THE INTRO TO “WE WILL ROCK YOU” bangs through my skull and into my brainwaves when I wake up the next morning. I’m disoriented for half a second before remembering I’m back in my old room. But the music doesn’t quiet. And it’s unnecessarily LOUD.

I stagger out of bed, my tired eyes still adjusting to the morning light. I didn’t sleep well. I’m nervous about starting school again, which is ridiculous. I should be bursting with joy. Last night I tried to tell myself I was worrying for nothing, but my mind didn’t drift off until around one in the morning.

I wander down the upstairs hallway only to discover that the music is accompanied by very loud, very off-key singing. The source is coming from my bathroom, where I hear Nonnie belting lyrics from under the blasting water.

“Morning!”

Peach is walking up the stairs. She looks like she started her day hours ago. Her pale hair is tied back in a French braid and she’s wearing a crisp floral blouse with a knee-length, conservative green skirt. She’s even wearing magenta heels that match her lipstick.

“You look like you could use some coffee,” she says, placing an armload of clean towels in the linen closet.

“I don’t drink coffee.” I’ve tried, but it tastes like bitter sludge. I prefer mine blended with massive amounts of sugar and mocha, which is less like coffee and more like a milkshake. A milkshake that’s socially acceptable to drink in the morning.

The music stops and the bathroom door swings open. Nonnie emerges in a pink, zebra-print bathrobe. A shower cap covers her massive curlers, and her glasses are fogged from the lingering humidity.

She smiles, gesturing toward the door. “All yours!”

I lock myself inside, eager to make my escape. The digital clock on the counter reads 6:52. Crapsticks. I’m behind schedule. I flip the shower on, annoyed. I make a mental note to tell my dad that since these are his friends, he can share his bathroom with them.

I’m not in the shower for even five minutes when the water turns cold, further cultivating my irritation. Do these people know our water heater is older than this blessed country?

When I’m done, I rush to my room and throw on some makeup, keeping it as natural as possible. Unfortunately for me, a colony of zits has invaded my forehead. I consider cutting my bangs to hide them, but then decide against it. With my luck, I’ll end up at school sporting a hack job.

I turn to the suitcases I’d shoved in the corner of my room. I can’t wear any of the clothes in there. They’re all wrinkled. I resort to my closet and rifle through the outfits I left behind. Most are winter clothes, which definitely won’t work since my weather app is reporting temperatures in the high nineties today.

The tops I do have aren’t super trendy anymore, but I settle for a coral button-down that allows my lotus charm necklace to peek out. It was a gift from Grams on my tenth birthday, and I rarely ever take it off.

I’m reaching for my hairbrush when my fingertips accidentally knock the lid off my jewelry box. Amid the thin sterling silver chains and delicate rose gold rings lie tiny notes written on Starburst wrappers from middle school that I’d carefully tucked away. All from Alex.

I’ve known Alex Ramos since kindergarten—which is about as long as he’s had a crush on me. Even though he was always lousy at hiding it, it never made things awkward. Our friendship was instantaneous.

Because of alphabetical assigned seating, we sat by each other in almost every class and always got in trouble for talking about Supernatural reruns in the middle of lectures. When we were younger, we’d borrow each other’s A Series of Unfortunate Events books and e-mail each other about our favorite parts, graduating to texting when we both got phones in seventh grade.

But I don’t want to think of Alex right now. I’m stressed enough as it is.

I close the lid of my jewelry box and let the sound of my blow dryer drown out my thoughts. When I finish, I’m hit with the scents of salty bacon and warm pancakes. If my father thinks he can win me over by cooking me breakfast on my first day of school, he’s mistaken. Besides, pancakes on the first day of school were Grams’s schtick. She would always make mine with chocolate chips, arranging them into the shape of a smiley face.

Thinking about how things were sends pangs of nostalgia through me.

My stomach gurgles with hunger. I went to bed without dinner last night, and now I’m starving. I don’t want to give in to the pancakes, but they smell heavenly.

In the end, my appetite wins. As I walk down the stairs, I hear waves of commotion coming from the kitchen. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ll be at school during the days, so for the most part I won’t have to deal with them.

I round the corner, expecting to see my dad at the stove. But it’s not him flipping flapjacks. It’s Peach.

“I hope you’re hungry!” She says this with enough cheer to fuel a small city. “Your dad’s getting ready for his big day back, too, so I decided to make my famous pancakes.”

