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home, they sat Ellie next to their four children and fed her Jell-O and slices of salami the dad had cured in the workshop out back. It was practically a story. Ellie imagined herself writing it out. Maybe she would try later. She kept trying to finish short stories, but the most she ever got was a few pages in before they seemed as lame and stupid as the pink baby-duck pajamas her mom had bought her. It was weird how good a writer she always thought she was until she actually tried to write anything.
    “Five . . .”
    Not knowing about Mom and Harrison hurt her feelings, that was all. She’d even asked her mom if anything had happened with him. Okay, Ellie hadn’t been that blunt—she didn’t say, “Did you fuck the neighbor?” which was what Vani probably would have said even to her own mother—but she’d very clearly said, “I don’t understand why you’re not going to hang out over there. Like you always do. Did something happen between you two?” The most important thing was to get her mom to start going over there again—as his friend—because sometimes Ellie felt like that hour or so her mother was out of the house was the only time she had to herself, ever. Every other minute of the day was consumed: by water polo practice in the morning, by the following seven periods of classes, then by homework at the study center her mom insisted was to help her learn study skills but Ellie knew was actually an expensive form of babysitting. Then her mother picked her up and took her home, where she had eyes in the back of her head. If Ellie was just lying on her back on the bed, her head hanging off, dangling toward the ground, Mom knew she wasn’t doing anything productive and would be standing in the doorway before she knew it, suggesting she clean her room or do more homework. When Mom was at Harrison’s, though, Ellie could sit and space out. Watch TV. Lie in the bathtub and consider the shape of her big toes—something was wrong with them, but she hadn’t beenable to figure out what it was. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Were they just a bit too long, or fat in the base, or . . .
    Her mother nudged her shoulder. “Four . . .”
    It was something to think about. She didn’t want her mom selling the house, no. But there might be pluses to this, if it happened. If Mom and Harrison lived together, they’d be too busy cooing at each other to notice what she did, right? And he had that whole third floor that he kept saying he was going to make into a separate apartment—maybe he would do that for her. That would be something. Sam and Vani would like that. She’d be the cool one, for once. They’d come spend the night, and she would lift a bottle of wine from Harrison’s stash, and they’d watch the R-rated movies Vani’s parents didn’t let her watch and text the boys that Vani had slept with, teasing them with boob Snapchats or worse.
    “Three . . .”
    Ellie had done that only once, and honestly, it had felt less weird pushing the send button than it had lifting her bra so Samantha could snap the picture of her breasts. Not like Eric or Jake would even know which girl was which (except for Vani—her bra size went along with her experience), but it was still weird. Sure, the photo was supposed to last only ten seconds before self-destructing, but what if it didn’t? What if Eric, who had built a working Tesla coil in his garage, had figured out how to get around the thing that disallowed screenshots, and a picture of her naked chest was out there? What if it
was
recognizable? What if it got into his parents’ hands and was then eventually identified and sent back to her mother with a note, “Please teach Ellie to keep her shirt on at all times.”
    She would just have to kill herself.
    “Two!”
    On one side, her mother clutched her hand. It kind of hurt. On her left, Aunt Mariana took her other hand, her skin cool and soft, reassuring as always. Together, they said,