“Congratulations,” says Max. “Where do you intend to go to university?”

Afton glances up from where she’s been texting someone under the table. Probably Logan again. “I’ve been accepted to Stanford,” she answers demurely. We’re lucky that way. Because Mom teaches as well as practices medicine at Stanford Hospital, getting into Stanford is kind of a given.

“Ah, so your mother will be able to keep her eye on you,” says Marjorie.

I try not to smile at the idea of Mom ever keeping her eye on Afton.

“Do you also want to get into medicine?” asks Marjorie.

Afton frowns, still texting. “No, I’m thinking pre-law.”

“And how about you?” Marjorie turns her attention to me.

“Oh.” I hate this question. I like a lot of things, and it’s so much pressure to try to choose just one. “I want to be an artist?” I say finally. “I mean, I am an artist. I work in charcoal, mostly, but I also sculpt and do watercolors and some oils and . . . So in college I think I want to study art, obviously, and maybe history, which is my other great love, so maybe that will turn into some kind of academic form of employment . . . but I also love reading, so maybe literature? I’m also thinking about getting into writing comics.”

“She’s only sixteen,” Mom interjects. “She has a few years to pick a respectable profession.”

By which she means a job that could make me some decent money. Like not-art, or anything creative or fanciful or that I actually care about.

“I want to be a diplomat,” chimes in Abby, and the whole table melts at her utter precociousness, and then the spotlight is blessedly off me.

I scoot my chair closer to Afton, who puts her phone away with a sigh. She looks bored. “See any cute guys?” I ask quietly as the conversation at the table moves on to medical topics again.

She drops her chin into her hand. “No. I’m sorry Michael’s not here.”

I’m not sorry. The last thing I need is Afton suggesting that I sleep with a much older college boy who happens to be the son of my mom’s closest colleague. Not that such a thing would even be possible. Michael Wong’s way out of my league.

But then, I think, so was Leo. Maybe that was the real problem all along.

“I thought you didn’t approve of college boys,” I remind Afton.

She tugs her hand through her long waterfall of pale hair and settles it over one shoulder, her expression neutral. “He just graduated, so he’s not a college boy anymore. And have you ever taken a good look at Michael Wong’s ass?”

“Uh, no, can’t say that I have.” It feels wrong, reducing a person to the state of their backside.

“It’s perfection. Too bad for you, Ada. Michael would be the perfect rebound.”