“They’re really delightful,” Nonnie adds. She’s sitting at our kitchen table pouring a glass of orange juice. Her hair is free from the rollers, a curly mass that looks like a gray raincloud sitting atop her head. “Almost better than sex.”

Peach nearly drops the spatula. “Nonnie!”

She’s probably worried about corrupting my sweet, innocent ears. I grab a bowl from the cabinet and suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m familiar with the concept.”

“This isn’t exactly the breakfast conversation I wanted to walk into.”

Peach’s face drains of color as my dad joins us in the kitchen. He’s wearing a nice blue button-up and khaki pants. His face is clean-shaven and, if I’m being honest, it’s the healthiest he’s looked in a long time.

I decide to make this as uncomfortable as possible. If I play it up, maybe they’ll leave faster. “Yeah, I know from experience. I had loads of sex in Portland.”

Nonnie’s face lights up, clearly amused by this, but Peach looks appalled. My dad takes one look at my deadpan expression and says, “She’s kidding.”

I don’t bother clarifying. Instead, I grab a box of cereal from the pantry. Bran Flakes, gross. But I’m determined not to give in to the niceness of pancakes. I don’t want to enable them to stay any longer than they have to, and I won’t be bribed with delicious breakfast food.

I feel Peach watching me as I pour my cereal. To make up for my behavior, my dad decides to lay it on thick. “Oh man, mmmm. This looks phenomenal.”

Peach grins. She hands my father a stacked plate and passes him the syrup.

I gulp down my cereal like it’s the most delectable meal on this good earth. Nonnie watches me. She’s still wearing her floppy kitten slippers.

“Is it your plumbing that’s backed up?”

I shoot her a confused glance. “What?”

“You know.” She gestures to her stomach. “Constipation?”

I almost choke on my cereal.

“Because Bran Flakes are good for that, you know.”

Oh my god. I have to get out of here.

“Fiber helps,” she adds.

I let my empty bowl clatter in the sink. Like I’d ever take advice from someone who still wears kitten slippers.

My backpack is sitting by my desk upstairs, but when I come back downstairs I notice my keys are missing from the key rack. Weird. That’s where my dad leaves my set for the old Corolla. After he upgraded to the Nissan last year, the Corolla was promised to me once I earned my license. Since I passed my driving test in Portland, I am now legally allowed to come and go as I please.

I look on the side table, but they aren’t there, either. They’re also not on the coffee table in the living room. Sighing, I check the clock. It’s almost eight, which means I have thirty minutes to get to school and pick up my schedule. But more importantly, I have to find Whitney, Lin, and Raegan. I know when I see them the craziness of these last twenty-four hours will dissolve.

I pop my head back into the kitchen. “Where are my car keys?”

My dad chews his bite of pancakes before answering. “I don’t want you driving with your Oregon license. Everything on that car is registered in Texas.” He sets his fork down. “I’ll take you to the DMV and then you can start driving yourself. How’s that sound?”

He must be joking. I’d rather consume Bran Flakes for the rest of my life than sit through a torturous trip to the DMV with my father.

“Besides,” he continues, “I let Saylor borrow it this morning. He has an interview.”

“That’s my car.” I know I sound ungrateful, but I don’t care.

His face grows serious. “Driving is a privilege, Kira.”

Now he chooses to play the authority card? Right. He didn’t seem to care how I got to school all those months ago. I’m surprised he even knows I have my license. Aunt June must have told him. She’s the one who enrolled me in Driver’s Ed over the summer.

I cross my arms. “You could have asked me.”

His eyes harden. I know I’m pushing it. “I figured I would drop you off on the way to work.”

Anger slides up my veins. I’m going to be the only junior whose parent still drops them off curbside along with the rest of the freshmen and sophomores. No way. I refuse to look like a loser on my first day back. Besides, juniors and seniors have their own parking lot. That’s where everyone hangs out before school starts. I can’t just waltz up without a vehicle. I’ll look pathetic.

This was my one opportunity of freedom. I can already picture my dad hounding me at the DMV about everything I learned in driving school. And—oh no. Will I have to retake the test? If I do, it’ll just be another hassle that he’s caused me.

“I’ll give you a ride after breakfast,” he tells me.

I am so not ready to endure another car ride with him. “I’m walking.”

Before he has the chance to argue, I head out the door, slamming it loudly behind me.