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party.
    “Hey, Nate, do you mind passing the mashed potatoes this way?”
    Nathan spooned out an overlarge helping of mashed potatoes before passing the bowl to Dad. “Here you go, Greg. They’re awesome.”
    “Anything your mother cooks is awesome,” Dad replied.
    Gag me
.
    “Oh, stop.” Sylvia laughed, and the tension I thought I’d seen in her face moments before vanished. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. I just wanted to see a problem with this arrangement. A gap. An imperfection. “You two are too sweet.”
    “Nate’s the sweet one,” Dad said. “I just agree with him and reap the benefits. It’s a wonderful job.”
    Nate
, I thought. They were buddies. Dad already fit in here, with this family. He was one of them.
    And I wasn’t.
    Looking around the table, I realized just how out of place I was. The Caulfields and Dad were smiling. They were all dressed in bright, happy, summery colors. And me? I’d been fixed with a permanent scowl. I liked cold colors—dark greens and blues. And, to be honest, I didn’t think I’d really been
happy
in a long time.
    “So, munchkin,” Dad said, suddenly noticing me. Thiswasn’t really Dad, though. He sounded more mature and fatherly than the real Greg Johnson ever did. It was like his newscaster alter ego was speaking to me. A show just for the Caulfields.
    My real dad was laid back. Outside of work, he was casual and uncensored and funny. He swore and sang classic rock songs he barely knew the lyrics to—especially after he’d knocked back a few shots on the beach. I wanted to know where that man was. I wanted to know what Sylvia had done to change him.
    She’d taken him away from me.
    “What do you think of the house?” he asked in the TV-Dad voice. “Is your room okay?”
    “Fine,” I lied, taking the bowl of green beans from Bailey.
    That was something else I didn’t get. This family-dinner thing. Dad ate his microwavable meals in front of the TV, usually watching ESPN Classic. At the condo, on the nights when he grilled, we’d eat outside while the radio blasted Jimmy Buffett and he and his girlfriend of the moment drank margaritas. Dinner meant scratching itchy summer mosquito bites and hiding the scraps of burned hamburger in my napkin to avoid hurting Dad’s feelings.
    “You’ll love Hamilton,” Sylvia said as she buttered a roll.
    I glared at her. This was all her fault. Sure, Dad should have told me about this, but if she hadn’t just barged into his life, putting on her flashy Martha Stewart–inspired song and dance, there wouldn’t have been anything to tell. I hated her.
    “Of course she will,” Dad said. “It’s a great place for teenagers, too, munchkin. Nathan, have you told Whitley about the Nest?”
    “I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
    “When can we go?” Bailey asked. “Can we go tomorrow night? Will you come with us, Whitley?”
    “Go where?” Her enthusiasm made me uneasy.
    “The Nest,” Sylvia answered, sounding stiff but still wearing that annoying smile. “It’s a little dance club for teenagers.”
    “They have bands and music and food,” Dad explained. “It’s a nice, safe, wholesome place for local teenagers to spend time. Sherri, Sylvia’s sister, says it’s packed with high school students every weekend. And during the summer, it’s open all week long. I told Nate he should take you and Bailey-Boop.”
    I cringed.
Bailey-Boop?
The nickname made me want to barf almost as much as Dad’s description of the Nest. A “wholesome” place to hang out? Seriously? Already I knew that this place would not be my scene. If there wasn’t alcohol to distract me from all this shit, I wasn’t interested.
    “So can we go tomorrow night?” Bailey asked Nathan across the table. “Please?”
    “That’s up to Whit,” he said.
    “Whitley,” I growled.
    I hated—and I mean
hated—
being called “Whit.” For Christ’s sake, my parents named me Whitley for a reason. If they’d wanted me to be