I go outside and knock on the car window. “Shove over,” I yell. “I’ll drive.” It’s a stone’s throw to Mrs. Varnick’s, but last time Mrs. Ivory almost hit like four trees on the way.

I peek in the window, but it’s not Mrs. Ivory. It’s Irene, sitting in the driver’s seat with her seat belt off, clutching a plastic baggie of what looks like dirt. “I thought you were Mrs. Ivory,” I say, backing away.

Irene opens the door. “I was just giving her a ride.”

Irene has come to claim her ring. My dad must have told her he was going to propose and now she’s here and she’s pissed. I want to turn tail and run, but I don’t even have real shoes on. Irene’s not like a marathon runner or anything, but I’m sure she could catch up with a kid running in flip-flops. I start toward the motorhome to barricade myself inside. But then Irene gets out of the car and spills the baggie of dirt on the ground.

“Shit,” she says.

I’ve never heard her curse. She looks like she might cry. I hadn’t noticed it before, but Irene kind of looks like my mom. At least like the one picture I have of my mom. That’s probably what my dad sees in Irene. I think about telling her this, but I don’t want to deal with her crying in my driveway. I’m not in the mood.

“It’s okay to spill dirt in the dirt,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s not like it can get any dirtier than dirt.” I wish I could make myself shut up, but the words keep tumbling. “I mean, it’s already dirt, right? There’s nothing—”

“It was coffee,” she says, walking up to the motorhome like the fact that I’m talking to her means she’s invited. “Your dad said you ran out.”

I walk in front of her and up the steps. I don’t slam the door in her face, but I figure if I don’t talk to her she’ll realize she’s not wanted.

“Could we make some tea?” Irene says, climbing in with her head down low, like she’s not sure the ceiling will accommodate her five-foot-two frame. “I was hoping we could sit down and have a talk.” She looks around, lingering on the dirty laundry piled on the passenger’s seat, my muddy boots on the floor, the pile of guitar pieces on the table, and I can feel her judging all of it. “Because you and me”—she eyes me like I’m dirty boots—“we’ve never really had a talk, you know?”