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Irony is absent from his voice. “But man, I’m totally wiped, and totally screwed.”
    â€œScrewed? Why?”
    â€œSince Mike and I are both sophomores, the coach paired us as practice partners. But the kid’s the size of the Empire State Building,” Eric says with a grunt. “I mean, do you have any idea how hard it is trying to keep up with him on the court? I have to run three steps for every one of his.”
    â€œWell, at least you can take those steps.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNothing, never mind. Come on, you’re going to be fine. You know everything’s going to work out okay,” I say. “You’re a great player and you’re going to be an awesome member of the team.”
    â€œYou’re full of it.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œThanks,” Eric laughs. And I smile, happy for the assist.

    I decide to dedicate the following afternoon to routine self-maintenance: The hair needs help, the face needs exfoliating, and the developing mono-brow needs landscaping. But midway through plucking my eyebrows into what I hope is the right shape—not too thin and U-ey like a surprised clown, not too straight and thick like a Hitler mustache—the phone rings. Mom.
    She wants Lolly and me to meet her at 6:30 at You Say Potato . . . , one of the restaurants in the chain where she works as marketing manager. The office headquarters is based in the back of this particular restaurant, which more often than not means Mom comes home smelling like the day’s special entrée. You get used to the garlic and Italian seasonings after a while, but the rubbed smoke smell is still a tough one to stomach. I tell her we’ll be there. What I don’t tell her is that Lolly isn’t home, and though I don’t know where she is, my money’s on Jake’s car. If possible, Mom’s even less of a fan of Jake’s than I am, so there’s no need to serve up that can of worms pre-dinner. After hanging up with Mom I call Lolly, who answers on the last ring before voicemail.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Lolly asks. She doesn’t sound terribly interested in my response.
    â€œMom wants us to meet her at the restaurant for dinner.”
    â€œI’m not really up for that.”
    â€œCute, Lol.” I lean into the mirror to check on the arch of my brow.
    â€œI’m serious, Grace, I’m not going to go. It’s Friday night. Jake and I are going out.”
    â€œWell”—I wince as I pluck a few remaining stray hairs—“then you can call Mom and tell her you’re not coming yourself.”
    â€œOh, come on, it’s no big deal, Grace. Just tell her when you get there.”
    â€œShe’s mad enough at me already.”
    â€œYou owe me, little sister.” Lolly’s tone gets singsongy, a reminder that it’s time to pay up.
    You Say Potato . . . is situated in a small strip mall on Lancaster Avenue, next to a dry cleaner’s and a gourmet cheese shop. It takes about fifteen minutes to bike over, so I leave the house at 6:15 on the dot, not wanting to piss Mom off further. I walk through the restaurant toward the door marked “Private” at the back. This is the entrance to the room also known as “YSP Corporate HQ.” There are three other desks in the room, but Mom’s the only one still here, and her area is covered in paper, foam cups, and stacks of those oversized green and white computer printouts with the holes on the side, the ones that come from printers made in the dinosaur era.
    â€œHey, Mom.”
    â€œHi, Grace, ready for dinner?” She looks like she’s ready for a drink.
    â€œYeah, we eating here?” This is not quite as dumb a question as it sounds since Mom usually can’t wait to get as far away from this place as possible.
    â€œUnfortunately yes,” Mom says with a nod, “because I still have a lot left to do tonight before I