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erupts so loud and sudden that it startles Philip. “That’s it? That’s what you woke us up in the middle of the night for? To tell us that Ronnie likes Philip’s poetry!” She says the last word with all the emphasis on the p , like she is spitting out something rotten—to her, Philip’s poetry is something rotten.
    â€œM,” Philip says when he sees the look of surprise on Melissa’s face. “Cut it out.”
    His mother stops to take a breath, but she is not done yet—far from it.
    â€œHow dare you waste my time with this bullshit? Do you know how hard it is for me? Do you? Every single day of my life I have to walk by his door. Every single day of my life I have to wake up and think my son is dead! You can just go on with your life, like Chantel or Chandra or whatever the fuck her name is said on the tape, but I will never go on! You can get knocked up by some guy without bothering to get married and live happily ever after, but this is it for me. Do you understand that? This is my life!”
    â€œM!” Philip shouts again as tears well in Melissa’s eyes and spill down her sad, ruined face. “Enough. Come on. Stop it.”
    But she won’t stop. And she is wielding her finger now like a weapon, pointing directly at Melissa’s face when she says the word you or your , then jabbing it into her own chest when she says something about herself. “You think I’m supposed to be impressed by those scars? Honey, you may look like that on the outside because you happened to be with him on the night he died. But you have no idea how disfigured and downright ugly I am on the inside because of what happened to my child. And if you could see it, I guarantee you’d run the other way. So do us both a favor, little girl, and back this shit box out of my driveway and don’t you ever come back. You go have your bastard child and live your fucking life. But leave me alone.”
    â€œMom!” Philip screams. “I said shut up! Shut! Up!”
    And this time, she finally does shut up. She puts her finger against the cold glass, cooling it down, recharging for round two. The only sound that can be heard is Melissa crying as she buries her head in her hands. Her every breath is notched with small choking sounds, as though something long and knotted is being dredged up out of her throat. Philip is used to these violent eruptions, but this poor girl came here tonight without a clue as to the bottomless cauldron of vitriol that is his mother.
    He waits for Melissa to stop crying and make the motions to leave. But it doesn’t happen. He waits for his mother to tighten that black wool cloak around her neck and get out of the car. But that doesn’t happen either. Instead, she stays in her seat, probably waiting for the opportunity to finish the girl off. She keeps her gaze on Melissa’s shoulders as they heave up and down, like a cat spitting up a hairball or a clump of mowed grass.
    Philip doesn’t know what to do next. His eyes go briefly to those photos on the dashboard, where Melissa is smiling next to Ronnie. His brother was everything Philip wasn’t—popular, outgoing, athletic, an honor student. The normal son his parents wanted and got right on the second try. Ronnie had even outdone him by dying, because he would never get the chance to mess up his life the way Philip had. All these years later, Philip still feels a phantom pang of jealousy just looking at his brother’s picture, which only makes him feel more pathetic for being jealous of a dead person. Finally, he stops looking at the picture and puts his hand on Melissa’s small shoulder. He tells her that he’s sorry for what just happened, that there’s no reason to cry, that everything is okay.
    â€œEverything is not okay,” she says, peeling her hands from her face and craning her neck to look at him. From this angle, the dashboard light