“As if you ever ask me what I want,” Joe bawls.

“Oh, come on! I was standing right next to you. I told you I was going to call them,” my mother retorts.

Of course, they’re blocking the only door with their wind-milling hands and scarlet faces. What is this? The final exam for wannabe Houdinis? I never signed up to be a magician.

Instinctively, I duck under the tablecloth. The white walls of cloth creating a sort of sanctuary with their soft purity. Something crashes down on the table. Both of them are enraged beyond coherency. Joe mocks, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” in a child’s voice. My mother splutters, her voice shrill and garbled.

Blood boiling, I hiss, “What the hell is their problem?” The tan wood of the table doesn’t reply. I think of Talise’s drawn face. Don’t they see her uneasiness? Even Aiden can tell she’s been acting out of character and, as far as I can tell, it’s their fault. A wave of outraged justice engulfs me. I want to get out from under the table and scream at them. All of us have been dancing around my mother and Joe for the past week. How is it fair for us? If any of us got into a fight like this, they wouldn’t put up with it. Kyla doesn’t whack Aiden or holler at him like this. I hate them. They’re hypocrites. Why the hell did they get married if all they do is fight?

Blazing with righteous fury, I lunge out from under the table. “HOW CAN Y—”

Spencer shrieks.

She backpedals into a wall and hits her head against a shelf. “Spencer!” Her fair hair wafts around her face as she simultaneously gasps and groans, holding her head. “A—are you okay? I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know it was you.”  Still leaning against the neutral walls, she sinks to the floor.

"I think I’m alright," she informs me weakly, batting away my concerned hands. It would be so easy to wrap her up in my arms. Reaching out, I withdraw my hands when she pulls away. I examine them for any sign of the poison that she shrinks from. i don’t find it.

"What are you doing here?"

"We’re having dinner here." Again, really? After what happened last time? "To talk my parents into letting me go with Aiden to Las Vegas. Your mother invited us. I think Aiden asked her to."

"Oh—hey, where did Joe and my mother go?" I wonder, realizing that we’re alone.

"Your mother’s in the foyer. Your father—"

"Stepfather."

"Stepfather," she gives me a pointed look. What did I do? "Left when we came in. He said he had to go somewhere."

"Oh." There’s silence. Silence seems to be a re-occurring theme in my life. The last time we were this close, we were both angry. I remember it clearly, the burning rage, the need for her to just leave me alone. It just doesn’t make any sense anymore. I don’t understand why I was mad or how I stayed mad for so long. Try as I might to gather up the lingering dredges of fury, I can’t make them stick. To be angry at her feels more grueling than—I don’t know, okay? I just don’t know. I never know anything, especially when it comes to her and how she seems to know everything.

It feels disjointed and misshapen and malformed and a whole bunch other stuff too.

For me, at least.

She gets up without looking at me. Guess it doesn’t bother her too much that we can’t even look at each other. We stand there awkwardly, casting our eyes around everything but each other. I think I feel sick. Perhaps skipping dinner and lying down for a while would be a good idea.

She makes a noise, and I look up to find her pinning me with her eyes. "Ash—"

Our families stream into the room.