Page 88 of Dropping the Ball

“I’m imagining borderline emo high school Micah working on that discarded nightstand the way you did schoolwork.”

I smile. “How did I do schoolwork?”

“Patient. Thorough. Meticulous. Had to be the same when you fixed that nightstand.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“I can picture you bringing that money to him. You were a great kid.”

“I was raised by a great neighborhood.”

“Sounds like it.”

The thing about chosen family is they will also choose the people you bring them. “Katie, if Thanksgiving is going to be that stressful, come to ours. A few families on the street get together. It’s low-key. Paper plates. No one asking you for a gala report. You’re welcome at our table, friend.”

I rest my chin on her head and feel her tiny sigh.

“It sounds nice. Our Thanksgiving is fancy. China. Silverware. Linen napkins. Our nice clothes. Stuffy. Armstrong stuff is always high-key. But it will have one thing yours won’t.”

“What’s that?”

“My baby niece.”

“I withdraw my bid.”

“Other than that, I’m dreading it.”

“I can be your wingman.” After her description of the dinner after our class ranks changed, I don’t want her to face down her parents alone. “I’ll back you up if they give you a hard time about the auction.”

Starch again. She straightens, creating a gap that makes my chest cold where she’d been resting.

“I’m not telling them.”

“Are you that scared?”

She moves away, standing to stretch, and doesn’t answer.

“Kaitlyn.”

“I’m not scared of my family.”

“I meant scared of asking them for help.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Fine.” It’s not fine, but I know this look. I’ve been locked out. I cross my ankles and choose to stay loose. “What’s worse? Failing or asking for their help?”

“I don’t have the bandwidth to sit and dissect my failures while I’m actively failing with Drake Braverman right now.” She shoves her hands through her hair, and it’s only the second time besides zombie night that I’ve seen it anything less than sleek.

Drake Braverman. I take her in again, noting the details. A dress, a lot different than the suits I see her in for work. It’s so pretty on her. She looks strong—sheisstrong—but also soft in a way she never dresses around me. I don’t like it.

It’s not my place to not like it, but I can’t help the words that come out of my mouth. “This was all for Drake Braverman? Got it.”

She gives me the look my question deserves—mild disgust that quickly turns to cool distance—and doesn’t bother responding. Just sits in the opposite corner, leans back, and closes her eyes.

I wish she would yell. The silence is harder. But that’s an old impulse. My mom’s silence always scared me more than her angry manic phases. At least when she was yelling, I knew she was stillthere.

This silence from Kaitlyn, it feels weaponized.

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