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take to get her attention just for the satisfaction of knowing I can.
    Julian nods. I catch a tiny hint of a smile on his face when I mess up his hair and slide into the chair next to him—and across from Ashtyn.
    I scan the food on the table. Chicken fingers that don’t look like they actually came from a chicken, “just add water” mashed potatoes from a box, and corkscrew pasta smothered with canned Alfredo sauce. I’ve got to go grocery shopping with Brandi and introduce her to vegetables and chicken that aren’t processed to death. Obviously eating healthy is not part of the Parker household plan.
    Neither is conversation.
    It’s silent except for the sound of silverware clinking on the plates and the occasional cough. Is this typical? My dad always has crazy stories to tell and will yank conversation out of you even when you don’t want to talk. It’s a talent he was born with, or maybe it’s some interrogation technique he learned in the military. Either way, it’s a skill I don’t have. I’m tempted to fling mashed potatoes across the room to liven up the evening, which is more my speed. Would Ashtyn follow along, or would the warrior girl try to stab me with her fork instead?
    Ashtyn is the first to speak. “I was voted captain of thefootball team today,” she says. I detect a quiet, almost unrecognizable pride in her voice.
    â€œWow!” I nod, impressed.
    â€œYou play flag football?” Brandi asks. “That’s cute. I played on the powderpuff team when I was in—”
    â€œIt’s not flag football,” Ashtyn interjects. “I play varsity for Fremont. You know, the one without the flags.”
    â€œYour sister has become a tomboy,” Gus chimes in.
    â€œAre you a lesbian?” Brandi whispers loudly.
    I try to hold in my laughter, but I’m not doing a great job.
    â€œNo, I’m not a lesbian,” Ashtyn says. “I have a boyfriend. I just . . . like to play and I’m good at it.”
    â€œDerek used to play football,” Brandi says.
    â€œA while ago,” I say quickly, hoping to cut Brandi off before she elaborates. Ashtyn doesn’t need to know the truth, because the truth doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. I hope Brandi doesn’t blab my entire history. “I was average,” I mumble.
    The girl wielded a pitchfork, so I shouldn’t be surprised she plays football. But I am.
    Brandi waves her hands excitedly, getting our attention. “Ashtyn, I have the
best
idea. Why don’t you, like, take Derek out and introduce him to your friends tonight?”
    Ashtyn’s eyes lock on mine. “I kinda have plans, but, umm . . .”
    â€œYou don’t have to entertain me. I’m not really up for a late night after drivin’ for the past week, anyway. I’m fixin’ to go for a run and knock out early.” I don’t need to be babysat, that’s for damn sure.
    â€œLake Michigan isn’t far,” Brandi chimes in. “You can run on the beach. It’ll make you feel like you’re back in Cali.”
    I’d bet my left nut that Chicago beaches are nothing like the beaches in Cali.
    â€œOr the school track,” Ashtyn pipes in too enthusiastically. “Everyone runs on the school track. The beach gets
crazy
crowded at night. You definitely
don’t
want to go there.”
    Uh-huh. She’s definitely going to be hanging at the beach tonight.
    â€œWhat’s your plan?” Gus asks Brandi. “You don’t expect to sit around here all day, do you?”
    Time for her to break the news that she’s prego.
    â€œI’ll apply for a job at Debbie’s salon after Julian starts kindergarten and Derek starts his senior year at Fremont.” Brandi stabs her fork into a piece of chicken. “I figure Debbie will hire me to do nails after I get certified this summer.”
    Her dad shakes his head in disapproval.