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the gossip sites about Boris, and more about how people think your dad wants a second chance with your mom.”
    â€œWait . . .” I was shocked. “What?”
    â€œIt’s true,” Tina insisted. “People think your dad took up race-car driving to get your mom’s attention now that your stepdad has died and she’s available again.”
    I’ve seen a lot of wrongheaded and offensive things written about myself and my family, but that one really takes the cake. I’m not going to say it doesn’t hurt when people say bad stuff about me, particularly when it’s untrue, but I’m young and strong: I can take it.
    But to say it about my mom, who isn’t really a public figure, and can’t defend herself, and my dad, who’s getting on in age, and is clearly becoming a tragic figure like Mickey Rourke, only without the boxing or tiny dogs?
    â€œWell, if that’s what Dad’s up to, it’s a really bad strategy,” I spluttered. “My mom’s so not the type to care about trophies, unless it’s a Pulitzer, or maybe a Nobel.”
    â€œI know, right? Your mom would never drop everything and come rushing to be at your dad’s bedside after half his face was burned off in a tragic race-car accident, because she’d be like, ‘He deserved it for being involved in such a dangerous sport in the first place.’ ”
    â€œIt’s true,” I said, then added, “Although that would have made an excellent scene in a movie that I would have paid full price to see in theaters, not even waited to watch at home on pay-per-view or HBO.”
    â€œOh my God, me, too.”
    No wonder I can’t sleep.
    Except that if this turns out to be true, Dad pretty much brought it on himself. Well, at least the part where he’s allegedly still in love with my mother, after more than twenty-six years (that’s how long ago he impregnated her while they were both college students back in the eighties, when drinking too much and being “in the moment” was an acceptable excuse for not using birth control, although not really, if you ask me. Well, twenty-five years and nine months ago. My birthday is tomorrow).
    â€œOf course I don’t blame your dad for thinking such a crazy stunt might work,” Tina went on. “Your mother rushed to be at your stepfather’s side after he had that heart attack while taking the M14 crosstown bus to band practice last year.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “But Mr. G. and my mom were married . And also, not knowing you have heart disease because you keep putting off going to the doctor is completely different from purposely pursuing high-risk sports.”
    At least Mr. G. had plenty of life insurance and a surprisingly healthy 401(k), so he left my mom and my half brother, Rocky, financially secure (and Mom’s paintings are still selling really well, considering the market for contemporary realism).
    Of course, now that I think about it, Tina—and apparently the media—aren’t the only ones with this crazy theory about my dad. Michael’s parents kind of brought it up when I was last at their house (for Passover dinner).
    This was before the arrest, of course. But somehow the conversation turned toward Dad and how weird he’s been acting lately and one of the Drs. Moscovitz—I can’t remember which—said my dad’ll never be happy because he desperately wants to be with my mother, but she’s never been the kind of woman who—like Grandmère—is attracted to men in positions of power.
    â€œSo are you saying my dad wants to marry his mother?” I’d asked in horror.
    â€œWell,” Dr. Moscovitz had replied, “according to Freud, deep down, all men want to marry their mothers, and all women, their fathers.”
    I knew there was a reason I don’t like Freud. Michael is nothing like my dad, and I really