A lie. Yesterday was what I imagine it would be like to watch your house burn down, all of your childhood treasures and family heirlooms turning to ash and you just standing there helplessly watching it happen. Knowing that things are never going to be the same again. Knowing that you are going to have to live someplace else now.

But today I’m past being sad. Today I’m officially pissed off. Which is the opposite of okay.

Jenny nods obliviously, smiling like she’s relieved. “Well, I’m glad you’ve recovered. It would be no fun to be stuck in the hotel room when you’re supposed be out and about enjoying Hawaii.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “No fun.”

I debated playing the sick card again today. But last night was bad enough. I barely made it back to the room and into my bed before Mom arrived in full doctor mode, ready to diagnose and treat my mystery illness. I closed my eyes and pretended to be too sick to look at her as she took my temperature, felt my glands, and made me change into a clean shirt. (Apparently mine had a splattering of Hawaiian bacon BBQ burger on it.) Then she gave me a bottle of cold lemon soda she’d picked up at the gift shop on the way over from the convention center, and petted my head in a maternal fashion for a few minutes, and concluded her business by saying I needed rest. There wasn’t much to do for food poisoning except to make sure I didn’t get dehydrated.

“It’s best to let it run its course,” she instructed. “If you feel like you need to vomit, don’t fight it.” She emptied out the ice bucket and stuck it on the bedside table for exactly that purpose: puking. “You’ll feel better,” she said, “if you just get it all out.”

I wish that were true.

After she was gone again I closed the curtains, trying to not even glance in the direction of the door to the adjoining room, watched brainless TV for a while, and finally went to sleep. I woke up this morning still alone. Mom had moved Afton over to her room to share a bed with Abby. A precaution in case I had the stomach flu and not an incident with a bad hamburger.

Or a bad mother, I thought bitterly when Mom bustled in again and put her hand against my forehead.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

I knew that if I said I didn’t feel well still, she’d confine me to the room and examine me over and over again throughout the day. I’d have to keep lying and pretending that the mere sight of my mother didn’t fill me with revulsion.

I also didn’t want to be hanging out in that room a second more than I had to.