My mom doesn’t notice, of course. The first morning, she’s gone before I even come downstairs, and the second, she’s actually here, full of logistics and formality. That’s the way my family has always communicated—through our weekly schedules. It used to make sense: when Jordan was around, my parents had to juggle work and his various activities, all the details of who was driving him where, when. Back before things got really tense between us, Jordan used to joke that without all his extracurriculars, our parents wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, and I’d reply, Also they wouldn’t know what to talk to me about, which was funny at the time but really not funny at all when I think back on it. Now, on the rare occasions when we run into each other, there’s always this brief moment of confusion on their end like Wait a second, who is this strange girl in our house? before they remember who I am and that I still exist.

It turns out that now that all his stuff isn’t on their calendars to think about, work has easily expanded to take their place, almost like Jordan was never here.

This morning, after my mom leaves me in a wake of stale perfume, I collapse into a chair at the kitchen table and pour myself a bowl of cereal. I take a bite, but it tastes like cardboard. I used to love cereal, but so did Jordan, and these days I can barely choke it down.

I push the bowl away and put my head down on the table for a second, wondering just how bad it would be if I skipped school. I haven’t been out with my spray can in a couple days now, not since Lucy handed in her dumb resignation, and my fingers are itching to light Michelle Teller’s house up with color.

Two days back at school, and I’m already sick of it. This year cannot end fast enough.