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Especially if you’re a human,” I pointed out, but she just glared at me over her shoulder.
    â€œAnd I might as well buy an old-maid dress,” Vega piped up. “Because I will never love anyone again!”
    I was tempted to ask what an old-maid dress looks like but decided against it, given that she had disengaged her hand from the Bacteria’s, so I knew this was serious business. Vega covered her face with both of her hands and ran out of the room, her sobs muffled and snotty sounding in her palms.
    â€œVega!” Mom said, and rushed out after her. Dad, the Bacteria, and I took turns picking at things—the carpet, a napkin, a hair tuft—and pretending that none of that had just happened.
    Finally, Dad cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose that didn’t go exactly as I planned,” he said.
    â€œDude, whoa.” The Bacteria stood up. “I should go.”
    â€œYes, that would probably be wise. From the sound of things, Vega isn’t going to be very good company for tonight.”
    â€œYeah,” the Bacteria said, edging around the coffee table. “Bye.” He started toward the door, then at the last minute, darted back, snatched up the last three pieces of banana bread, and took off. “Yum,” he said, just before closing the front door behind him.
    There’s a saying that my Grandpa Muliphein once taught me. It goes, “Still waters run deep.” He told me that meant that sometimes people who don’t say very much are thinking a whole lot and are very smart, so you shouldn’t ever judge a quiet person to be a dumb person.
    I’m pretty sure Grandpa Muliphein had never met the Bacteria.
    With my sisters locked in their rooms and Mom racing back and forth between them, trying to console them, it was just Dad and me left in the living room. Dad and me and the
hum-whoosh
of the dishwasher in the kitchen.
    And there was something about that
hum-whoosh
that made it really sink in what had just gone on. My sisters weren’t just being their typical dramatic selves. They had a point. This was sort of a big deal.
    We were moving.
    Moving.
    Away from … everything. Away from our
hum-whoosh
ing dishwasher and away from the stop sign on the corner that rattled when the wind blew and away from Comet’s peed-onswing-slash-nemesis. Away from Priya and Tripp and Liberty Middle School with its awesome pizza and its baseball diamonds where I played Little League until we all realized that I was much more likely to use a baseball to make a model of the solar system than to actually hit with a bat. Away from the tornado slide at my old elementary school, even though I hadn’t slid on it since second grade when Mattie Frankelberger pushed me off the top step to see if I could really fly into space. Away from Mattie Frankelberger. Which, okay, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, even though she now went by Matilde and wore colored stripes in her hair and could play the drums like nobody’s business. She still had pushy-looking hands. Away from seventh grade, which was supposed to be my best year yet.
    And, especially, away from CICM-HQ and the sparkling Liberty skies.
    â€œDad?” I asked.
    He didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead.
    â€œDad?” I repeated.
    He blinked. “Huh?”
    â€œIsn’t it, like … really bright in Las Vegas?”
    â€œVegas,” he repeated softly. “You’ll love Vegas.” Which, obviously, was not an answer to my question.
    â€œI mean, I’ve seen Vegas in movies and stuff and aren’t there a lot of lights?”
    â€œNo, they may not have a Mitchell in Vegas, but is that really a bad thing?” He focused on me for a second. “Is it, Arty? Is no Mitchell a bad thing?”
    I shrugged. “More banana bread for the rest of us, I guess.”
    â€œExactly!” Dad clapped once. “There will be more banana bread in Vegas! Not exactly sure