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the arts and crafts! I found some bead workers—simply stunning. In fact, I keep forgetting . . .” She leaned down to get her purse and took out two small bags. After peeking in one, she handed it to my mom, the other to me.
    â€œEllen, this is beautiful,” my mom said, holding a delicate blue beaded bracelet up to the light.
    â€œI thought you’d like it,” she said.
    Mine was a chunky red-orange beaded bracelet, matching the necklace Ellen was wearing.
    â€œIt’s awesome,” I said, trying to fasten the clasp.
    â€œI’ve got it, Penelope,” George said, leaning over, and my heart fumbled around. A wave of his cologne made me feel swoony.
    â€œSo, Penelope, are you starting to think about college? Going to follow in the footsteps of your dad, another museum genius in the family?” George asked.
    I shoveled some spaghetti around on my plate. “I’m thinking more English or journalism. Words, I like them?” I ended uncertainly.
    Dad looked proud but vaguely confused, but I saw Mom smiling gently at me.
    â€œEphraim told us the other day he’s thinking of art school. Art school.” George scoffed. “He’s going to have to get a lot more serious about his work if that’s what he wants to do. And being an artist is hardly a way to make a living. Ellen knows that.”
    She smiled uncomfortably, knuckles white on her wine glass.
    â€œMore salad, anyone?” Mom said abruptly, holding out the bowl.
    â€œAbout Willo . . . ,” my dad started.
    I frowned at my plate and fiddled with my new bracelet, feeling protective of Eph’s drawings.
    â€œWhat’d I miss?” Eph asked, rounding the corner.
    â€œTheo and I have to get going,” George said, holding up his watch. “We’re going to be late for the staff meeting.”
    Dad groaned and dramatically pushed his chair out, grumbling under his breath about budgets and morons, stalking out of the room even more disheveled than when he came in, bread crumbs up and down his sweater, the red sauce stain on his collar.
    Mom sighed, a weary but affectionate sigh full of years of displaced crumbs and dinosaur lectures.
    â€œSee you later, Mr. Marx,” Eph called out.
    Meanwhile George slid on his blazer, bent down, and whispered something to Ellen in French, followed by “See you at home, El?” She nodded stiffly, and he gave my mom a kiss on both cheeks, and the smile on my mom’s face was all weird and awkward.
    â€œThank you for the amazing dinner, Jane.”
    â€œYou’re welcome,” she said in a too-loud voice.
    Eph grunted toward his dad, and I waved.
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    After another half hour of Kenya talk (safari stories) and reports on my mom’s class of fourth graders (sixteen boys and only five girls this year) and brownies (my specialty, with extra chocolate chips baked in), Ellen seemed more at ease and definitely tipsier.
    â€œWe should head out soon too,” Ellen said, reaching over to ruffle Eph’s hair.
    â€œMom,” he groaned, ducking under her hand.
    Ten minutes later I was handing Ellen her vintage green pleather coat (also totally badass and amazing), and my mom was giving Eph two packed Tupperware containers.
    She hugged him and moved to Ellen. Eph, meanwhile, looked at me and scoffed again. “Like I’d dump you. Absurd.”
    â€œI’m not being absurd.”
    â€œBy the way, you’ve got something back here,” he said, balancing both pasta tubs in the crook of one arm and leaning closer.
    â€œIf you belch in my face, I will murder you,” I muttered.
    But instead I felt the touch of his hand in the soft spot behind my ear, like he was going to pull out a magic quarter, the calluses rough against the unknown parts of me—and all the hair on my arms stood up, an involuntary shiver, blood singing.
    He placed a folded-up paper square in my