I stand on the marble floors, my finger itching at the space between my collar and my neck. I’m in a suit and tie, and I feel like a jackhole. Probably look like one, too. “Tell me again why I’m dressed like this?” I ask Dad, but he’s too busy talking with Cameron about the architecture and age of the building.

Lucy rolls her eyes at them and stands in front of me. Her belly presses against my leg when she reaches up to adjust my tie. “Quit messing around with it. And you’re dressed like this because… because I don’t know why. But it’s a big deal for Lachlan, so suck it up, Princess Asshole.”

We’re standing in the foyer of St. Luke’s Academy, the only private school within a fifty-mile radius, waiting to get into the theater. During the four months I’d been gone, Lachlan’s started entering some art contests. He’s been doing as well with his art as he does with his running. This contest, according to Lachlan, is his most important one yet. He submitted his own work—work no one in the family has seen—and it made the final cut. Tonight, they announce the winner.

Lachlan’s already in the theater, on his own, getting judged. They do this in private because, and this is crazy, the organization fears that parents will sabotage the competitions’ pieces. I can’t even deal with how ridiculous that is. I stare down at Lucy, still fiddling with my tie. “Can you not be an annoying, over-the-top parent?”

The door to the theater opens before she can respond, and all the guests form a line to file through one by one. “The tickets are allocated seats,” Dad says over his shoulder. “Lachlan arranged them.” He stops by the door to reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of tickets the size of my head. He starts rambling off our names, one by one, handing us the tickets with our names written in blue pen. “Lucy, Cameron, Lucas, Laney, Leo, Lincoln, Liam.”

Behind us, people start complaining that we’re holding up the line. Lucy glares. “Would you chill the fuck out?”

The asshole behind me says, “Nice. You plan on kissing your baby with that filthy mouth, sweetheart?”

If you ever want to see the fear in a man’s eyes from the threats of six men over six feet tall, get him to say something shitty to the men’s daughter/sister/wife. I step forward, “Say that again.”

Dad takes my arm. “Forget him. Here’s your ticket.”

A woman mumbles, “Damn Preston Punks.”

Lucy yells, “Whore!”

And then we’re being ushered to our row, a discombobulation of bodies all trying to find their allocated seats.

“Ten minutes until it starts,” Dad says, sitting down next to me. “Let’s try not to get into any verbal or physical altercations, okay?”

I stand to remove my jacket, loosen my tie. Too many people. Too little space. I feel like I’m suffocating. Luckily, the seat next to mine, an aisle seat, is empty. I hope it stays that way.

Fifteen minutes later, the lights dim. A few minutes after that, Lachlan, along with five other kids, walks onto the stage. It takes a few seconds for my family and me to realize that we’re the only ones standing and clapping. So… this is nothing like Lachlan’s track meets. Noted.

An old man with a gray beard waits for us to be seated before adjusting the microphone on a podium. “Welcome to The Fifteenth Annual—”

The door to the theater opens, shuts, the sound echoing through the room. The old man sighs into the microphone. “We’re on a schedule here, young lady.”

Lucy, on the other side of Dad, whispers, “Someone should really remove the pole up this guy’s ass.”

Dad shakes his head.

I push his elbow off the armrest. “That’ll be you in a few years, grumpy old man.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Hey, Luce,” I whisper yell and wait for her to lean forward, past Dad, to look at me. “Should we start planning Chicken’s third birthday party?”

Dad grumbles.

I laugh.

The woman in front of me turns, glares, tells us to pipe down.

Lucy opens her mouth to retort, but stops, her eyes wide and focused on something behind me. “Oh, my God…”

I look over my shoulder.

Scarlet.

Upon scarlet.

Upon scarlet.