfect teeth shining in an evil grin. Wavy brown hair framed a slightly pudgy face like she’d never quite escaped her baby fat. “Dad whipped you by five touchdowns last time,” she said sweetly, folding her arms. “Why don’t you give up, already?”

“Will do, once you give up beating that poor piano with a hatchet every day. Sounds like an armless gorilla is playing in there.”

Instead of responding, Lisa stood up from the piano bench and walked over to Tick. She leaned forward and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “I wuv you, wittle brother.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick, Mom,” Tick groaned, wiping his cheek. “Could you get me something to clean my face?”