“So,” Sawyer said to me in the midst of all this, “I hear you’re at Jackson High now. How are you liking it?”

“It’s good,” I said.

“My daughter Isley goes there,” he told me, helping himself to a small cracker and a very big slice of Gouda. “The teachers are good. The boys, though, trouble. Although I guess that’s the case wherever you are, am I right?”

“Um, yeah,” I said. My mother had gotten her social skills back, but mine were nowhere to be found. Apparently. “I guess.”

“She was dating this musician over the summer,” he continued. “Real blowhard. Walked around with a tuner in his pocket, yakking on about irony and nuance.”

That sounded awfully familiar. “What was his name?”

“Eric.” He sighed. “She came to her senses before it went too far, at least. If it was up to me, she wouldn’t date until college. But it isn’t up to me, of course.”

“Sawyer,” my mom interjected, putting a hand on his arm, “Michelle was just telling us about some really good opportunities for families to be involved at Lincoln.”

“I’m in,” said Ames right away. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know,” Sawyer said, taking a sip of his wine. “You have to be careful. It might be better for Peyton for there to be a clear line between his life there and this one.”

“Well, of course Peyton’s well-being is our top priority,” my dad added, and Ames nodded.

Michelle cleared her throat. “It’s been my experience that at Lincoln they are more progressive than some of the other institutions.” A pause. A long one. Then, right when I could tell my mom was about to jump in, she continued. “Their warden is new and came from out of state—New York, I believe. He’s got a reputation for being compassionate toward families.”

“Well, I hope that is the case,” my mom said. “But first I have to get him to return my phone calls.”

“You called the warden?” Sawyer asked, surprised.

“Well . . .” My mom looked at my dad, then at Michelle. “Yes. I did. After this latest infraction, we couldn’t get any information. And I felt that it was important—”

“Julie. This is prison, not PTA.”

“I know that,” she said, an edge of irritation creeping into her voice. She must have heard it, too, as she paused, gathering herself, before saying, “I just wanted to know what was going on.”

“Which is your right,” Ames told her. “They can’t just keep information from you.”

“Actually, they can,” Sawyer said, wiping some crumbs from his mouth. “Really, the best thing you can do for Peyton is let him serve his sentence with as little interference as possible. He needs to keep his head down and do what he’s told. It’s the only way he has a chance of any time being shaved off.”

“I’m not interfering,” my mother said.

“Of course you aren’t.” God, Ames was such a suck-up.

“It’s important for families to feel involved,” Michelle added. When we all gave her our attention, she blushed. “It’s better than helpless.”

“No offense, miss, but I’ve been working in the law twenty years. I’ve seen a lot of clients in this situation. There are things that make it harder, and things that make it easier.”

“I think we should have dinner,” my mom announced, getting to her feet. “Just give me a minute. Sydney, a little help?”

I followed her into the kitchen, where she yanked open the stove a bit harder than necessary. “You okay?” I asked.

“Of course.” She took off her pot holder, picking up a spatula. “I just think we have to explore all options, in and out of the box. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sawyer, however, disagreed, and continued to do so throughout dinner. He sparred with my mom, Ames, and a flustered Michelle while my dad kept his head down, eating the biggest slice of lasagna I’d seen him consume in recent memory.

“The basic fact,” Sawyer was saying at one point, long after I was done eating, “is that no matter what Peyton does, there’s always the truth of his case. The facts. You saw the paper this week, I’m assuming?”

“Let’s not—” my dad began.

“Totally biased piece,” Ames said.

“Biased?” I said. Now everyone looked at me. “How can you . . . It was all about that boy.”

“Yeah, but the way they wrote it.” He waved his hand, as if somehow this completed the thought and sentence. “I’m just saying.”

What was he saying? Never mind, I was sure I didn’t want to hear it.

“Of course we feel awful for that boy and his family,” my mom said. “But Peyton is our son. Our responsibility. We’ve got a duty to look out for him.”

That sounded familiar.

“You can only do so much now, Julie,” Sawyer said. “You need to accept that.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong,” she said simply. My dad and I exchanged a look. “Who wants dessert?”

It was, in a word, excruciating. After dinner, Ames went out to smoke while my dad took Sawyer up to his office to show him some new computer he’d just gotten. My mom and Michelle camped at the kitchen table with their coffees.

“Everyone that’s part of this process has a different viewpoint,” Michelle said to her, patting her arm. She seemed more comfortable now, one-on-one. “That’s why we need many voices. So we can have a conversation and keep it going.”