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She’s going to make us dinner tomorrow night. I want you to be here, Marcus.”
    I don’t respond. He’s been trying to get me to meet his current girlfriend for weeks, but I keep avoiding it. And now, more than ever, I don’t want anything to do with her. I don’t want any part in his trivial love life when mine is falling apart. I find an apple and a hunk of cheese in the fridge. I grab a box of crackers and a granola bar from the cabinet.
    â€œI really want you to get to know her,” he continues as I pretend to still be looking in the cabinet. I don’t want to look at himright now. “You can’t keep brushing her off. She means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me. I want you two to be friends.”
    I turn around in a rage. How can he be talking about this right now? Pretending his new bimbo of the month matters when the girl I’m in love with just got out of a fucking coma and isn’t allowed to see me?
    â€œYeah, Dad,” I say. “Sure, we can be friends. That totally makes sense since we’re probably pretty close in age.”
    I expect a reaction. I want a reaction. I expect him to hit me, to yell, to at least storm away. But he just sighs. He just stands there. I want to hit him. I want to knock that smug look off his face. But he is, and always will be, so much bigger than me.
    â€œI guess I deserve that,” he says, then emits a strange sound. If he were anyone else, I’d say it was a chuckle. “But for your information, Monica is forty-four and CEO of a successful tech start-up that’s about to go public.” He seems to register the look on my face that says this news means nothing to me. “I’m serious about this one,” he says.
    â€œCongratulations, Dad,” I say, and I walk away.

there.
    THE DINING ROOM IS A MUSEUM, A PLACE FULL OF THINGS no one touches. But tonight is special, Mom says. It’s Dad’s birthday. The kitchen is a war zone, bombs of flour exploded on counters, floor, walls. Measuring spoons and cups thrown around. Boxes and cans and jars in disarray.
    We are sitting at the dining room table. Mom dressed us up. David kicks me under the table for pulling at the neck of my sweater vest. “It’s scratchy,” I whine.
    â€œShhh,” he says, but I don’t know why we have to be quiet. It’s just us three. Mom’s sitting way over on the other end of the table, her face pale under her makeup.
    â€œMommy, you look pretty,” David says.
    She smiles, but it is her own special sad kind of smile. “Thank you, honey.”
    â€œWhen is Dad coming home?” I say. David kicks me again, but I don’t know why. He knows so many things I don’t, like whento talk and when not to talk. Like when Mom is sad or Dad is angry, even when no one is talking.
    Mom says nothing. We’ve been sitting here for a long time. My stomach tells me we should have eaten by now. The food is in the fancy bowls we only use on holidays, covered by matching lids. There’s no way it can still be warm.
    There’s a cake in the kitchen, a surprise. Mom made it from scratch. David and I watched YouTube videos with her about how to make flowers out of frosting.
    â€œYou boys must be starving.” She sighs. “Why don’t you make yourself a couple of plates and take them upstairs?”
    â€œAre you sure?” David asks.
    â€œWe can eat in our rooms?” I say. “Like, while we play video games?”
    â€œJust for tonight,” she says with a weak smile. “It’s a special occasion.”
    David sits next to me in the back of Dad’s car, arms crossed on his chest, his face pinched in an angry pout. I don’t know what he’s so upset about. Most boys would jump at the chance to shoot a real gun.
    We drive by the sign for the Chabot Gun Club. “Here we are,” Dad says from the front seat. I can’t remember the last time we did