“Mom, Muir. Muir, Mom. We’ll be in my room, okay, thanks!” Kira gestured for me to follow and took the steps two at a time.

“Hello!” I smiled at her mom and followed Kira, unsure of the protocol.

“Muiriel,” her mom called to me. “It’s so nice to meet you! Can I get you something to eat or drink?” I walked back down the stairs to shake her hand. From the landing above, Kira sighed.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, feeling Kira’s impatient urgency. “Thank you for having me.”

“Francine is family, so you are, too. We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Mom,” Kira said. “We’ve got to get ready.”

“Kira’s dad and brother are in Tacoma tonight for a soccer tournament,” her mom told me, “but they’ll be so excited to meet you.”

“Mom.” Kira sighed.

“Francine’s been really nice,” I said, flushing bright.

“Oh, good.”

“Your paintings are beautiful.” And they were. Ink and watercolor images washed in clouds of color and texture. Kira sat miserably on the top step.

“Aren’t they?” her mom said. “They’re Kira’s.”

“Okay, thanks, Mom—”

“We’ve been begging her to get back in art class. Maybe you can talk her into it?”

“Oh my God, Mom!”

Her mom smiled at me like, Oh, that Kira. “You girls have fun tonight; tell me when you go. Back by eleven, right, Kira?”

“Eleven, we got it, bye!”

We passed another really striking canvas on the way to her room, where she shut the door and fell onto her bed. “Sorry,” she said. “I get embarrassed.”

“She’s so proud of you.”

“She is. Sometimes she’s just…a lot. Parents, you know.”

I put my bag on a chair.

“Oh Jesus,” she said. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, and don’t be,” I said. “I’ve had, like, twenty sets of parents. ‘Nice but a lot’ is a common variety.”

“Muir.”

“Kira. Seriously, it’s okay.”

Her room was under an eve, the roof slanted over it, and it was furnished as minimally as the rest of the house. Big bed, like the one in Francine’s attic, shelf of books, dresser, and an easel featuring a canvas primed and painted all shades of pink. Surfboard in the corner.

“Twenty sets?” she asked. “Including yours?”

“Never had any in the first place. So, twenty in eighteen years of foster care isn’t so much.”

She sat on her bed, deflated. “Seriously. I am so sorry I said that.”

“Okay,” I said, and sat beside her, “but there’s nothing to be sorry for; there’s nothing to be sad about, and this is my first party, so you have to convince me that going is a good idea.”

She brightened. “It is a good idea. We are going.”

I stood and turned to take in her room. “I love your house. Not a lot of…stuff.”