Thursday is the longest day of my life. Three hours of sleep isn’t good for anyone. Everyone is practically sliding into their soup on Thursday at supper, we’re all so tired from last night’s fiasco, and my parents are still royally pissed at me. No gratitude ritual tonight, which probably hasn’t happened for three years. They don’t remember because they’re so tired. While my mom and dad give me death glares, Lou ignores me. She’s pissed she doesn’t have a ride to school anymore. But I still have Ramona. And Donna Russell, for that matter. She’s never pissed at me.

Probably around nine, I go to the kitchen to find an apple or some peanut butter or something, but I am stopped by the sound of my parents’ voices in the living room. I sneak a look around the corner.

Mom, sitting on the couch and mending another skirt: “We’ll get through this. The good kid will come back.”

Dad, pacing: “Bullshit. Staying out all night . . . e-mails from his teachers . . . next thing you know he’ll be skipping work, too. And I bet he won’t go to college. From what it looks like, he’s going straight to the Kwiky Pik to get a job.”

Mom, composed as can be: “He’ll be fine. He’s got a year to get his head on straight.” And she sews. Dad paces. Nobody says a word. The TV blares.

I’ve never heard my parents disagree, first of all. And second of all, I’d never guess in a million billion years that they’d disagree about me.

For the record, I’ll cut my arm off before I take a job at the Kwiky Pik. And thanks a lot, Dad, for assuming that staying out all night and forgetting some homework means I won’t go to college.

I make no noise when I slide past the living room doorway into the kitchen. Ramen is sounding quite excellent all of a sudden. By the time I come back through, seven minutes later, my mom is slumped over her mending, sound asleep, and my dad is sprawled out at the other end of the couch, sawing logs.

Being a parent must suck. You try to keep your kids out of trouble, and they mess with you every chance they get.

Something hard hits me in the chest when I come out of the bathroom after I brush my teeth.

I look down and see Lou’s flip-flop on the floor.

“What’s your freaking issue?”

She’s standing in the doorway of her room. “Did you take my necklace?”

“What necklace?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“My drama mask necklace. I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Why would I take your necklace?” I pick up the flip-flop and chuck it back at her. It hits her in the side of the head.

“Ow, you jerkface. You’re a stupid-ass cock licker who only causes his family trouble. You suck, you know that?” And she slams her door closed.

“Lou!” My mother yells up the stairs from their room. “Cut that out!”

“You’re a freaky dumb twat who only thinks about herself! I hope your necklace is gone forever!” I pound once on her door, a very solid THUMP. The door shakes.

“Frankie! Quit that!” Mom again.

I go to bed. They can all suck it.

Friday night at Pizza Vendetta. This is the first Friday I’ve worked that I haven’t had a truck. This is the first Friday I’ve needed a truck, too—like really NEEDED it. My hands won’t stop shaking, because I’m alternately pissed and nervous by turns. Plus my parents are coming to get me at eleven thirty. How freaking embarrassing is that?

All night I get pizzas wrong, and one even gets sent back. They wanted sausage, green olive, and onion, and I gave them hamburger, black olive, and garlic chunks. Geno grabs me by the scruff of my neck and drags me to the back room. His wiry gray hair is poking out from under his pizza man hat, and his face is redder than usual. His white T-shirt is smeared with sauce. “What the hell is wrong with you, Frankie? You never get stuff wrong, and this pizza is a total mess. What’s wrong with you?” He lets me go, which is good, because he’s strong and my arm hurts where he grabbed it.

“I, uh . . .” I think fast. “I had a bad day at school.” Which it was. Rory alternated between giving me the stink eye and licking her lips all sexy-like when she caught me looking at her. She’s pissed I ran out the other night without a good-night kiss.

“Well, make it un-bad, right now. You can’t be screwin’ up on the orders, Pepperoniangelo. Got it? Or you’re outta here. I mean it.” He points at me, but I can see he doesn’t mean it. It’s in his eyes. He needs me.

“Promise, boss. I won’t screw up anymore.” I hold up my hand in an I-swear gesture. “Everything perfect from now on.”

He frowns. “It better be. Now get out there and get to work.”

“You got it, boss.” I will myself to focus, and I get every other order right for the rest of the night. No more complaints.

