Blake doesn’t even look up at me as he sits down, sipping his drink angrily—if that’s even possible. His back is hunched over, almost caveman-like. It’s like the only thing keeping him from lashing out is, in fact, the drink in his hand.

“Okay, well, clearly I did so… Let’s talk about it.”

“I’d rather not.”

Still no gaze, no visual cues as to what I might have done. I sigh and sit, waiting. Ten seconds turn to twenty, twenty to forty, but still, Blake stands his ground.

I have to give it to him. Being as stubborn as he is? That’s not easy.

“All right,” I say. I give up, standing and pushing the chair in. “I’m just going to go. Hope you enjoy your dessert, or whatever, and your parents stop fighting.”

I don’t make it halfway through the dining room before the loud clatter of utensils rips through the air.

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

I turn to face him, arms crossed. I’ve dealt with people like Blake all my life, especially at school. Entitled kids who think the world revolves around them. Who think everyone in their life should be a mind reader, able to predict every thought they have.

I learned early on how to deal with people like that. I learned how to play the game.

“Well, if I did get it, I’d like to think I’d be able to help. But since you don’t think I understand, how about you explain it to me, hmm?”

He wipes his mouth angrily.

“It comes so easily for you, doesn’t it? Being successful, succeeding, people liking you.” He takes a step forward, his voice low. “You know, some of us actually have to work f—”

“Don’t.” My voice comes out ice cold. “Don’t you dare come and talk to me about how hard your life is.”

“Oh, are you going to tell me you have it harder? You’re going to compare your life to mine, because you think you know me just because you’re in my house?”

“I never said any of that!”

“You were about to!”

We’re inches apart from each other now. I’m not sure if Blake’s parents can hear us arguing, if they’re still so deep into their own debate that they don’t care, or if they can’t hear us at all. The only things I can hear are the blood pumping in my ears and Blake’s voice. They mix together like a war drum, each word, every pump egging me on.

“I don’t even know what you’re so angry about right now!”

“Of course you freakin’ don’t!” he roars, loudly enough for the room to shake. “You don’t know how lucky you are! To have a gift like this! To be chosen by my parents!