“Your parents aren’t coming?” I ask. It feels like testing a field for land mines. “We have a deal, hotshot,” she answers, refusing to look at me. “They’re busy. I can take care of the boys. Any other questions?” Thousands. Like Why are you so angry? Why do you skate like you’re on fire? Who is so bad that you listed them as DO NOT ANSWER in your phone? Are you safe? Are you okay?
