“We’re all different,” Rodney jumped in, looking like he was one of the few people holding it together. I was glad he’d spoken up, but also concerned that the camera had now focused on him, and he was sitting next to Linnie, who currently had a throw pillow pressed against her face, her shoulders shaking.

“Yes,” Mike jumped in, and I could see that the corners of his mouth were twitching. “Like, in the strip, my name is Mark. But my name is actually Mike.” J.J. burst out laughing, then coughed several times to try to disguise it, which didn’t work, even a little bit.

“Moving on,” Jackson said, his smile faltering a little as he looked around at us, clearly wondering just where he’d ended up. “Grant Central Station did such a wonderful job of showing this family that everyone wanted to be a part of.”

“Not everyone,” I said, without even thinking about it. I was still on the verge of bursting out laughing on national television, but it was like we were all strapped into a roller coaster that was only going one way. It was like the punchy energy that was currently coming from every member of my family except Rodney was taking me there. I pointed to Mike. “Not him.”

“Right,” Mike said, raising an eyebrow at me. “Not so much with me. In fact, this weekend is the first time I’ve been home in over a year.”

“Ah,” Jackson said, squinting at the monitor like it would have some answers for him. “Yes, there was some . . . controversy.”

“I shouldn’t have done that interview,” Mike said, his smile fading as he looked across to my mom. “I’m sorry I did.”

“Well . . .” My mom paused, then smiled at him. “You made some good points. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.” I looked between them, and it was like in this disastrous interview, live on national television, I could see them both lowering their guard, agreeing on détente.

“But what a great family,” Jackson said, his smile more like a grimace. “All their adventures . . . Waffles the dog . . .” On my lap, Waffles started growling as he looked at the boom mic operator, and Jackson drew back, alarmed.

“It’s always interesting,” J.J. said, grinning. “But really not perfect.”

“Nope,” my mother said, shaking her head, as Linnie, finally pulling herself together, raised her head from the pillow and smoothed her hair back.

“I mean, they’re getting a divorce,” I said, pointing to my parents, who looked at me with alarm, which set Linnie off again, and she pressed her face back into the pillow, her shoulders shaking.

“And just last night,” J.J. went on, “we almost got arrested!”

“You what?” my parents asked in unison, sounding horrified, which was enough to make me burst out laughing.

“Not me,” I said, trying to control myself and failing. “Just the guys.”

“Well, that’s not going to make the funny pages,” Jackson said, clearly grasping at straws. Jill, looking like she was on the verge of an aneurysm, was making the wrap it up motion with her hand.

“Could you imagine?” Linnie asked, still giggling. “It would be like Grant Central Station goes dark. Like, Cassie joins a biker gang and Waffles attacks the mailman.”

“A.J. gets in too deep on the ponies,” J.J. added, laughing, “and Donny starts insider trading.”

I covered my mouth, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop laughing, and I couldn’t help but notice how nice it felt—not trying to make everything perfect. Not trying to fit into some preconceived image. All the members of the Grant family were finally—in front of the entire country—being real.

“Well, I think that’s all the time we have here,” Jackson said, his tone now very annoyed and no longer trying to hide it. “So—”

“Wait,” I said, looking down at Waffles. “The dog! Someone adopt him!”

“Yes!” J.J. yelled, picking him up from my lap and holding him up, like this was the beginning of The Lion King. “This isn’t even our dog! We don’t have a dog! It’s all a lie!”

Just then the kitchen door slammed. “Whoops,” I heard my uncle Stu say. A second later, the alarm started going off.

“Gah!” The sound guys ripped off their headphones, and the boom operator fumbled the boom mic, which swung down into the shot. Waffles, maybe seeing his chance, leaped straight up in the air after it and landed on Jackson, who shrieked.

We were all laughing hysterically at this point, the alarm was wailing, and Waffles was barking ferociously at the boom mic. “The final strip of Grant Central Station is in newspapers today,” Jackson screamed to be heard over the alarm, as the crew ran around frantically behind the cameras, clearly trying to get it to shut off. “Bob?” he yelled, throwing it back to the anchor in New York.

“And we’re out,” Jill yelled, sounding disgusted. But I didn’t care about that—or about the fact that Jackson Goodman was storming out of our family room, or that the alarm was still going off. I was still laughing, with little hiccups punctuating each one, and Rodney was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. I met Mike’s eye, which set us off again, and like he wanted to join in, Waffles threw back his head and started to howl.

* * *

“So, how soon do you think we’ll be asked back?” my mother said, raising her eyebrows over her mug of coffee. We’d all pulled ourselves together, somewhat. Our performance had caused a lot of commentary from the people who’d been watching it—and in the middle of Liz lecturing us about how we’d disrespected Jackson Goodman, my phone had buzzed with a text.

Siobhan

OH MY GOD CHARLIE

WHAT THE FORK WAS THAT?

FORK

What the duck

DUCK!!

Anyway—what happened?

It was the best/worst/best thing I’ve ever seen

Did you get Jackson’s autograph for me??

We’d all ended up in the kitchen. The wedding guests were spread out in the dining room and family room, drinking coffee and eating donuts and offering theories as to why the Grant family had suddenly decided to collectively go off the rails on national television. Occasionally, someone would wander into the kitchen for more coffee—or mimosas, in the Jennys’ case—but for the moment, it was just the seven of us and Rodney.

“I bet not anytime soon,” Mike said, raising his eyebrows. “Though I hope we can get a copy of it for posterity.”

“No need,” J.J. said, shaking his head. “You know that’s going to be all over the Internet.”

“Oh, good,” Rodney said with a sigh. “Just what I wanted.”

“Wait,” Linnie said, looking around. “Did they take the papers with them? We never got to see the last strip.”

“I can show it to you,” my mother said, gesturing out toward the office. “I have the original, you know.”

“I kind of want to see it in the actual paper,” Mike said, and Danny nodded too. I felt the same way—we’d waited so long for this, it didn’t seem right to see the print my mom would have in her office, uninked, with penciled-in numbers for the colorist. I wanted to see out the Grants’ story properly—in the comic section of our paper, the way I’d been reading it my whole life.

“We got the paper,” I said, and Mike nodded.

“We finally got one?” my dad asked, eyebrows flying up.

I nodded. “We were falsely accusing Sarah Stephens.” I looked around, finally spotting it on the kitchen counter under an empty donut box and shaking it out of its plastic wrapper. “Don’s been stealing it this whole time.”

“Don?”

“Don,” Mike confirmed.

“Really?” my mother asked, not sounding upset by this, but intrigued.

I gave her a look. “You’re upset you can’t write about this, aren’t you?”

“Well . . . ,” my mother said and then laughed. “I mean . . . it just would have been such a nice ending to the Sophie plotline.” She shrugged. “Ah well.”

Silence fell, and we all looked at the paper sitting on the counter. There, folded inside, was the way my mom had chosen to end the Grants’ story.