My mom and I do the bag brigade into the house. Two bags each, plus our own personal bags (my backpack, her briefcase), and my mom is carrying Fern. I personally think: a) Fern is too old to be carried, and b) my mom secretly hopes Fern will be a baby forever.

My dad is making dinner. Wednesday night is taco night. His hair smells like taco meat, technically turkey with the spice packet, when I hug him. “How was your day, Champ?” he asks.

“ROCKY!” I yell, which is not my answer. Rocky is our dog, and his head plus his two front legs are in the bag I just put down.

“Rocky, where’s Fern? Go see Fern! Good boy, find Fern!”

“Nice one, Kate! I don’t think I ever used you as dog bait!”

Meet my sister Robin.

Things I could say:

 

It is hard to argue—CORRECTION—WIN an argument with someone who is fifteen.

“How was Mrs. Lawrence?” Robin asks. “Did you say hi for me?”

“Mrs. Lawrence is retiring,” I answer.

“Yes, it was a big surprise,” my mom chimes in from the other side of the kitchen. “But Mrs. Staughton is going to make a wonderful leader!”

“Mrs. Staughton, the gym sub? Wait, what did we used to call her—?”

“Never mind!” my mother interrupts. “Kate, why don’t you go feed Rocky?”

Translation: Kate, why don’t you scoot, skedaddle, go on and run along?

Rocky has eaten the same thing:

After I feed Rocky, I go up to my room. Technically it’s Fern’s room, too, but Fern is never in it before dinner.

My flute is where I purposely left it this morning. I take it out to practice. Rocky actually likes my band tryout piece. His ears won’t tolerate anything that goes above a high C; Bach’s Minuet in G never goes above the G.

“Dinner in fifteen!” my dad yells up.

Rocky and I go downstairs. “Sounding very good, Champ,” my dad says. He is lighting the candles, which is normal at our house. We have candles every night, because according to Grammalolo, and according to my mother, who was raised by Grammalolo, candlelight makes children more peaceful at the dinner table.