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flat voice. “I’m right here.”
    “Then why didn’t you call us back?” Moms asked. “Don’t you check your machine? I think it must be broken.”
    “The machine’s fine. I’ve been busy.”
    “Are they giving you too much work? It’s not good to work too hard. You have to take breaks. At least it’s Friday and tomorrow you can come home. How does that sound? We’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, then we can go clothes shopping. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
    “I hate shopping.”
    “I think you need sweaters,” Moms continued. “It’ll be cold soon.”
    “I don’t need sweaters.”
    “Honey, you can’t go around wearing ripped-up clothes. You look like a bum. Tomorrow morning we’ll pick you up and get you something nice. And then we can chat.”
    “Chat?”
    “About things . . .”
    “What things?” I asked, playing dumb.
    That stumped her. The phone crackled, then my dad cleared his throat. He must have been on the bedroom phone listening in. My parents always did that — they’d both be on the line, but only Moms would talk. I could picture her pinching the cordless between her head and shoulder, giving my dad a frustrated look while mouthing
Say something.
    “James, we got a phone call,” Dad grumbled, breaking his customary silence. “Mr. Hassert explained that you were involved in a disturbing incident.”
    “It wasn’t disturbing.”
    “Then why did they call us?” pounced Moms, like a professional wrestler tagging in. “I mean really?”
    “It’s no big deal,” I said. “Hassert just doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
    “And now there’s this hearing. We should be there.”
    “No. Definitely not.”
    “But they called us,” she repeated.
    I scrambled to change the subject. “Look, about this weekend, I’ve got a lot of work to do. There’s a chemistry study group and I need to get notes.”
    “Wouldn’t you rather come home?”
    “I can’t.”
    Moms paused. “What’s wrong with you?”
    “Nothing’s wrong.”
    “You don’t sound right to me.”
    “What am I supposed to say to that?” I asked. “I mean, really, do I sound ‘right’ now?”
    “No. You don’t.” She addressed my dad: “Does he sound right to you?”
    “How about this, Mother? Is this better? It’s lovely weather out.”
    “Honestly, you don’t sound like yourself,” she said.
    “Too bad. This is me.”
    “Okay, okay,” Moms replied. “So when should we pick you up? Tomorrow night? That doesn’t make much sense. If you come home tomorrow night and leave Sunday afternoon, that’s hardly worth the drive.”
    “I can’t miss this study session,” I lied.
    “You want us to drive all the way out there and pick you up tomorrow night?”
    “No. I have to write a paper on Sunday.”
    “But . . .”
    “I can’t help it,” I said. “I have a ton of work to do. Lots of kids aren’t going home.”
    Moms fell silent. After a few seconds, Dad chimed in, giving it one more shot. “What your mom’s trying to say is that we’d like to see you this weekend.”
    “That’s right,” Moms exclaimed. “We want you to be with us.”
    “I know. I just can’t go home right now.”
    “You’re acting very strange,” Moms said, but the wind had gone out of her sails.
    “I have to go.”
    “I think they work you too hard. You need to take breaks.”
    “Bye.”
    “James . . .”
    I hung up before she could say “wait” or “I love you” or any of that stuff. A low buzzing filled my head. I should have felt guilty for being such a lousy son, yet I didn’t feel anything.
    Some guys laughed in the hallway outside my door. Since it was a Friday, we didn’t have to be in our rooms until midnight. Normally, I would have headed out to join them, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with people anymore. Instead, I went to sleep.

“SIT ANYWHERE, HONEY,”
said a waitress in a powder-blue dress.
    I was in a diner. The comforting smell of coffee filled the air while voices murmured and