She shrugs. “I do sometimes have to transport kids, you know. Can’t ride my bike all the time,” she says, and then nods toward the porch. “Your mom’s up there. Take whatever time you need. She’s on a red-eye flight to California tomorrow night. This might be the last talk before your court date in a few weeks.” I look at Melissa in her black leather jacket and biker boots and wonder, not for the first time, how in the world she got into social services. But I’m glad she did.

Mom’s the one who called this meeting. At first I told them I couldn’t go, that I had rehearsal. But Andrea talked me into it. After the botched meeting at the Good Cup, I told her I thought Mom was one of my triggers, and she said I had to approach her like that, then. Find a way to cope, work on a strategy, like a five-second rule for Mom. “Because as with any trigger,” she said, “you can’t just ignore it and expect it to go away.” I beg to differ, but I guess we’ll see.

Mom agreed to meet wherever and whenever. She said she just wanted ten minutes. I don’t know what she thinks will change in that amount of time.

I walk up the steps and then down the long row of rocking chairs all decorated with Christmas bows and holly. My stomach is knotted into a complicated pattern of nerves. I briefly consider making a break for it, stealing Melissa’s car, and fleeing to Sonic.

Too late. Mom spots me from where she’s sitting in the very last rocker with two to-go cups in her lap. Her hair’s up in a high ponytail like a teenager. She looks tiny in that big chair.

I sit down next to her. She hands me one of the cups.

“Hot chocolate.”

“Thanks.” I hold it but don’t sip. Drinking it seems like giving in somehow.

“And look—” She pulls a green-striped candy cane from her pocket. “They had the spearmint kind. Your favorite.” She starts to hand it to me and then stops, like maybe that’s the wrong thing to do, and I realize she’s nervous. I’ve never seen her nervous in my life. My stomach unknots a little.

“So, Ginger tells me you’re in a play!”

“I’m not in the play. I’m helping direct. Wait. You talked to Ginger?” Since when have they made up? I grip the cup tighter. I thought Ginger was on my side.

“Yeah, we, uh, had a good chat. It was good. It’s been a long time.”

“Because you made it a long time.”

Mom kicks off against the porch to get her chair rocking and sighs. “Yes, because I made it a long time.”

“Because she wanted to help you, help us, get a fresh start.”