When I take a break, I check Miss Vixen’s Twitter feed, and I see a picture of four faces on the wall of the Kwiky Pik. No ghoulie bodies anywhere. Then there’s another shot of the faces with their shoes and their mementos. Someone’s stuck a glow stick into each ghoulie’s candle, so it looks like the candles are lit. I have to admit the faces and their shoes look cool, but cool will not buy me back the parts I have to replace for Epic. I do a quick Google search, and at this point, it looks like I owe Epic about six hundred bucks. I can’t get fired now.

If I ever find out who @drseussisgod is, I will come unglued. Who wants mannequin parts except weirdos like me and Uncle Epic? I think Rory was telling the truth—it’s not her. But I have no idea who else it could be.

At 11:20, everything’s done and I walk out back. My dad’s standing there, next to the truck, and he’s smoking. I slide in the passenger seat without saying a word. I don’t even want to know why he’s messing with his pipes before a show.

He stomps out his butt, picks it up, puts it in his coat pocket, and gets in. “How was your night, Frankie?”

“Same old same old. You watch people, you make pizza, Geno yells, it’s all good.”

He laughs. “Geno’s a good yeller.” They’ve seen him in action.

He seems less icy, less pissed. This is good, but it may be the nicotine talking. He’s wearing his bustier under a trench coat—the show hasn’t even started yet, and he’s going to have to hustle to get back to the theater by the time he goes on, which is usually about twelve fifteen. He’s driving fast. If we get pulled over, it’ll look like a cross-dresser is stealing kids in a big delivery truck, and they’ll never believe that I’m his son.

We drive in silence for a while.

“So. Dad.” I clear my throat, just to get ready. “When can I have my truck back? And why are you driving it?”

“Your mom has the car, and I don’t want to drive the work truck if I’m not cleaning.” He doesn’t look at me. “We haven’t decided yet. Maybe soon. Maybe not. It depends on how willing you are to follow the rules we’ve laid down.”

“I’ll be better. I promise.”

“Not just better. You need to get your act together and keep it together. No question.”

“No question.”

And we’re home. Dad pulls into the driveway, I get out, and he screeches away so he can get to his show on time. I pray he gets back before I need it.

Two thirty a.m. I’ve been making couch-painting monsters. Lou is asleep in her room. Mom’s back from her show, Dad’s back from his, and they’re asleep, too. I text David to be here as soon as he can be, and I’ll meet him outside. If I get caught, I’m volunteering myself for a firing squad. On the bullet side.

My parents aren’t just asleep—they’re snoring louder than jet engines. I can hear them all the way in the hall, because their door is open. My dad starts talking in his sleep when I walk by.

“You didn’t really . . . did you?”

My mom answers. “I did.”

“Well, that guy is just the worst.” Snort snuffle snorf.

She turns over. “Cucumbers never make sense.”

My heart’s racing about a million beats per minute, and I’m trying not to laugh, but I freeze, just in case they wake themselves up by talking. I wait for approximately a year, which is probably only a couple minutes, then continue slinking through the house.

The moment I’ve got my hand on the front doorknob, my mom screeches “KITTENS!” at the top of her lungs, like they’re chasing her. I hit the floor with a WHUMP, I’m so freaked, and I can barely contain my yell because she scared me so much. But then I can’t control my laughter. That may have been the funniest thing she’s ever said. I wait another year, then slowly slowly slowly open the front door.

David’s standing on my porch, out of breath from longboarding so fast. “I just got here.” He holds out the keys. “Let’s go.”

I’m still laughing when I get in the truck. “Kittens! All you fucking kittens, back off! Woo-hoo!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” David’s getting into the passenger side.

“Forget it. We can’t be late.” I roll down my window. “Watch out, stupid-ass kittens!”

“You’re cracked.” David rolls his eyes.

By the time we get to Epic’s, Rory’s waiting for me outside with a stack of sculptures wrapped in black garbage bags. She gives me a big hug and a smooch on the mouth. “We thought you’d never get here.” Obviously she’s done ignoring me for a while.

“Relax with the kissing.” David gives Rory a glare. “We don’t have lots of spare time. People come into the studio around four thirty, and the show starts at five. We gotta move.”

