“No talking at school,” he says as he writes it down. “That way, nobody will talk about us, the only communication…” He puts a little dash underneath it. “…will be strictly stuff about homework, saying hi, and bye.”

I nod. It actually does make sense, self-preservation and all that. “That works, and it’s not like it’s hard since that’s how the last six months have been.”

Something flickers in his eyes before he clears his throat and looks back down. “Number two, we don’t tell anyone mom’s gone.”

“Agreed.” I nod. “That’s a bad look, after all.”

“Can’t be perfect without the perfect family,” he grumbles, then writes a number three.

I grab the marker from him and then lean in so I can write on the paper.

“Number three, the house is off-limits, rules don’t exist, only us.” I’m proud of the freedom I created until he stills and looks over at me.

“Are we sure that’s a good idea?”

“Are you sure it’s a bad one?” I counter quickly.

His eyes move to my mouth before he looks back down at the paper. “I guess it’s just a test anyway, right? We still have to survive the next twenty-four-hour disaster before we put this bad boy on the fridge.”

I smile so hard I think I freak him out.

“Why are you so happy about me putting rules on the fridge with a magnet from my mom’s yoga studio? It literally says namaste, not in a fun color, but what they call cucumber cool green. It’s supposed to be more relaxing, you see.”

“I’m more worried; how you know that?”

“Mom asked.” He laughs. “Only esthetically pleasing things near the food.”

My jaw drops. “You’re just joking, right?”

He shrugs. “It upsets the freshly squeezed juice, don’t even get me started on the milk…” He crooks his finger toward me, then whispers, “It spoils.”

I nearly shove him off the couch. “Now I know you’re full of shit.”

He throws his hands into the air laughing. “I shit you not. We had a family meeting about only saying positive things when we opened the fridge, something about how negativity makes the food go bad—it has feelings.”

I lift my Mountain Dew to my face and whisper, “I love you.”

This time Ambrose does fall off the couch onto the ground; he’s laughing so hard he looks like he might start crying. “Holy shit, I meant food, not Mountain Dew. That shit is dead; it’s fucking formaldehyde!”

“TAKE IT BACK!” I yell, throwing a pillow with my free hand. “YOU HURT ITS FEELINGS!”

“DID NOT!”

“DID TOO!”

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING!”

“MOUNTAIN DEW MAKES ME UNREASONABLY AGGRESSIVE!”

He stills and then puts his hands behind his head. “Oh? Is that so?”

“Not. One. More. Word. Especially with that suck-my-dick look on your face!”

His jaw drops. “That’s an extremely inappropriate thing to say to your foster brother.” Ambrose puts a hand on his chest. “I’m almost horrified.”

“First off…” I chuck him with the pillow again. “…that’s what every boy does when he wants bad things—“