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followed quickly pushed that thought out of my head.
    They think I put on a show in the cafeteria? If only they could see this scene. That would really give them something to look at
. I closed my eyes, as if that could shut out the image of all those faces staring at me. People never looked at you the way you wanted them to. Classmates you daydream will someday watch you with admiration as you blow a tune on the sax in some kick-ass rock band only stare with sympathy; a dad you imagine will look at you with praise instead spreads his face with disappointment; and the girl you hope will gaze at you with love in her eyes looks away entirely.
    I was confused by Anna’s reaction to the cafeteria confrontation. My Anna had something to say about everything and never hid her feelings. My Anna wouldn’t have averted her eyes and let Jeremy Strong speak for her. I resolved to pull Anna’s version of the story out of her when we talked online that night.
    The decision finally gave me something to do besides hit another drive-through. I slammed the car door, locked out the scene of my own mess, and drove home.
    I cut the engine and rolled to a stop in front of one of our four garage doors. I was as stealthy as possible as I exited the BMW and opened the front door; it barely whispered as I pulled it shut behind me. But I couldn’t keep the steps from creaking under my bulk, and halfway up, my mom’s voice startled me from the foot of the staircase.
    â€œWhat are you doing home?”
    I kept climbing.
    Her footsteps followed me. No creak beneath her tiny frame, of course.
    â€œIs everything okay? Are you sick?”
    I didn’t have room for this. How was I supposed to comfort my mom when I couldn’t even comfort myself? I reached my door just in time to turn the lock before my mom’s hand hit the knob on the other side.
    â€œAre you sick?” she repeated through the door.
    I picked up my sax and played a few notes in response. It was a song I played often when I was down. I knew Mom would recognize it and know I needed time alone. The message got through. She didn’t say anything else, but knowing my mom, she probably stood there in the hallway until the song was complete and didn’t leave until I started a new tune.
    Half an hour later, she tried a soft knock at the door. I didn’t answer but lowered my sax. I was getting tired anyway.
    â€œI called school,” she said. “I explained you weren’t feeling well and that next time you’ll see the nurse before leaving without permission.”
    Shouldn’t she have been mad at me? Shouldn’t I have been grounded or something?
    â€œAnd if you need a break, I made you a snack.”
    Of course. A snack.
    I imagined my mom sometimes like a doctor treating a dying person in a hospital. There’s nothing left to do to save that person, but the doctor can “make him comfortable.” MaybeMom saw where I was headed better than I did, and she was just trying to make me comfortable.
    â€œBaby, did you hear me? I have a snack for you.”
    Comfort food.
    I blew a loud, low warning note in response.
    â€œIt’s just apples.” Her voice was small. She knew food had been the wrong medicine this time.
    Two more notes—the prelude to a raucous big band tune I loved.
    â€œI’ll just leave them on the floor here outside your door, if you get hungry.” Then she was gone again.
    I pictured the plate of food on the floor, like a meal on the other side of a starving inmate’s prison bars. The image stirred something inside me—the glimmer of an idea—but I pushed it aside, along with my sax. She was right. I did need a break, and Anna would probably be home by now.
    I perched my laptop on my middle and steeled myself for Anna’s account of the cafeteria incident. I was sure she was just dying to tell “J.P.” all about it.
    I was right. As soon as I logged online, Anna was