David loads a flat cart with a handle into the truck, which is going to be useful, because Nicollet Mall is twelve blocks long. Next to go in is the Minnesota Man Meat and its signs, then the medium-sized dicks, then the small door-decoration dicks. David drilled holes in the penises—penii?—so the signs would be sure to stand up. It all fits in the truck, but there’s not much room to spare.

Rory hops in the passenger seat and David sits among the man jerky. We hustle to downtown Minneapolis, but by the time we get there, it’s three fifteen. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.

Before we leave the truck, which we park kind of close to the middle of the mall, Rory throws us two plain black ski masks, and she puts on a third. “Now we’re ready.”

We all touch fists. We have to work fast.

David and I load up the cart with the little dicks, and we skate it like a longboard down to the other end of the mall, leaving Rory to set up the medium-size Manly Slim Jims in front of Macy’s and Target. We leave a few randomly around, constantly scanning for movement and people, but we make sure to get one in front of the library that’s there.

Once everything is all set with the small penises, it’s time for the big show. David and I glide our way back to the truck and to Rory.

“Let’s do this!” She’s almost hopping, she’s so excited. “This is even more fun than sheep!”

David and I get the Minnesota Hot Beef Injection out from the truck, sliding it onto the flat cart. Its beefy goodness overpowers the small space and the small wheels, but it’s all we’ve got.

Rory’s already in front of the studio window of WXXO, scouting for the best place to put the sculpture, something not obvious but still visible. There are two skinny trees and a planter full of flowers, so Rory opts to lean the Major Peepee up against the planter and kind of drape the plants around it. She gets the signs arranged next to the piece, then we stand by the studio window to check the effect. The signs should catch your eye first, and the signs are turned toward the TV station, so people in the studio looking through the window to the mall will see the signs first, and read them right along with the viewing audience. Then they’ll realize there’s a big old penis propped up in the scenery. At least that’s what we hope.

It’s 4:10 a.m., which means we should get the hell off of Nicollet Mall. Things will start waking up, especially at coffee shops, though we didn’t leave a Little Dingle at any of them.

Rory’s in the truck first, and she’s honking the horn. “Here’s your penis drop, Minneapolis! Hello, penis delivery!” She’s shouting and laughing like a wild woman.

“You’re gonna get us arrested, fool.” David knocks her hand away from the horn and points. A rent-a-cop has just come out of City Center, looking around for the source of the noise.

I turn to hide my face and whip off my mask. “Sit down.” Now is when I wish my truck was covered in camouflage.

While she scrambles across to the passenger side, I get in, calm as can be, and start things up. David shuts the back door once he’s heaved the cart in, and we drive away, smooth and easy.

“David, what’s the cop doing?”

David looks out the back-door windows. “Nada. He looked around a little, and he saw us, but we must’ve just looked like delivery people. He’s going back inside.”

Rory’s still cackling. “That was amazing!” She leans out of the passenger seat and gives me a huge kiss on the cheek. “We have to do that more often!”

“Hate to tell you, Rory, but papier-mâché penises are a one-shot deal. You can’t repeat that shit.”

David laughs. “One shot. With dicks, that’s a pun.”

Then I laugh. Then we all laugh, and then we’re back at Epic’s by the time we’ve made as many penis jokes as are humanly possible.

Rory jumps from the passenger side to punch in the code to get the garage door up. David hops out the back and yanks the flat cart with him. “See you, Frankie.”

“You rock, Skirt Man. That’s your superhero name.”

“I like it.” And he’s pushing the cart into the garage.

Rory’s come back to my window. “I want to see you soon.” She’s whispering. “A lot of you. In a horizontal position.”

She is not saying this.

“Well . . .” And that’s all I get out, because she’s kissing me, full on, making my head blow apart while my body fuses together into one hard knot which is not made of papier-mâché. And she smells like night air, adventure, and something that might be glue. When she finally pulls away, I’d swear I wasn’t on Earth anymore.

“Better go.” She licks her lips. “Text me, OK?”

“Uh.” I can’t think. “Yeah.”

And she’s gone in the slam of the side door.

“Bye,” I croak, even though she can’t hear me.

