I wanted to call Norris early, because you have to give him time to get used to new things, like seeing me when it wasn’t his idea. And I wanted to line up dinner, because if there’s one thing my dad can do it’s eat out. So during homeroom break, I ran across the street to a laundromat and got him on their pay phone. He said, “Jennifer, how nice,” in that deep, slow, just-waking-up voice that probably drives women crazy. He is the only person in the world who calls me Jennifer—never once Jenny, even when I wouldn’t answer to Jennifer, not for months. Norris is incredible at getting people to be the way he wants, wearing them down just by being the way he is. It works with everybody except Sally, as far as I know.

“I was hoping I could come over after school,” I said. I still hate the way I get when I talk to my father. As well as I know him, as much as I keep thinking I’ve changed, and if he called right this minute, while I’m writing, I’d sound like a fan, for God’s sake— even my voice would get sweaty. Norris must have been expecting me, though, because he hardly hesitated at all before he said, “Absolutely. I’ve been wild for you to see the new place. There’s even a guest room for weird daughters, if you know any.”

“I’ll check around,” I said. “See you about four. Somebody wants the phone, I have to go.” There wasn’t anybody waiting, but I didn’t want Norris to pick up my anxiety vibes. He’s really, really quick about that—he knows when you want something, almost before you know. But I remember I felt hopeful all the same, because of the guest room. Because of him mentioning the guest room.

At lunch I sat with Jake Walkowitz and Marta, like always, since third grade. You couldn’t miss our table—Jake’s tall and freckled and white as a boiled egg, and unless he’s changed a whole lot in six years he probably still looks like he goes maybe eighty-five pounds. Marta’s tiny, and she’s very dark, and she’s got something genetic with one shoulder, or maybe it’s her back, I never was sure, so she walks just a little lopsided. Then you add in me, looking like a fire hydrant with acne, and you figure out why the three of us always ate lunch together. But we liked each other. Not that it matters much when you’re stuck with each other like that, but we did.