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too.
    â€œHow’s that sound, Cassie?” Mom says, and I say, “Great,” even though all I want is a small place where I can be alone and no one will look at me or talk to me or touch me. A tree house. A cave.
    Everyone is chewing and not talking and the ice in Mom’s glass clinks when she drinks and for some reason I think about how my dad and I have the same IQ, how I had to take that test answering stupid questions and putting triangles together, how Mom’s always telling me, “You and your dad have the exact same IQ,” like it’s magic, like it’s something to be proud of even though I did nothing to earn it. “It’s hard work that gets you somewhere, not your IQ,” Dad always says. “See where smarts got the rest of my family. A goddamned trailer park.”
    Mom’s looking back and forth at me and Dad with this hopeful look on her face, waiting for some sign that thisdinner is working, that it was worth her changing out of her sweatpants and doing her hair.
    I say, “Excuse me,” and go to the bathroom because I have to get out of the room with the silence and the spaghetti and the smell of cigars and the sound of Mom’s ice cubes. I lock the door and look in the mirror and the green light brings out the bags under my eyes, makes my cheekbones look sharper. I don’t look like a slut. That’s not it. I look tough. I look like I could do anything. I could hurt people.
    When I come out, Mom’s standing outside of the bathroom door real close. She looks sad and I’m thinking maybe she’s come to make me feel better. Maybe she’s going to tell me to pack our things, we’re leaving. Maybe she’s finally had it. It can be just her and me. Somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows us.
    â€œWhat?” I say.
    â€œYour dad’s going to do some work in the bedroom.”
    â€œSo?” I say, trying to sound like I don’t care, like I don’t want her to do something like ask me how I feel.
    She looks nervous and doesn’t say anything. “What, Mom?”
    â€œI just wanted to make sure . . . Well, you always seem to go to the bathroom after you eat. And the doctor on the talk show said—”
    â€œJesus, Mom, I’m not bulimic.” That’s what she’s worried about. That’s the only thing she’s worried about.
    She looks embarrassed, like she wishes she had said nothing, had just stayed sitting at the kitchen table all by herself with her drink and her ashtray and the remote control. All of a sudden, I am exhausted. I don’t even care that it’s Friday night and the only friend I have is mad at me, that I’m stuck at home with parents who think I’m a bulimic slut.
    â€œDo you have plans for tonight?” my mom asks.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you want to watch
A Chorus Line
with me?”
    â€œWhatever,” I say. I try to sound tough, but my voice cracks. When I think about it, watching cheesy musicals with my mom doesn’t sound so bad. When I was little we used to choose characters out of movies and do all their parts. Sometimes I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. The trick is being quiet enough so Dad doesn’t get pissed off and tell us to shut up.
    â€œI’ll be Morales,” I tell my mother.
    â€œWho am I going to be?” she says. She always wants to be Morales, too. Because Morales is tough. Because she doesn’t take shit from anyone.
    â€œYou can be that gay guy who breaks his ankle,” I say.
    â€œHe doesn’t have any good songs.”
    â€œBe the girl who sings ‘Tits and Ass,’” I tell her.
    â€œMe? No way,” she says, but she seems flattered.
    We stand there for a second, trying to not look at each other. “Mom?” I say, almost whispering, like I’m afraid someone will hear me, like Alex will hear me, even though I know she’s already downtown by now, somewhere