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get me used to the idea.
Dad’s new wife. Dad’s new wife. Dad’s new wife.
Talk about three words that don’t fit together.
    “Call me Jessie,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. The fact that she existed at all had come as a surprise. I hadn’t even realized my dad had started dating. He had been traveling a bunch—pharmaceutical conventions, he claimed—and I hadn’t thought to question him, even though he had never before taken a work trip. I figured he was using work the same way I was using school: as a way to forget. I was excited to be home alone for those weekends. (Did I take advantage and throw big parties, where kids sipped beer from red Solo cups and left piles of vomit on our lawn? Nope. Scarlett slept over. We made microwave popcorn and binge rewatched old seasons of our favorite shows.)
    Then one day my dad came home and said this whole thing about having fallen in love and I noticed he had a new ring on his finger. Cold and shiny. Silver: a bitter medal. Apparently, somehow, instead of going to Orlando to learn more about Cialis, he had eloped to Hawaii with a woman he met on the Internet in one of his bereavement support groups. At first, I thought he was joking, but his hands were shaking, and he was half smiling the way he does when he’s nervous. And then came the long, terrible speech about how he knew this was going to be difficult, a new city, switching schools and all—this was the part he said fast, so fast that I made him repeat it to make sure I had heard him right. This was the part when I first heard the words “Los Angeles.”
    A step up, he said. An
opportunity.
A way to get us out of “our rut.” Those were other words he dared to use: “our rut.”
    I hadn’t realized we were in a rut. “Rut” seemed way too small a word for grief.
    He was tan, his cheeks pink from three days on a beach. I was still pale from the Chicago winter. My fingers probably smelled of butter. I didn’t cry. After the shock wore off, I cared a whole lot less than I thought I would. Sometimes, when Scarlett says I’m strong, I think she really means I’m numb.
    —
    Rachel is one of those teeny-tiny women who somehow use their voice to take up a lot space. She doesn’t speak so much as announce things.
Call me Rachel! Tell Gloria if you want to add anything to the grocery list! Don’t be shy! She’s a whiz in the kitchen! I can’t even boil an egg! Pilates kicked my ass today!
    I find her exhausting to be around.
    Today’s announcement: “Family dinner!” Until now, I’ve mostly avoided sitting down with everyone at the dining table. Rachel’s been busy working late on a new film—an action-hero slash sci-fi feature called
Terrorists in Space
—that she promises is “going to kill it at the box office!” On nights my dad’s not out to business dinners with Rachel—“Schmoozing is key!” she likes to pronounce—he’s been glued to his computer looking for a new job. Theo goes out a lot too, mostly to Ashby’s house, where they steal her mother’s Zone Delivery meals.
    I tend to eat in my bedroom. Usually peanut butter and jelly that I’ve bought myself, or ramen with an egg. I don’t feel comfortable adding to Gloria’s shopping list. Gloria is the “house manager,” whatever that is. “Like family!” Rachel pronounced when she introduced us for the first time, though in my experience family members don’t wear uniforms. There also seems to be a cleaning crew and a gardener and various other Latino people who are paid to do things, like change lightbulbs or fix toilets. “Guys, get down here! We’re all having dinner together, whether you like it or not!”
    This last bit is said half jokingly, like:
Ha-ha, isn’t it funny that you two don’t actually want to be doing this? Sharing a house. Eating together. Life is hil-larious.
    Maybe I hate her. I haven’t decided yet.
    I peek out of my bedroom, see that Theo is making his way downstairs. He’s