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the sight of his friends, because I knew he was nearby. There he is. Ian, on the floor in front of Dashiell. I can’t see his head but I know it’s him by the clothes.
    And now I’m instantly sorry I came. Or not. It’s very confusing.
    The movie is showing on a giant white sheet tacked to the wall. It doesn’t hang completely straight, and Keira’s light cocoa skin has strange wrinkles in it, her curly hair has extra swirls.
    Felix is sitting behind everyone, next to the projector. Jotting things down in a little notebook.
    “Has your daddy told you why he doesn’t want you to watch TV?” asks Leslie’s voice. Sometimes I have to remind myself that most people who watch this have no idea what Leslie looks like. They can’t see her small, intense eyes and her nail-biting, her hands running nervously through her hair, as she listens to what you’resaying with a camera pointed at you.
    Keira stares off for a moment. She thinks, then shrugs one shoulder.
    The next shot is Keira and her parents sitting on the floor of their living room, playing some math board game. Keira’s mom is lying on her side, her head propped up by an arm, and she’s rolling the dice for Keira. I forgot how beautiful Mrs. Jones was and feel a terrible pang of grief for this family scene that can’t exist anymore.
    Suddenly, there’s a hand on my elbow and I jump.
    It’s Felix, smiling. Not smugly, like he could be, but as if he’s genuinely happy to see me. “I’m so glad you made it,” he says. “Here, take my chair.” And I don’t protest, because I’d rather not shift my eyes off the screen. I’ve watched this movie many times in the privacy of my bedroom—too many to count, and nobody knows that—but seeing it big like this is a different story. Keira is nearly the size of her real kindergarten self projected on the sheet, and it’s pretty weird, like having your memories yanked out of you and tossed onto the nearest wall.
    “We don’t watch TV because there’s no interaction there,” Keira’s father is saying in his booming English-professor voice. He’s a tall, stunning African-American man. Everything he says sounds automatically correct. “How can we use our imagination or problem-solving skills if we’re just passive consumers of a medium? Instead, my family plays. We play games, we play with toys, weread books to one another, we do activities outside. It’s old-fashioned and we like it.”
    Then we see Nate. He’s sitting in a miniature plastic chair covered with cartoon characters, eating dry cereal out of a bowl, two feet from a giant TV blaring cartoons.
    Everyone in Felix’s basement cracks up, just like they’re supposed to.
    The camera pans over to Nate’s mother, sitting at a nearby table in her dental hygienist’s scrubs, talking on the phone. For a full ten seconds all we hear is her saying, “I know . . . Oh my God . . . yeah, as if . . . ,” to whoever’s on the other end, and Nate crunching his cereal so loud I wonder if that wasn’t juiced up in the editing room.
    I glance over to Felix, but his face is too shadowed for me to read his expression.
    One of the kids on a couch yells, “Go, Nate!” and I know what’s coming next. That will be Rory and me, dressed in princess costumes, dancing around my kitchen while The Nutcracker blasts through the stereo.
    This is an excellent time for me to go to the bathroom.
    For a few minutes, I just listen to the audio I know so well. And then, laughter from Felix’s basement audience. Ian, surely part of that laughter. I cover my ears.
    I’ve been in there a while—too long, apparently—when Felix knocks on the door.
    “Justine? Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Can I come in?”
    “Uh, no? Gross.”
    “I know you’re not doing anything in there.” He’s right, of course. I’m sitting on the toilet, but it’s closed and I’m dressed.
    I sigh and unlock the door. Felix enters, shuts the door behind him, and leans on the sink.