She’s got stage four cancer, she’s already plenty pitied. She doesn’t need to throw Wendy’s on top of it.

Through writing, I feel power for maybe the first time in my life. I don’t have to say somebody else’s words. I can write my own. I can be myself for once. I like the privacy of it. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s judging. Nobody’s weighing in. No casting directors or agents or managers or directors or Mom. Just me and the page. Writing is the opposite

We want nothing to do with you. Love, Mom (or should I say DEB since I am no longer your mother) P.S. Send money for a new fridge. Ours broke.

Word of mouth spread. It got to the point where Susan would phone Mom and proudly announce, “I got another call from a casting director saying, ‘So tell me about the kid who cries.’ ”

I recently started shaving my legs, too—well, Mom does it for me, because she still showers me even though I’m sixteen.

There’s something magical about this. It feels like so much is happening.

Mom showers me with Scottie sometimes. He’s almost sixteen at this point. I get really embarrassed when she showers us together. I can tell he does too. We usually just look away from each other and Scott distracts himself by drawing Pokémon in the fogged glass. He does a pretty good Charizard. When she showers us together, Mom says it’s because

Despite the talent of the choir, I’m sitting here with my eyes drooped half shut. This is the fourth church service Steven and I have gone to in a week. I didn’t even resist it. I’ve just been grateful that he’s not forcing therapy on me.

(I don’t drive since Mom says it’s probably too difficult for me and that my energy in cars could better be spent elsewhere, like “learning lines or planning tweets.”) I would never