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together. Becca’s never really learned how to do that for herself. So now, with Brit gone, she hasn’t even thought about having a social life. And she doesn’t realize that when she’s feeling sad or anxious, she’s actually lonely and in need of human interaction.
    Yes, psychology. It’s what I’m good at.
    I really owe Cassie and Ava everything, but honestly, I can’t deal with this shit today.
    “Man, if I knew you two were on the attack, I would’ve taken the bus home,” I snap at both of them. Then I close my eyes again.
    “I’m just worried,” Cassie says. Her voice cracks a little.
    “I know,” I whisper before falling asleep.
    At home, Dad is already sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of Jack. He’s aged about a decade since last year. It was exactly this time of day, exactly one year ago, when Mom left to pick up dinner and never came back.
    It was a special dinner for me—we’d heard that week that three colleges were interested in me and they’d be out scouting in the spring. I heard the guys talking behind my back, saying I was a waste of a scholarship, that I could hardly make it through high school, so how could I handle college?
    But Mom didn’t question it for a second. She insisted on celebrating. That was her deal. This calls for a celebration, she said regularly. And celebrate we did. Cassie got an A in lit. Celebrate. I got my driver’s license. Celebrate. Our furnace made it another winter. Celebrate.
    “What’s going on, Dad?” I ask as I make my way to the table. I pick up the bottle of Jack and raise an eyebrow. Dad’s made it a full year without losing it, though there were times I thought he was close. If Cassie and I didn’t still need him, I have no doubt he’d be a certified drunk by now.
    “Don’t start with me, Johnny,” Dad slurs. “Everyone deserves a day without judgment.”
    I take a seat next to him and his eyes beg me to keep quiet. This time, I comply. He does deserve it.
    “This is my day,” Dad says quietly, more to himself than to me. “This is my day.”
    We sit there, like that, not saying a word. Dad’s dirty nails strum on the table, and I’m sure Mom is rolling over in her grave at the sight. “Wash up,” she’d say each night, laughing as Dad would paw at her, his hands grubby from working at the shop all day.
    Now there’s nobody to say that to him. And none of that special soap Mom used to buy—the kind that could take off a layer of skin if you rubbed hard enough. So here he sits with dirty hands and a bottle of booze.
    “S’okay,” I say, patting his arm. Then I take a swig out of the bottle. “You can have your day.”
    As long as I can have one too.
    That’s how it is now. Dad has the bottle. Cassie has Ava. And I have Becca.
    I leave him there to drown in his booze and memories and go to my room to pack up my things for the night. I’m taking my day to remember Mom in my own way.
    The equipment I need for tonight rests on my bed in a neat little row. Becca told me to think of our plan as a game. There are no criminals and victims; no captors or hostages. We are simply opponents; competitors in a contest seeking justice.
    Strange—this does make it a little easier. I look over the rope, the Swiss army knife, the blanket, the track suit we bought from the Goodwill, cash, bottled water, first-aid kit, my gloves and disguise—checking each one off my mental list as I shove it into my backpack. The final item is waiting for me at the park, but first I have to stop at Poppy’s.
    I jump on my bike and head into the heart of Mexicantown. Poppy owns a little bodega there, and he’s expecting me. He knew my uncle Christopher before he was sent away. Chris used to watch Cass and me on weekends when we were kids. We’d spend long lazy days at the park, hang at the bodega, and run Uncle Chris’s many “errands.” Mom and Dad didn’t know about Chris’s “weekend job” until he got caught.
    Poppy has a name in the