Mom nods, as if that’s what she expected me to say.

I’m not sure what makes me ask, “Have you?”

“No, he’s been busy with the Titanium Towers project.” She looks up, smiles. “I’ve talked to Dylan every day, though.”

Her eyes are sad and I can tell—as much as I don’t want to see it—that this move is hurting her, too. She’s halfway across the country from her husband and her son. From her job and her friends and her life, too.

The big difference is that she could make it all go away if she wanted.

Me, I’m just stuck here.

“I’m leaving early for a job interview downtown,” she says, “so I won’t see you before—”

“A job?” I echo.

“Yes,” she says, forcing a laugh. “That’s a thing where you do work and they pay you.”

I glare at her.

“I can’t sit around and do nothing for a year, Sloane,” she says as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“It won’t be a whole year,” I argue.

We have a deal and there’s no way I’m screwing it up.

“We can’t get by for long without my income,” she explains. “Between your tuition and Dylan’s, the mortgage in Manhattan and the rent here, we need the second salary.”

I want to argue with that, but what can I say that isn’t a rehash of the same old if-we-went-home-this-wouldn’t-be-a-problem argument? She’s obviously not listening. I just have to keep up my end of the bargain and get us home as soon as possible. Before Mom starts putting down roots.

“Besides,” she says, pushing to her feet, “it’s not in my nature to do nothing but cook and clean.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not in my nature to be in Texas,” I toss back, “so I guess we both have to make concessions here.”

She draws in a deep breath, and I can practically feel her trying to decide if she should rise to the bait. In the end, she doesn’t.

She heads toward the door. “I’ll leave you money for lunch on the counter.”

I want to shout that I don’t want her money. I don’t want anything from her except a ticket back to New York.

Of course the only things Mom has given me recently are disapproving looks and lectures on my irresponsible behavior. I screwed up. I admit that. I accept full responsibility for what happened. She acts like I set out to intentionally betray her.

I’ll never forget what she said to me the morning after The Incident, as we walked out of the police station.

“I don’t even know you.”

Does one misstep mean my entire life has been a lie?

I’m still the same me. Why can’t she see that?

She closes the door behind her, and I go back to reading. But I can’t get past the first page. My focus is blown.

I grab my phone off the charger.

Dylan picks up after three rings. “Yo, Sloaner.”

“Dyl-dog.” I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of his voice.

We get along better than a lot of siblings, probably because of the age difference. He’s just going into sixth grade this year. And although he has the attention span of a grasshopper on crack, and sometimes he says the grossest things ever imagined, he’s pretty great.

The suckiest part of the suckfest that is me in Texas is the fact that Dylan is still in New York. I’m jealous, sure. But also I miss him. He’s my best bud.

“Whatchya up to, fartface?” I tease.

He snort-laughs. Eleven-year-old boy humor achieved. “Just watching VGHS.”

“Haven’t you seen that like eighty times?”

“No,” he says in all seriousness. “Only seventeen.”

His school doesn’t start until next week—I’m the only lucky one with an early matriculation date—so he’s probably stuffing in as many late nights as he can manage before Dad Law, aka a ten o’clock lights out curfew, goes into effect. Dylan attends a super rigorous math-science-engineering magnet school, and his homework schedule tends to get insane. I could never take it.

Academically, we could not be more opposite. It’s still a complete mystery to me that we share a gene pool. I’m fully aware that I’m the anomaly here.

“Well lucky you,” I say. “I’m doing homework.”

He groans dramatically. “What kind?”

“Reading.”

His groan rises to epic levels.

“I know,” I say. “Almost makes me wish for some math homework.”

Not really. For the most part I actually like reading—with notable exceptions like Johnny Tremain, The Old Man and the Sea, and anything by Nathaniel Hawthorne—but to Dylan it’s like Brussels sprouts.

Come to think of it, I actually like Brussels sprouts. Maybe we aren’t related. Some nights I really think I must be adopted.

“I don’t want to keep you from your marathon,” I say. “Can I talk to Dad?”

There is a sound that I recognize as Honeycombs clattering into a bowl. His favorite treat. Who is there making sure he eats right if Mom and I are here? Certainly not Dad.

“Still at work,” Dylan says.

Beep, beep.

I hold my phone away and see an unknown Austin number on the screen.

“Hey, Dyl, someone’s buzzing in,” I tell him. “Can you leave Dad a note to call me?”

He says, “Okay,” around the crunch of cereal.

“Love you,” I say. “Eat some vegetables.”

“Love you,” he says back, “and no thanks.”

I’m laughing as I click over to the other call. “Hello?”

There is a pause and then, “It’s Tru.”

My humor fades. My first instinct is to fling my phone out the window. Enough time has passed that I’m not quite raging with the fire of a thousand suns. But I’m still plenty pissed.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”

There is a long silence.

“How did you get my number?” I finally ask.

“Your mom gave it to my mom. So we can coordinate transport to and from school.”

Another silence.

Maybe it’s a good sign that he’s calling, but I’m not going to make it easy on him. I made my opinion clear in the parking lot. The ball is in his court.

After a while, he sighs. “I fucked up, okay?”

“You think?”

“I know, I just…” He trails off, like he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe like he doesn’t want to say it. “I was an ass.”

“A dumb ass.” I climb off my bed and pace to the window.

And I should know. I’m the queen of dumb actions with enduring repercussions. Case in point: The Incident. It’s also a prime example of letting your friends convince you that something epically stupid is actually pure genius, but that’s not quite as relevant at the moment.

“My mom saw me driving,” I tell him. “I don’t have a license, so she immediately assumed I’ll get arrested. She grilled me for twenty minutes.”

An exaggeration, but he doesn’t know that.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Good. At least he knows how much he almost screwed me today. I think I got out of it okay, but the driving is only part of the issue.

“If you get caught drinking,” I explain, “she’ll assume I am, too. I’ll be under house arrest for eternity. I won’t let you screw up my plans to get home.”

“I’ve never done that before,” he says. “Gotten drunk at school.”

There is something in the way he says it, almost…sad. It drains a lot of my anger and I find myself wanting to know more than what he’s telling me. “Then why did you?”

Silence stretches through the phone, across the short distance between our two houses. I stare up at the night sky, clear of this afternoon’s gloomy clouds. I wonder if Tru is staring out his own window.

Finally, he huffs a derisive laugh. “No good reason,” he says. “It seemed like a good idea.”

It’s a lie. I know it is.

And just like that, the moment of connection is over. I don’t know him well enough to call him on the bullshit. I’m not sure I even know him well enough to care. We barely met two nights ago.

The only reason I’m concerned at all is that Mom would have judged me guilty by association.

No, that’s a lie, too. I would feel terrible if anything bad happened to him. We’re…I don’t know, starting to be friends maybe.