Mom laughs and looks offended.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, even though I think I did. I can’t imagine my parents doing anything else. Especially my dad. I’d like to see him get his butt out of bed for a regular job day in and day out.

“And what about our house?” Rowan asks. She glances at Aunt Mary. “I mean, we love you and all, but we can’t live here forever.”

“We’re working on it,” my father says. “We’ll know more soon. We’re trying to figure everything out.”

The room erupts into loud conversation about our options, with the cousins giving animated ideas of what my parents could do for a living instead of running a restaurant, such as joining the circus or being professional birthday party clowns. Trey and Rowan get into it, and the house turns back into a typical boisterous family gathering once more. When the doorbell rings, I get up to answer it like I live here.

And it’s Ben.

I stare at him, at first confused by how he knew where to find us, but then I gather my senses. “Come in,” I say, and a delighted grin spreads across my face. “It’s really great to see you.”

“Hey,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Sawyer called me. I’m—I can’t believe it.”

“I know.” I usher him in. He looks a little frightened by the noise coming from the dining room. “Don’t be scared. This is our typical decibel level whenever the family gets together.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. In fact, I think you will lift the spirits of more than just me by your presence.” I grin, and he blushes.

I drag him through the breezeway and into the kitchen, which is connected to the dining room, and when Trey notices us, he stops talking midsentence. He shoves his chair back and stands up. His face betrays just how much it means to him to see Ben. Everybody stops talking and turns to look at what Trey is looking at. Ben waves nervously.

“Hi, um,” he says, not sure which of the adults to address.

“This is our friend Ben,” I say. At the name, Rowan perks up, and I remember she’s never met him. I introduce everybody.

“I’m sorry about the fire,” Ben says. “You must be, uh, really shocked and sad . . .”

Trey springs to life and comes to Ben’s rescue. He rushes over and turns Ben around and guides him back to the breezeway so they can talk, and Rowan whispers, “He’s so cute!”

“I know,” I say.

“Why can’t you go out with him instead of that other one?” my father booms too loudly, but for once there’s no anger in his tired voice.

I stare at him. “Seriously? There are so many things wrong with that question that I don’t know where to start,” I say.

“What is that supposed to mean? It’s just a question.”

“He’s gay, Dad,” Rowan says, licking the frosting off her fork.

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that?”

“He’s not Italian,” Uncle Vito remarks.

“So?” Mom’s eyes flash. She turns to me. “Is he—are he and Trey—?”

I shrug. It’s not for me to say.

However, there’s Rowan. “They made out.”

“God, Ro,” I say, and I start laughing. “They didn’t, actually. Poor Ben.”

“Why poor Ben?” Mom says, bristling. “We’re good people. What’s wrong with us? Is he too good for us?”

“No, he’s just scared to death.”

“He’s not Italian,” Uncle Vito says again.

“Exactly, that’s why he’s scared.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Uncle Vito says. He picks his teeth. “So what is he, Mexican?”

“Vito!” Aunt Mary and Mom say together.

“What? It’s just a question!”

“It’s racist,” Aunt Mary says.

“Oh, for crying out loud. It is not. People ask me that all the time.”

“They do not,” Aunt Mary says. “It’s too obvious with you.”

“Either way, it’s rude,” Mom says. “He’s American like everybody here.”

“How do you know?” Uncle Vito asks. Aunt Mary slaps him.

“He’s Filipino-American,” Trey calls out from the breezeway in an annoyed voice. “So knock it off already. Hey, kids, have another piece of cake, why don’t you?”

I grin at Rowan as our younger cousins start shrieking and grabbing more cake and Aunt Mary shoots a look of mock disgust in the direction of the breezeway. It’s good to be laughing.

I hear the screen door slam shut and hope it’s not Ben running for his life.

And if it is, I hope Trey is running with him.

Eleven

School is weird but we get through the first day, and the second, and the third. People are being nice—for now. But I know how this goes. In a few more days, when their pinprick-size moments of sympathy run out, they’ll be talking behind my back again.

After school on Thursday I find Sawyer and we linger outside the meatball truck for a minute while Rowan and Trey climb inside.

“Anything you guys need?” he asks me, like he’s asked every day this week.

“Nah. We’re good.” He’s already done enough. “Do you have plans tonight?”

He shifts. “I was thinking about going back to UC to talk to the guy we missed. Clark, I think his name is.” He hesitates. “You probably can’t come along, right? I mean, I totally understand if—”