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placebos. And some other studies say that the drugs can increase thoughts of suicide in anyone under eighteen. The drug companies don’t want you to know that you’re paying three hundred dollars a month to take something that’s just as effective as a sugar pill or will make you want to kill yourself.”
    “Do the drugs really cost three hundred a month?”
    “That’s not the point!” she yells. “Why don’t you ever listen?”
    Sometimes I think that Madge is like one of those stepsisters, never happy with anything. Like she’s going to make me dress in rags and sweep out the fireplace. “I’m listening, I’m listening.”
    “Therapists just like to hang out with crazy people so they don’t feel so bad about themselves.”
    Madge is feeling bad about herself. She’s spent the last month working on her essay for Harvard, even though she doesn’t even want to go there. I helpfully remind her of this fact.
    She sneers. “I still want to get in.”
    “Why?”
    “What do you mean, why? So that I could say I got in.”
    “Mom says you might get in all your schools if you’d only finish the essays and submit the applications.”
    She’s mad again. “So?”
    “So…okay. I see what you mean,” I say, even though I absolutely don’t. Madge is supposed to be away at school. This time last year, she had all her applications and essays ready, all she had to do was press Send. Then our high school announced that every senior with a grade point average over 4.0 would be considered valedictorian of the class, which meant that there would be more than forty-plus valedictorians jostling for space at graduation. Madge raged for three days. After that, she made her own announcement: She would be putting college on hold so that she could do a “gap” year. I thought that gap years were for joining the Peace Corps. Apparently, they’re for watching war movies, breathing into bags, and declaring moratoriums on bathing.
    “Anyway,” Madge says, “how do you know what Mom says about anything? Is she talking to you now?”
    “She’s doing that nontalking talking thing.”
    Madge nods. She knows what I mean. When my mom is mad, she talks about everything but what’s really making her mad. Which has the interesting effect of making her sound even madder.
    “Instead of talking about the school-board meeting or Mr. Mymer or what the cops said,” I tell Madge, “she talks about you and your college applications.”
    “Uh-huh,” says Madge. “She doesn’t talk to me about college.” Madge doesn’t say what they talk about. I bet I can guess.
    “Mom thinks I’m a liar,” I say.
    Madge shrugs. “She thinks we’re both full of it.”
    “But why? ”
    “She’s been pissed off ever since I wrote that affidavit for Dad last spring.”
    “That was six months ago,” I say.
    “That’s Mom for you.”
    “And I didn’t write it! I didn’t even read it!”
    “She probably thinks you agreed with me.”
    “How can I agree with what you wrote if I don’t know what you wrote?”
    Madge finishes licking the cookie crumbs out of the Oreo bag and scrapes the cookies back in the package. I make a mental note not to eat any.
    “I told you what I wrote,” Madge says. “I said I didn’t think the court should tell us where we could spend our weekends, and if we wanted to spend them at Dad’s, thenwe should be able to. That if we wanted to live with him, we should be able to. I mean, duh , I wrote it for you. I turned eighteen, so I can do whatever I want. You didn’t want me to defend your rights?”
    “Well, yeah, but…”
    “So then what are you whining about?”
    “I’m not whining,” I say.
    “By the way, another reporter called.”
    “How did they get the new number?”
    “They’re reporters, stupid. It is their job.” Madge rummages in the fridge and in the drawers. “I was originally thinking about a hunger strike, but I’m too hungry right now.”
    “That’s genetic,” I say.
    Madge