I throw it on the floor as hard as I can and race up the stairs before they can yell at me for being so awful. I slam my bedroom door and pace back and forth, looking for something to throw again, or hit or kick or something. I know I’m acting like a spoiled brat. Not many kids in the world have their own bedroom, let alone live in a house. But right now it hurts anyway. Right now I don’t want to think about all of that. I just want things to stay the same.

The cat jumps off my bed and runs to my door and meows to be let out. I quietly open the door and then shut it again. Even George doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. I can’t blame him, really.

I sit on my bed and take deep breaths, like Micah had me do earlier, but it doesn’t help. I’m not anxious; I’m mad. Why couldn’t my mom just get a different job when they cut her position at the library? Why couldn’t my dad change jobs when real-estate sales got so hard and he stopped making enough commissions to get by? Why couldn’t they do more instead of just waiting to run out of money and lose everything?