“Did you have fun last night?” my dad asks as I step into the kitchen. Of course Pat isn’t awake. He’s not up until noon, whether or not it’s a weekend.

I give Dad a quick hug. He’s always been a big guy, Dad-shaped, and it’s satisfying to wrap your arms around him. “Not really,” I say, because honestly, last night sucked a nut. I’ve barely slept. I know it’s not totally my fault, but I feel guilty for leaving Mary on her own in the maze. If I’d been with her, standing next to her, that shit with Reeve never would have happened. Not without me breaking his other leg.

I pour us each a cup of coffee. I like mine with milk; Dad takes his black with two teaspoons of sugar. I secretly give him only one teaspoon, though, because his doctor wants him to cut back. Dad sets our plates down on the table, along with the butter dish and a jar of raspberry jelly. I prefer my toaster waffles with jelly, not syrup, and I’ve made him a convert.

“Any trick-or-treaters come by last night?” I ask. “Just the two girls down the street.”

I drop into my seat. “What were they dressed as?” Dad hunches over his plate, his classic eating posture.

“Princesses, maybe? I don’t know. They looked like pink disco balls to me.” “I hate that pink garbage,” I say. “It offends my inner Gloria Steinem. Aren’t there any little girls left in the world who want to dress up like race-car drivers or doctors?” I lift the lid off the butter dish and frown. The butter is sprinkled with someone else’s crumbs. And there’s gunk from older butter sticks congealed on the bottom, because the dish hasn’t been washed in a while. I take my knife and scrape the stick into the trash, put the butter dish on top of the pile of dirty dishes already filling the sink, and then get a new stick out of the fridge. It can stay in the wrapper for now.

Dad looks up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say, and reach for the jelly. The jar is sticky, and the lid isn’t on right. This is Pat’s doing; he always makes PB and Js when he’s high. I set it down on the table with a thud.

“What’s the problem, daughter?”

“Nothing,” I say, even though I clearly am pissed. “How’s the canoe? You going to finish it this week?”

Dad nods. “The guy who bought it doesn’t even want to sail it. He wants to hang it on the wall in his beach house. Isn’t that nuts? All that money for a decoration. She’s seaworthy, though.”

I’m not listening. I’m looking around our kitchen. It’s freaking gross. A pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, old newspapers and mail stacked on the counter, the front of the stove splattered with hellfire chili.

Dad downs the rest of his coffee. “You cheated me out of my sugar, Katherine.” He pushes back from the table, and that’s when I notice what he’s got on his feet.

“Daaaad, what the hell?” I start laughing. “You’d better not go out in public like that.”

He looks back at me, confused. I point to his feet—he’s paired a black athletic ankle sock with a light blue dress sock that’s supposed to be worn with suits.

Dad shrugs and gets the sugar bowl. “I couldn’t find clean socks that matched—so what? What do I care? I’m not looking to impress anyone.”

Poor Dad. It’s true. He’s not looking to impress anyone. He hasn’t had one single date since Mom died. Not that I’m jonesing for a stepmom, but it’s been five years now. I don’t want him to be alone forever. He deserves a good woman.

I guess the problem is that we both know there isn’t a woman out there that could ever be better than Judy.

“I’ll do the laundry today.” It’s not like I have set chores or anything, but I tend to take care of the laundry, because I’m the only one who gives enough of a shit to sort colors.

Dad waves me off. “Kat, I know you’re busy with school. Don’t worry.”

He’s right. I have been busy. But that’s not a good excuse. I need to make time to help out around the house while I’m still living here.

I hammer my two waffles, finish my coffee, and then go on a cleaning tear. I wipe down the kitchen, do dishes until the drying rack is full, change out the towels in the bathroom, put in a load of laundry for Dad. All the while, Pat is asleep on the couch in the den. When I come in with the vacuum, he barely rolls over.

Freaking scrub.

I get so pissed, I ram the vacuum cleaner into the couch and basically shake him awake.

“Oh, pardon me,” I say in my bitchiest voice, when he finally opens his eyes.

“What’s your problem?”

“You need to start helping out around the house more.”

“Whatever, Kat. Go take a Midol. Shouldn’t you be at school anyway?”

He reaches for the afghan but I pull it off him. Freaking scrub is in his tighty-whiteys.

“There’s no school today! Look around, Pat! Our house is a shithole. What would Mom say?”

“Mom wouldn’t say anything. She’d clean it up.”

“Yeah, well. Guess what? I’m not Mom. And I’m about to peace out for college, and I don’t want to have to worry about you and Dad living in a pile of garbage!”

Pat stretches his arms over his head and growls. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

I point down at the coffee table. It’s covered in Pat’s racing magazines and some carburetor parts laid out on a greasy page of newspaper. “Clean up your shit.”

Pat sniffs the air. “Is that toaster waffles?” He groans to his feet and shuffles out of the den.

I go to my room before I explode. I pick up my phone. It’s been almost two hours, but Lillia hasn’t texted me back. I text her again, and then get dressed. When she still hasn’t responded, I start calling her over and over.

She finally picks up on the fourth try. Her voice is scratchy. “Hey,” she says. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon. Why are you still sleeping?”

She moans. “I’m hungover.”

I don’t know why, but this pisses me off. “Well, I’m going to Mary’s house. You coming?”

“Of course I’m coming.” She starts coughing. Or maybe dry heaving. I can’t tell. And it makes me feel bad. “Do I have time to shower?”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

To kill time, I head to Milky Morning and pick up three cupcakes, one for each of us. I stop and get Lillia a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, too, because the grease will be good for her hangover.