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the small round table where I do my homework (alone) and eat most of my meals (also alone). She’s staring out a window she hasn’t bothered to crack. The saucer of a coffee cup serves as a makeshift ashtray. It overflows with stark white butts ringed by black cherry lipstick.
    â€œYou’re late,” she says out of habit, not because she cares. She’s not even bothering to look at me.
    â€œI sent you a text,” I say. “There was a . . . problem. But I fixed it.” I place the bag of Xanax on the table and push it toward her like a sacrificial offering.
    Next to the mock ashtray is a tumbler with just a splash of bourbon left in the bottom. Cigarette dangling from her mouth, Natalie reaches for the nearly empty bottle of Blanton’s and refills her glass. There’s only about two fingers’ worth left, but if Natalie’s bleary eyes and sloppy movements are any indication, she’s already three sheets to the wind.
    â€œDo I have time to get changed before my lesson?” I ask her.
    She ignores the question, opting instead to focus on the bouquet of roses I’m still cradling in one arm. “That a prop? For today’s lesson ?” That last word comes out as a bitter hiss, and a cold dread runs down my spine. Whatever’s going on with Natalie can’t be the result of my lateness alone. The reaction is too disproportionate.
    â€œThey’re from Matt,” I explain.
    â€œHow fancy of him.”
    Her tone is so contemptuous that I find myself rising to Matt’s defense for the second time this afternoon. “It was actually kind of sweet. He staged this whole thing to ask—”
    â€œSomeone should tell that boy that red roses are offensive,” she interrupts. “A real man should know how to buy his woman flowers. Your father, for instance. He used to bring me freesia. And peonies, when they were in season.”
    It’s been two years since my father died, but the only memories I have of him and flowers are the ones from his funeral.
    This reminds me of seeing Doug’s Jaguar. I call Doug my uncle but we’re not technically related. He was my father’s lawyer and best friend, and in the years since my dad’s death he’s been like a de facto dad to me. Each year at Homecoming, the princesses and queen candidates are escorted onto the field at halftime by their fathers, just before taking part in the traditional Q&A. After my father died, Uncle Doug stepped up and offered me his chic-suited arm.
    â€œDid Douglas stop by?” I ask.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œReally? I could’ve sworn I saw his car.”
    â€œYou saw wrong.” Natalie stubs out her cigarette and takes another sloppy sip of bourbon. I almost hope she uses it to wash down a couple of Xannies, because then she’ll pass out. Otherwise, she’ll wait until the sun has set and then have me drive her to the liquor store so she can restock.
    Natalie has become something of a shut-in since my father’s untimely passing. At least during the day. She’s less reticent about leaving the house at night. Maybe she thinks the darkness makes her invisible.
    I look at the clock on our largely dormant stove; it’s nearing four thirty. In addition to my date with Natalie, I have a bunch of homework to wrestle through, plus the phone call I promised Matt. And if I don’t get to bed at a reasonable hour, I’ll wake up with under-eye circles. They won’t be as dark as the purple half-moons Natalie sports, but they’ll be every bit as ugly.
    Time to speed things along. “I was thinking we could work on onstage questions today,” I say. “I’m still sounding a bit Pollyanna-ish. Should I go get the flash cards?”
    â€œDo whatever you want,” Natalie says flatly. “I’m not feeling well tonight.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œI just told you. I’m not feeling