I drive home in a daze, so it takes me a couple seconds to notice that the entire house is lit up like a Christmas tree, including a light in Donna Russell’s ballroom, holy shit. My stomach falls on the floor of the truck, and I metaphorically scoop it up and swallow it again.

I know what’s coming, but I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.

Almost before I’ve shut the truck door, my mother is out of the house and in the driveway. She’s got on a sweatshirt and pajama pants. No kittens anywhere to be seen. “Franklin Brett Neumann, you are not going to see the outside of this house for the next ten years. Do you understand me? You are grounded until the end of time.”

If a person could light someone else on fire with their eyes, I’d be in flames, and her hair would be smoking. She is so angry I can’t step any closer to the house for fear of being incinerated in her aura.

“You screwed up big-time, son. Really big-time.” My dad is right behind her, but even he’s keeping his distance from her fury. He’s got on boxers and a T-shirt, no pink bathrobe.

“It’s just . . . I know I messed up, but my friends needed me.” I sound stupid, but it’s the truth.

“Your friends aren’t the boss of your life. We are, and when we say no driving, we mean no driving.” Her face is the color of a fire truck. “You are in extra trouble because you made another set of keys. Give them here now. You won’t see that truck until you graduate.” She opens her palm, and I drop them in. “Get inside. Don’t talk to me for a while.” She won’t even look at me.

I shoot a glance at my dad, and he just nods his head, letting me know he agrees with her.

I look at my phone. It’s 5:12. How did they know I was gone? All I want is to get upstairs and check on Donna Russell.

When I go by the living room, Lou’s wrapped in a quilt on the couch.

“What’s wrong with you?” She looks like she’s five again, all tiny and bundled up.

“You don’t want to know.”

I don’t. She’s right. But the guilt is suddenly thick in my stomach. “Tell me anyway.”

“Just a nightmare.”

“So why is everyone up?”

Lou sighs. “I was screaming. Mom and Dad came busting upstairs, and then we wondered why you didn’t wake up, and then they realized you were gone.”

“When was this?”

She shrugs. “Maybe half an hour ago. Where were you?”

“With the friends that everybody thinks are imaginary. What was the nightmare?”

Why didn’t they text me when they realized I was gone?

“I don’t even know now. There was breaking glass. And some body parts running after me.” She curls deeper into the blanket. “It was just scary.”

My body is icy cold. “But you can probably go back to sleep now. Can’t you?”

“Maybe.” Then she smiles. “Will you come sleep with me? Like we used to do when we were little?”

My mind speeds back to a big blanket fort we set up in her room. We must have been six and eight, something like that. We used to make blanket forts all the time, and we’d make Mom and Dad bring supper in there so we could all eat in the fort. Then we’d spend the night in it, just me and Lou, and we’d read books by flashlight and tell silly stories. It was cramped and cozy, and I remember feeling OK, like I actually did belong with them. Like my family understood me, even just for a little bit.

That stupid guilt arrow slices through me and hits a bull’s-eye right in the pit of my stomach. “Meet me on your bed. But I’m not staying.”

Lou throws off her quilt and gives me a whack on the head on her way up the stairs.

I hear my parents in the kitchen—they must be planning to behead me now—but I race up both sets of stairs before they catch me. Donna Russell’s still there, watching over the ballroom, and it doesn’t look like anything’s been taken or moved. Nobody touched the couch paintings—they’re still lined up against the wall. Luckily the only ghoulie stuff lying around is the sewing machine. The face photocopies, the mannequin parts, and the fabric are all in the closet. Once I reassure myself that my kingdom is still intact, I shut the light off and go back downstairs.

She’s got a bunch of pillows and blankets on her bed for me, which is queen-size, so two teenagers fit all right. I throw my shoes in my room and flop on the unclaimed half of her bed.

Lou’s under the covers and yawning already, so I start yawning, too.

“Thanks, Frankie.” She closes her eyes.

“You are a basket case of a girl who has too much imagination.”

“You are an egregious error of a guy who has too much ego.” She closes her eyes.

“Bonus points for alliteration.” I close mine, too.

And then it’s noon, and Lou is gone. I’m alone in her nightmare drama club room. But she was nice enough to cover me with a blanket and shut her door.