Gwenie, on the other hand, squeals, “Mom’s home!” like it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her, instead of a reason to flee. I do not get her. She’s had it almost as bad as me this year, but she still likes our mother. Gwen logic makes no sense.

As soon as I park, Gwen jumps out of the car and runs toward the house. I put my head down on the steering wheel, where it seems to reside far too often these days, and give myself a pep talk before going inside.

My earlier conversation with May runs through my head—the fact that she accused me of having the luxury to not think about my mother strikes me as particularly ironic, given my current situation.

When I finally get inside, my mom’s chopping vegetables and my dad’s sitting at the counter. They’re chatting about the weather. It’s all so weird and Twilight Zone–y that my head is about to explode. What is happening with my life today?

“Hi, Zach.” My mom nods in my direction, but I ignore her. Instead, I watch my sister make a fool of herself, like she normally does when my mom appears in our home. She might as well be hanging off Mom’s back, she’s so up in her face, acting like a neglected puppy that’s finally getting some attention. I love my sister, but she really needs to work on keeping it together and playing hard to get with our life-ruining mother.

I grunt in response.

“Zach! My man. You eating here tonight?” My dad tries to give me a light punch on the shoulder like we’re buddies, but I step aside at the last moment and his fist whiffs through the air. I shrug.

My mom glances up from her chopping. “It would be nice if you did. I came home from work early so we could all catch up.”

“Yeah, sure,” I mumble. “Whatever.” Not like I have anywhere else to go.

“Great. Set the table, please.” My mother only speaks in imperative sentences.

“Already?” It’s four-thirty.

She looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “Yes, thanks.”

I flare my nostrils and consider saying no. I think about running out of the house and never coming back. Moving in with Conor or something, even though I know Conor’s home life is as shitty as mine, just in a different way, not that anyone at school would ever guess from how he dresses or carries himself. I decide it’s not worth it—the conflict, the drama of arguing with my lawyer mother—so I sigh and pull the silverware out of the kitchen drawer and start to set the table without a word.