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actually. Maybe nothing.
    That night Mom took Kennedy and me to the movies. I don’t remember very much about it, except that Mom called it a “chick flick” and said it was “just what the doctor ordered.” (“Is somebody sick?” Kennedy asked worriedly, and Mom just laughed and kissed her on the nose.) For dinner we ate chocolate—boxes of Milk Duds and Raisinets and a big bag of Tootsie Rolls. But we weren’t messy; we threw away every bit of our trash. Mom had spent too many hours in theaters to let us be disrespectful of the cleanup crew, she said.

Completely Bonkers
    At first Emma’s mom stood there in the kitchenette looking stunned. Everything about her was so straight and perfect—her shoulder-length blond hair, her white teeth, the tiny cables on her turquoise sweater—but she had this twitchy look on her face like, Okay, Trisha, don’t panic, you can handle this.
    â€œIs this a birthday party?” she asked, trying to do a good-sport smile. “Is it Kennedy’s?”
    â€œNuh-uh,” said Kennedy, still chomping on a Twizzler. “My birthday’s in August. I just had it three months ago.”
    â€œSo then . . . it’s Marigold’s?”
    I glanced at Mom. She shrugged like, Hey, don’t look at me.
    â€œNot yet,” I said.
    â€œThen yours, Rebecca?”
    â€œCall me Becca. And no, it’s not my birthday, thank you very much. I’m in no hurry for another one.”
    Mrs. Hartley’s cheeks were getting pink. Pinker, I mean; she always wore tons of blush. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
    â€œMom didn’t get funding for her new performance piece,” Kennedy announced. “Because they didn’t like paintball. Or the word ‘random.’ So we’re having Chocolate Night.”
    â€œChocolate Night? You mean . . . what? Pigging out on candy?”
    â€œOh, come on, Mom,” Emma said, pretending to laugh. “We were just trying to cheer up Mrs. Bailey.”
    â€œBecca,” Mom reminded her. “I hate being called Mrs. Bailey.”
    Mrs. Hartley raised one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “And Becca , do you eat like this often?”
    â€œOh no,” I cut in. “We’re very careful about food.” Which was true, actually: For supper we usually had tons of salads and whole grain pasta and cheesy casseroles and homemade soup. I turned to Mom so she could back me up on this, but she just looked at me like, Who is this woman, Marigold, and what’s she doing in my kitchen?
    â€œI’m a vegetarian,” Kennedy was saying proudly. “I’m always ever so careful about what I eat.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful, honey,” Mrs. Hartley told Kennedy in this sticky-sweet voice. “And does your mommy make you real meals sometimes? With protein and fruits and vegetables—”
    Mom opened her mouth, and then immediately snapped it shut.
    â€œAnd do you always brush your teeth and see the dentist?” Mrs. Hartley continued.
    Emma grabbed her mom’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “You’re starting a fight.”
    â€œWhat am I starting?” Mrs. Hartley looked amazed. “ I haven’t done anything wrong!”
    â€œYou’re criticizing Becca.”
    â€œWhat did I say?”
    â€œYou’re saying she’s feeding her kids wrong. And not taking them to the dentist.”
    â€œI’m not intending to offend her, sweetheart. But she invites you here for supper and then offers you an entire meal of unhealthy junk—”
    â€œWe had milk,” Emma said desperately.
    â€œMilk,” Mrs. Hartley repeated. “Milk is not a balanced meal.”
    â€œWell, maybe this wasn’t intended to be a balanced meal,” Mom finally exploded. “Listen, Trisha, you know why your daughter spends so much time here? It’s because you’re driving her