When my mom finally walks in the door at nine-fifteen, she acts like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Where have you been?” I ask. “Dad and I have been worried sick. And now Grandma’s upset too.”

“What are you talking about? You knew I was going to my pilates class. What’s Grandma upset about?”

“We were worried because it’s dark out and no one knew where you were.”

It’s me who’s doing the talking, but Mom looks right past me and glares at Dad.

“Who called my mother?”

“I thought you might have dropped in there,” he says. “You were later than you usually are.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I got home this late,” I say.
“Maybe that’s because you’re only thirteen. I’m twenty-eight. There’s supposed to be a difference.”

“I don’t see why. Grandma always tells me it’s important to be dependable. If you aren’t and no one knows when you’re going to show up, you could get raped, murdered, and thrown into a ditch, and your family would just think you were late again. No one would even call the police.”

“Like I could be so lucky,” she says.

“I just got worried when you weren’t home by nine o’clock,” Dad says. “I mean, the gym is only a five minute drive from here and I knew the class was over at eight. I allowed twenty minutes for you to shower and change ...”

“Gina and I went to Starbucks for a coffee. So call the cops, get together a search party, or just shoot me – I don’t care! But don’t call my mother!”

“Starbucks?” Dad says. “What did you have?”

“Coffee. Just a regular coffee.”

“They call it a tall, I think.”

“Who cares what they call it?”

Mom is raising her voice again. I don’t know why she gets all twisted out of shape by Dad making a simple observation like that.

“You know,” he says. “The tall at Starbucks is twelve ounces and it’s expensive. You can get a sixteen ounce coffee at McDonald’s or A&W for just over a dollar.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” my mom wails.

“Grandma says it’s always better to bring friends home, and I bet it would be even cheaper if you’d waited ’til you got back here to have coffee,” I say.

“One little mistake when I’m fourteen and my whole life is ruined. I don’t know what’s worse: being married to a walking spreadsheet or being doomed to live with a doppelgänger of my mother.”

“What’s a doppelgänger?” I ask.

“Look it up in the dictionary,” she says.

I want to tell her it would be much faster if she’d just tell me herself, but she goes stomping out of the kitchen and heads upstairs. I get the dictionary.