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about you?
    But maybe it’s not crap. Maybe it’s actually good. Maybe they’re pissing themselves with excitement because we’re going into a new era of Bulldogs pitching.
    Or maybe I’m the one who’s full of shit.
    â€œI ruined your life last week, too,” Momma says, snapping me back to the moment. “And the week before that. You should be used to it by now.” She slides a plate of pancakes in front of me and kisses the top of my head.
Score.
Pancakes make everything better. For now, anyway.
    â€œDoesn’t Dad always preach about loving people?” Grace argues. “What you’re doing with Parker is the exact opposite.”
    Yawning, I reach for the syrup. “Can we not talk about this crap before I eat?” I ask. “Weak stomach, and all that.” Grace’s boyfriend of the month is some redneck football player from junior class. An all-right guy, I guess, but she can do better than a dude who chews more tobacco than gum.
    Momma leans back against the counter, sipping her coffee. “I do love Parker. But it doesn’t mean I have to let my daughter crawl out of her bedroom window at two in the morning to meet him.”
    â€œYour pancakes are yummy!” Emma shouts.
    Momma beams. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
    It’s way too early for all this.
    Grace flops back against her chair, folding her arms. “You know, Eric’s screwed half the girls in his class, and I don’t see you grounding him.”
    I choke on my bite of pancake. I haven’t screwed half the girls—just a select few. Many times over. There’s a difference. And it’s not breakfast conversation.
    â€œWatch your mouth in front of your sister,” Momma says.
    Grace sighs and passes me a glass of orange juice, which I chug. I shoot her a glare. “Don’t bring me into this just because you got caught. I still don’t know why the hell—”
    â€œLanguage,” Momma cuts in. “You have a vocabulary. Use it.”
    I roll my eyes and lean in to whisper, “I don’t know why the heck you keep arguing with her. Just shut up and agree with whatever she says.” Straightening, I add, “Besides, I’m pretty sure Parker hasn’t showered since summer. And you can’t date a guy who dips. What if you accidentally drink out of his spit bottle?”
    Her nose scrunches as she shoves me. “Ew! Momma! Tell Eric to shut up.”
    Momma takes another sip of coffee. “Don’t say shut up. And he’s got a point. Dip spit can look an awful lot like Diet Coke.”
    â€œI’m gonna puke.” Grace shoves away from the table, her chair nearly toppling over as she stands. She storms past Dad, who’s walking into the kitchen with his tie hanging around his neck.
    Emma hops down, her Transformers shirt stained with blueberries and syrup. “Grace!” she yells, running down the hall. “You
weren’t excused
!”
    Dad cocks an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?” he asks.
    â€œNo,” Momma and I both say.
    Both my sisters look exactly like our momma, but my brother and I are carbon copies of our dad: natural tans, brown hair, and brown eyes that give away everything going through our heads. Which is how I can tell that Dad is trying really, really hard to resist chasing after Grace and laying into her for yelling at Momma.
    â€œI’m handling it,” Momma tells him. “Nothing new. I hated my parents at sixteen, too.”
    â€œSo did I,” I mumble through a mouthful of pancakes, staring at the paper. “Did y’all ever think I’d be the normal kid in the house?”
    â€œDepends on your definition of normal,” Dad says, buttoning his shirt’s cuffs.
    I see how it is. Dad’s got jokes.
    He strides across the kitchen, straight toward the coffee. “Why are you looking at that paper like it’s carrying the plague?” he