You'll Be the Death of Me

by Karen M. McManus

Daniel, despite being sixteen, has the cereal tastes of a toddler.

I used to think I did plenty to help around the house. More than my friends, anyway. But now that my mother is at maybe half her usual capacity, facts have to be faced: Former Mateo did jack shit.

But Ma’s always been the adult who Gets Shit Done.

“I said later, Ivy,” I say, my voice rising along with my temper. This isn’t eighth grade, when I’d do whatever the hell Ivy wanted just because she asked.

“Um, if this is a declaration of love, I’m happy for you,” Cal says as he starts the car. “But it’s going to get super awkward for me.”