My old bike really is a piece of junk. Riding to Micah’s is a huge risk because I never know if the chain will fall off or the worn brakes will give out when I go down the big hill on the way to his house and I’ll end up in a ditch. Plus it’s way too small for me, so my knees rise up high when I pedal and I look ridiculous.

I climb on, and the seat is already set just right for me. Ivy looks genuinely excited. Usually when she smiles, it means she has set up some sort of prank, but on holidays like Christmas and my birthday, I can usually rely on her smile being genuine.

“Do you like the light on the handlebar? That’s my favorite. It’s why we had to wait until tonight to give it to you!” Ivy points to a flashlight she duct-taped to the handlebars.

I click the light off and on. “Yeah!” I ride in a circle around the driveway, the flashlight casting a yellow glow in the space a few feet in front of me, as they all watch.

“What do you think?” Ivy asks.

“It’s great!” I say. “I love it!”

After I ride around for a bit, my dad leads us out to the back porch, where my mom has hung my birthday banner after all. There’s a cake with lots of frosting, and a vase with wildflowers set in the middle of the table surrounded by homemade cards with funny drawings. There’s even a card from old Rainbow.

My thirteenth birthday is pretty good after all. Maybe the best one yet. I can’t wait to ride my bike to Micah’s and show it off.

That night, after I help clean up, I go to my room and lie in bed. A warm breeze drifts through my window. My parents’ bedroom is below mine and I can hear their bedtime voices from their open window, but not enough to make out what they’re saying. The sound steadily gets louder and eventually turns into one of their fights. A door slams, and footsteps pound through the house.

Ivy peeks her head through my bedroom door. “Did you hear that?” she asks.

“The sound, not the words,” I say.

“They’re fighting about money again.”

“What else is new?” I ask.

“I hate it,” she says.

“They’re just stressed — don’t worry. They still love each other.”

“They sure don’t sound like it,” she says. “They sound like they hate each other.”

“We fight all the time, and we don’t hate each other.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Sisters are supposed to fight and stuff. Not Mom and Dad.”

“It’ll be OK,” I say. “Try not to worry.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“I’ll worry for you, OK? Now go to bed.”