“Oh, wait!” Ginger jumps up as I’m unfolding my napkin. “I forgot the juice!” She seems frazzled, or maybe this is how she always is. I study her as she walks toward the kitchen island. I know she’s three years older than Mom, but she looks so much younger. Her hair is more orangey than red in this light. I think it’s natural. And there’re no lines around her eyes.

I start to take a forkful of eggs, but then I hear it. Whir-whir-buzzzzzzz. Whir-whir-clink! It’s the blender. I drop my fork on the floor, spilling goopy eggs all over the nice rug. I grab my napkin and duck down to try to clean it, but the blender is still going and I have to stop and plug my ears. It goes on and on and on, and I am still under the table. I see Dan’s knee bouncing in his chair, but he doesn’t lean down and look at me. I want to cry. It’s embarrassing, but it also hurts. That’s what nobody gets. The sounds actually hurt, like knives someone is throwing at me.

And then it stops. Very slowly, I get up and sit back down. My face is hot, and I can tell Dan’s watching me but pretending not to. Please don’t let me have ruined their rug. Ginger comes in without a clue and hands me a glass of blood-red juice.

“Fresh tomato juice! Full of vitamins!”

Clumps of seeds and pulpy chunks are floating on the top like algae on a pond. I want to crawl back under the table. She waits until I take a teeny-tiny sip before she sits.

We eat mostly in silence. I push my juice to the farthest corner of my place mat. Dan tries to talk to me about Chickering Academy, the middle school I’ll be starting, but I don’t want to think about that yet. I’m still hoping all of this will be over before Monday.

I hear a bump and then another, and the dishes on the table rattle. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from until Ginger says, “Dan,” in that voice you use to wake someone up from a bad dream.

“What? Oh sorry, I’ll stop.”

Apparently, Dan’s knee-bouncing is a regular thing. Mom used to hate it when I jiggled my legs on long drives. She said being still was a skill. But the wiggling was (and still is) soothing, like letting out little flares of nervous energy. I study Dan across the table. He’s all elbows and glasses and ears. He’s exactly like a kid with too much energy. I wonder if I’m supposed to call him “Uncle” Dan. I hope not.