More parents walk in and teachers, and, as awesome as it is, it’s a little much. I ease my way toward the bathroom, where it’s quiet and thankfully doesn’t smell like vomit anymore. I’ve just pulled back on my assistant-director gear—black jeans and sweater—when the door opens. It’s Ginger and Dan… and Mom.

“Lou, you were great! I didn’t know you were going to be onstage,” Ginger gushes. Dan shoots me a double thumbs-up. They’re grinning like I just won an Oscar.

I turn to Mom. It’s instinctual to wait for her reaction after a performance. This is what we do. This is how we work. She’s in a white T-shirt and plain gray blazer that I recognize as Ginger’s. Her hair’s up in a twist. She looks nice.

“I thought you left.”

“My flight’s not until eleven. I wanted to see this show my baby was directing.”

“I wasn’t supposed to go onstage.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“And you were a star.”

I don’t smile.

“It was a one-time thing. I just did it to help my friends.”

“Yes, but you nailed it, baby! Just think what you could—”

“Stop!” I yell, because it’s the only way to make her listen. “Just stop!”

I push through the door and out into the lobby and out again onto the snow-dusted lawn behind the dining hall. I sit down on a picnic table and wrap my arms around myself. My new jacket’s back in the bathroom. I breathe fast in little, uneven huffs. Leave it to Mom to ruin this for me.

I hear steps crunching over the frozen grass behind me. Someone puts a hand as gentle as a feather on my back. I know it’s Mom without looking, because even as upset as I am, my body still accepts her touch.

“Lou—”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Lou, I’m sorry.”

She sits down next to me and hands me my jacket.

“You’re always sorry. It never changes anything.”

I pull the jacket over my shoulders and let it be the thing that knocks her hand away. She starts wiping snow off the picnic table like it’s her job to clean it.

“You’re right. My apologies aren’t worth much. But, baby, I just got so excited! And I am trying. I’m not good at having to share you. It’s been you and me against the world for so long.”

“But I don’t want that anymore.” I sniff and look for something to wipe my nose with. Mom hands me a tissue.

“I know,” she says finally, and she rubs her knuckles. They’re cracked and dry.