We are in the kitchen now, sitting on top of the granite countertops eating Little Caesars, which Well ordered with his dad’s credit card. He moved his jack-o’-lantern inside “for ambiance” as he put it, and it’s winking at us from the top of the stove. Well has loosened his corset, so now it kind of looks like a cowboy’s vest.

“The real question,” Geneva says, looping a string of cheese onto her finger and into her mouth, “is do you think she’ll catch Mary Katherine making out with Evan in the costume closet?”

“Really?” Am I the only one who misses these things?

“Oh come on, Lou. You’re telling me you haven’t noticed them texting during class?” Jacob says, which is maybe even more surprising than Mary Katherine and Evan kissing. Jacob doesn’t notice anything that doesn’t come pixelated on a screen.

“But they’re only in eighth grade,” I add. Geneva gives me one of her “did you just crawl out from under a rock” looks. My face flushes red. That’s what I get for spending the last year with only Mom for company.

“Can we not talk about theater for thirty seconds,” Jacob says now, flipping his laptop toward us. “Because this is classic.”

We watch a cat hop up on a toilet, squat, do its business, and then turn around and flush. Cat videos on YouTube are another cultural gap I’m just now starting to fill in.

“Niiiiiiice,” Tucker says, tipping an entire packet of Parmesan cheese in his mouth. How could anyone possibly be hungry after forty-two hot dogs?

“That’s disgusting,” Well says to Tucker, who laughs and then coughs out a puff of cheese dust.

We hear the front door open, followed by a slam. A second later footsteps march toward the kitchen.

“Get down. Get down off the counter!” Well whispers. “Tucker, put a coaster under that glass!”

We all slide off the counters, but then we don’t know where to move, so when Well’s dad rounds the corner, we are standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen with half-eaten slices of pizza in our hands.

“Maxwell, what is this?”

Well’s dad is not what I pictured. He is tan and short and muscly in a too-tight plaid shirt and alligator boots. He looks like a country music wannabe. And nothing at all like Well. I catch a whiff of his aftershave. It smells like car freshener.

“We, uh, just ordered some pizzas, Dad.”

“Not the pizzas, son. The getup.” He points a finger at Well’s dress and the heels he has slipped off but is still standing next to. Well tugs at the edges of the corset, like a too-small blanket. The kitchen is deafeningly silent.

“We were watching Hocus Pocus. It’s a theater thing,” he explains. But his dad is already shaking his head.