“Give me your keys,” I demand.

His smile deepens. “Your eyes glow when you’re pissed.”

I’m not the only one who’s pissed.

How on earth could he have gone from totally functional in class to ridiculous in the parking lot? He’d had, at most, ten minutes from when we split up until I walked out here. I can’t believe he made it through senior seminar without anyone catching on. He must have started before class and he must have had practice.

“Tru Dorsey, I swear to God, if you do not give me your keys in the next five seconds, I will castrate you.”

The grin grows as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Right here in this parking lot,” I add, just so there is no confusion about how serious I am, “in front of the entire school.”

He digs into his pocket with his right hand but then swings his left around, dangling the keys in front of me.

“I wasn’t gonna drive,” he says, slapping them into my open palm. “Be gentle with her. She has a sensitive clutch.”

He pushes away, trips around to the passenger side of the car.

Clutch? Oh hell, this is going to suck. Not only do I not have my license—who needs to drive in New York?—but I’ve only ever tried a stick shift one time. It didn’t end well.

I fling my backpack into the back and then slide into the driver’s seat. If I wasn’t so angry I was seeing spots right now, I’d probably appreciate how comfortable and powerful his car is. Sleek controls and serious horsepower—I feel like I’m behind the wheel of a racecar.

It was the same car this morning, but I’d been half asleep. It’s a miracle I even recognized it in the parking lot.

I take a deep breath before I put the key in the ignition and turn. The engine makes a grinding noise.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tru says, reaching over to turn back the key. “You have to put the clutch in.”

I peer down to the floor.

“The one on the left,” Tru says. His hand reaches across and grabs my left knee. Pure electric sparks race down to my toes. He moves my leg over until my foot is on what must be the clutch pedal, then pushes down.

I’m too stunned to stop him. Even as angry as I am, his touch still gives me goose bumps. Something is definitely wrong with me.

“Now try.” He doesn’t let go of my knee.

The sparks burn a permanent track on my leg.

I turn the key, and this time the car purrs to life.

“I think I’ve got it,” I say, removing his hand.

I need to be able to think clearly if I’m going to get us home.

“Just remember—” He lets his head fall back against the headrest, just like I had done this morning. Only I’d been half asleep, not half passed out. “Put the clutch in to shift, up if she’s whirring, down if she’s groaning.”

Whirring, up. Groaning, down.

I think I’ve got it.

I hope I’ve got it.

My first attempt at movement sends us lurching then dying. Tru snorts but doesn’t give me any further advice. Great. It takes me three circles of the parking lot to feel comfortable enough to head out onto the road without posing a severe danger to other drivers. It only took two circles for Tru to fall asleep.

He and I are going to have words about this. As soon as he’s conscious again.

Who assigns homework the first week of school? Mr. Lufkin, that’s who.

After leaving Tru asleep in his car in the Dorseys’ driveway—as if I was going to help him into the house after that—I grabbed a handful of Twizzlers and then headed upstairs to get my first reading assignment done. Ulysses, chapters one through three. Yay.

I’m only two pages into chapter one when Mom knocks on my door.

And doesn’t wait for an answer before barging in.

My jaw almost drops when I see that she’s wearing yoga pants. I can’t remember the last time Mom wore anything that casual. Or anything casual period. Her entire wardrobe is suits, suits, and more suits.

See, being away from New York is already ruining her sense of style.

“Did I just see you driving Tru’s car?” she demands.

“What?” I ask, caught off guard.

Great. This can’t go badly.

“Just now,” she says. “You were behind the wheel in Tru’s car when it pulled into the driveway next door.”

“What, were you spying on me?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Answer the question.”

I have to think quickly. If I’m not careful, if I even hint that I had to drive because he was drunk, I would lose what little freedom I’ve gained by not being at her mercy for transport.

“Yes,” I admit with a huff, because I can’t exactly deny what she saw. “I just took it for a spin around the block.”

“Sloane…”

“What? I wanted to see what it was like.” I shake my head, like she’s totally overreacting. “It’s no big deal.”

“You don’t have a license,” she argues. “You don’t have insurance. If you got caught, it would be a really big deal.”

“Well, I didn’t. So you can just chill.”

“But what if you had—”

“God, Mom, I just wanted to try, okay?” I turn my attention back to my book. “It won’t happen again.”

Because I will leave Tru bleeding on the sidewalk and take the bus home if it does.

I sense her hesitate, watching me from the doorway and trying to figure out what to say. How to react. I wish she would just decide and get it over with.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. “Okay,” she says. “Just be sure you’re making smart choices. I don’t want you to find more trouble that will haunt your future.”

What am I supposed to say to that? It’s the same old song. I’m tired of trying to defend myself and my ability to make good decisions.

She fidgets with the edge of my comforter. “So, how was your second day at NextGen?”

Oh, is that how we’re going to play this? Like that’s why she came up here in the first place, to do the mother-daughter check-in conversation.

Good luck with that.

I shrug. “Fine.”

“Make any friends?”

Another shrug.

“Do you like the classes?”

I give her a look that says, They’re classes. What’s to like?

She stares at her hands. With her head angled down, dark circles appear under her eyes. Is that from the lighting?

“Honey,” she begins, “I know this is hard.”

It’s hard not to laugh out loud at that understatement. Hard? Hard? Calculus is hard. Finding the man in Picasso’s The Accordionist is hard. This—the move, the new school, the new life—is torture.

But I just give her another shrug.

Mom sighs, is silent for several long moments.

Rather than sit around waiting for her to figure out what to say to her Troubled Teenager, I focus on my homework. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can get back to Graphic Grrl.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

With a sigh, I hold up the book.

Mom makes a face.

“It’s not bad,” I say. Knowing that she doesn’t like it makes me even more determined to love it.

I keep reading as she watches. Sure, it’s awkward as hell. But I can stand awkward all day and all night if it makes her even half as uncomfortable. Maybe if things between us get bad enough, she’ll give in and move us back to New York just to end the torment.

Before The Incident, I never thought I’d feel this way about Mom. Sure, we had our differences and I had my secrets—what teen doesn’t? But I always used to feel like I could go to her, ask her anything, get honest feedback. Now it’s like we view each other as the enemy.

After a few more beats of silence, she asks, “Have you spoken to your father?”

I shake my head. “I texted him.”

Dad’s never been the most available. He works crazy hours and is usually gone when I get up in the morning and rarely gets home before dinner. A lot of times it’s not until after I’m in bed.

Being halfway across the country doesn’t change too much about our relationship.