It won’t be. I know it. But I am going to play anyway. And everyone trying to take this away from me can fuck off.

“Whatever,” I say. Not even goodbye. My dad doesn’t notice, telling me he’ll talk to me Tuesday or Wednesday, like one of his clients. That’s what I am.

Whatever.

It didn’t take long for my mom to figure out that she could catch me. My dad must have told her we talked, because she called only a few minutes after. I let her go to voicemail. But she called again. She would keep doing this—I knew it.

Just before the second call fades to my voicemail, I catch it, taking a deep breath before I dive into a conversation where we pretend I’m not pissed, that she doesn’t think less of me, and that the only things on the table to talk about are Thanksgiving plans and beads.

“Hi, Mom,” I don’t have the energy for the fake voice, so I don’t put the effort into my greeting.

“Well, look who’s finally awake?” She sounds like one of those workout videos, where the person counts down the reps with so much enthusiasm that you start to think they might be high on speed.

“Yes, I’m awake. What is it, Mom? I have things to do.” I don’t have anything to do—my homework was done Friday afternoon, and Rowe is probably spending most of her afternoon with Nate. And I’m sure, somehow, Paige is also caught up on the Cotterman issue, so I’m looking at an afternoon of reading and MTV until Ty gets back.

“I was just making your flight plans for Thanksgiving. Your sister said she was okay with an early-morning flight, and I wanted to make sure it would work for you,” she says, knowing full well she already bought the tickets. I hate early-morning flights. You have to get to the airport before the sun is even up. But my mom uses Paige as our litmus test—if she’s fine with it, then the other child must be as well. We’re twins, after all.

“Early is fine,” I say.

“Good. You’ll be heading out at 7:50 a.m.”

“Fuuuuuck,” I moan. It just slipped out. It’s my attitude. I’m usually able to keep it in check, but I think maybe I’m just done—done with it all.

“Cassidy!” Here comes the scolding.

“Sorry,” I say, glad she can’t see me shake my head and roll my eyes.

“This is that Tyson fellow’s influence, isn’t it?” she says, not even disguising the judgment. I’m sure I can thank Paige for this. I don’t know why my mom acts like this. She’s a textiles designer who owns a bead shop—she’s borderline hippy. She’s supposed to be open, accepting, and not…well, not a snob!

“Paige told you about Ty, I see,” I say, sitting down on my floor with my back against my dresser. Might as well get comfortable.

“Well, it’s not like you tell me about your boyfriends,” she says, and I hear the little tone at the end of that statement too. Boyfriends—like I’ve ever had more than just this one.

“Mom, there’s just Ty. He’s it, and I like him. I like him a lot. You’d like him too if you’d bother to meet him in person—instead of the version of him that lives in Paige’s head,” I admonish.

“Oh, she didn’t say anything bad about him. She only told us that he’s disabled, in a wheelchair? Is that right?” she asks, like she even has to.

“Yes, Mom. He’s in a wheelchair. But I don’t even notice. He’s a physical trainer, and a grad student,” I start to launch into my list of all of Ty’s amazing qualities, but she’s not listening.

“Right, that’s what your sister said. He’s older,” she says, a special emphasis on that word.

“Yes, he’s older than me, but not by a lot. And that shouldn’t matter. Dad’s older than you,” by, like, ten years I continue in my head.

“Right, right. I know. It’s just…” I don’t like her pause. She’s mulling, and hemming, and hawing. “—with this Paul Cotterman situation, Cass…are you sure you need to be having an affair with another older man?”

Another. She used the word another.

“What do you mean?” I’m back on my feet, pacing. Pissed. On fire.

“Honey, maybe you shouldn’t be dating. Or, at least…maybe you should meet some of the boys in your class? You know, your age?”

I don’t talk at first. I make it uncomfortable. I use this time to choose my words. I have one shot at this, and then she’ll call my father, and then he’ll lecture me. Of course, I’m not picking up my phone anymore today, so it doesn’t matter.