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minute. An early-nineties model Fairlaine and Commodore swung around the corner and screeched to a stop. Two girls fell out of the back seat of the second car, but quickly recovered.
    “Brennyyy!” the blonde girl said. She looked only about a year older than me, and had a tank top on that stopped one inch above her bellybutton and a denim miniskirt, frayed around the edges.
    She jumped up to reach Brent’s neck.
    Liam and I stayed where we were. He kept his hands so deep in his pockets he slouched, and if my dress had pockets, I’d be crawled up inside them, too. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
    Brent greeted Blondie with a cool attitude, slipping an arm around her waist.
    The other girl, probably around the same age as her blonde friend, walked slower. I thought she couldn’t care less—maybe she was dragged here—but Brent licked his lips and visibly tensed as she neared him.
    The girl batted her eyelids. She had black, shiny hair and matching eyes. Her clear, fair skin glowed of class, whether she was or wasn’t well off.
    Brent’s fingers hung off Blondie’s waist, as if he’d forgotten she was there.
    “Hey, babe,” Model Girl said. She even sounded like Mariah Carey.
    “Hey.”
    And, just like that, Brent had two girls under his arms. Blondie and Model Girl slipped forward, presumably towards their cars, but Brent walked back to Liam and me.
    “Be good, huh?” Brent said, his ice blue eyes holding my gaze.
    “Yes, Dad.” I mimicked a whiny child, even going so far as to stick my tongue out at him.
    He pounced forward, caught my tongue in his fingers and said to Liam, “You both can go out with your mates or whatever, but take care of her . . . all right? She’s our family.”
    Liam smirked at me. “Yeah, but she’s ugly enough to ward off anyone dangerous.”
    Brent’s glare looked thicker than steel, warning him off any more funny business. He released my tongue, kissed me on the cheek, and punched Liam in the shoulder playfully. Then he slipped his arm back around his two favorite girlfriends.
    Brent still has that charm; the way my mother acts around him is proof. I’m not sure if he’s matured since those rebellious teen days, but he has the best heart. If I enjoyed company, I’d be sad I haven’t seen him in months.
    When Brent watches out for me, I don’t mind. It’s funny ‘cause I used to joke with him about acting like my dad, but I can’t joke with Liam like that. It’s simply not a joke.
    Please, God, let me get through tonight.
    • • •
    O n the way over, I play Ella’s favorite pop tunes. She sings a line; I try to top her by belting out the next one. Ella ends on a note of Whitney Houston proportions, proving who the deserving winner is.
    It’s just past five o’clock when we arrive outside my parents’ house. Across the front yard, Dad calls, “Kates!”
    I almost forget I’m outside their house until Ella runs past the passenger-seat window, charged like a new set of batteries.
    “Ella,” I yell behind her, “be careful, please.”
    She zooms ahead anyway, arms pumping. Dad greets her with open hands and equal excitement translated on his face. He sweeps her up, cuddles her into his chest, and from here, they share a silent conversation. Two happy, young souls.
    Dad’s silver hair sweeps up for a moment, his long forehead, straight nose—the Tom Cruise, I like to call it—and his gray eyes shine under the setting sun. His skin is paler compared to when he was younger, but even at seventy-one, he still easily passes for sixty. Especially when he clings onto Ella and slides her down his side.
    I hurl my bag into the first room once inside. This room, like the rest, is decorated with balloons and streamers, ahead of the arrivals. The hallway leading down the house seems to be half of its usual size due to the strange ornaments decorating it, half of which I haven’t seen in years.
    Inside the kitchen, Mom is scrubbing dishes. A pot boils on the