“Where are you going?” I ask. “Breakfast with Uncle Nero.” “I don’t know if that’s worth dressing up for,” I say. “Since he’s probably gonna show up in coveralls.” “I’m not taking tips from somebody wearing moon boots.” My dad frowns, shaking his head at my sneakers. “What the hell are those?” “They’re . . . fashion!” my mom says, doing jazz hands. “They’re the re-drop of the Nike Air Mag,” I inform him. “They only made eighty-nine pairs. I could sell these for thirty-five thousand dollars right now. Used!” “I will pay you thirty-five thousand dollars if I never have to look at them again,” my
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