I collected all the pieces after he left. Every bit I could find. I mean, it’s not like I could glue them back into a guitar and have it work. I know that. I know. I just didn’t have the heart to throw them away.

“He doesn’t mean a lot of things, but that doesn’t put anything back together,” I blurt out before I remember that I’m trying not to talk to her.

Irene doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me like she’s measuring up everything about me to see if it’s good enough to even get close to her perfect self and her perfect son and her perfect church-going life. I was bored before, so I braided my hair into like eight or nine braids and I probably look like an idiot. Plus, I’m wearing my dad’s old plaid flannel, cinched at the waist with one of his cracked leather belts, and a pair of leopard-spotted leggings Margo gave me after she shrunk them in the wash. I wish I could excuse myself and change into something that doesn’t make me feel like a freak show, but I don’t want Irene to get it wrong and think I even care what she thinks.

I remember Irene from before she had anything to do with my dad. She was in high school when I was in elementary. She had the lead in West Side Story and danced on the stage in these red ballet slippers and after I saw it I used to twirl around and pretend I was her. Colored my sneakers with red magic marker and everything. She was beautiful and her parents were so proud they brought roses in that shiny plastic wrapping and her father ran up to the stage to give them to her when she took her bow. I don’t think it was too long after they found out she was pregnant with the boy and kicked her out of the house.

“Why are you driving Mrs. Ivory’s car?” I ask, pulling the rubber bands from my hair like I’m just fidgeting.

“Your dad bought it for me.” She looks kind of young when she says it, like a kid who just got a pony. It doesn’t occur to her that I can’t get my dad to buy me groceries voluntarily.

“You could sail to France in that thing,” I say, picking at the cracked inlay on my guitar neck.

“I know, right?” she says, giggling like we are girlfriends. “It’s three times the size of the Datsun.” She smooths hair behind her ear. “Duncan Ivory doesn’t want his mom driving anymore. He sold it to us cheap because I promised to take Mrs. Ivory to her appointments.”