“You just don’t look,” Palmer said diplomatically, “you know . . . like yourself.” She frowned at my T-shirt. “What are you even wearing?”

Tom looked at it and shook his head. “Like you know what the Luminosity is,” he scoffed. “Since when do you read fantasy?”

“Since when do you?” I asked, surprised.

“Um, since last year,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me. “Palmer told me I had to read something other than plays.”

“This is true,” Palmer said. She picked up a fry from the plate in front of her, then nudged it toward me. “Want one?”

“So what is the Luminosity?” I asked, relaxing back against the seat. This was what I’d wanted. I didn’t want to think about my dad or the fact that the longer I stayed away from home, the more in trouble I was getting. I wanted to lose myself in conversation and French fries and deal with things at home only when I was sure I could handle them.

“It’s a part of the novels of C. B. McCallister,” Tom said, his voice going slightly pompous and professory. “He’s a fantasy writer—”

“Oh, I know,” I said, looking down at the shirt, wondering if this was another fan thing of Clark’s.

“What do you mean you know?” Tom asked, frowning at me.

“Because I know him,” I said, basically just to see Tom’s jaw drop. “It’s Clark.”

“Wait, what?” Palmer asked, leaning forward.

“I’m sorry—Dogboy is C. B. McCallister?” Tom asked, his voice hitting a register I hadn’t heard since he’d been in A Little Night Music.

“Clark,” Palmer corrected him.

“I thought his name was Gertnz . . . something.”

“Me too,” I said, as I snagged a fry off the plate and dipped it into the ketchup. “It turns out I was mistaken.”

“I don’t understand,” Tom said, staring at me. “Why didn’t you tell us this?”

“I didn’t know until last night,” I said, reaching across the table to steal a sip of Palmer’s vanilla Coke. “I felt the same way you did. Only not as impressed, since I didn’t really know who that was.”

“I don’t either,” Palmer said, turning to Tom. “Who is that?”

“Only a master of the craft,” Tom said, his voice rising again. “He’s . . .” Tom stopped suddenly, his eyes widening at something behind me.

“What?” I asked, taking another fry. Palmer was looking behind me too and had gone very still.

“Um,” Palmer said, sitting up a little straighter, “Andie, your dad is here?”

I whipped around in my seat and saw my dad, standing by the hostess podium, his eyes searching the room, not looking any less mad. “Oh my god,” I said as anger, embarrassment, and fear all jostled to be my primary emotion at the moment. My dad met my eye across the restaurant and headed directly toward me. Even crossing a slightly run-down diner, he had the air of someone important, someone who knew what he was doing, and I watched a busboy step out of his path to let him pass. Both Tom and Palmer looked baffled, but I realized I had no way to tell them what had happened before he got here. “Sorry about this,” I muttered, knowing it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

“Hello,” my dad said as he approached the table. He had his friendly candidate voice back, but I realized there was still real anger underneath it. “Palmer, how lovely to see you again so soon. And . . .” He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “Harrison, as well.”

“Tom,” Tom said, half standing and extending a hand to my dad. Tom had always been a little dazzled by him, simply because he was on TV occasionally. Even though he was just being himself, and not acting, this didn’t seem to matter to Tom. “Or Harrison. That’s fine too. So nice to see you, sir.”

“You as well,” my dad said, shaking Tom’s hand and giving him a smile that crinkled his eyes in the corners, looking for all the world like he was just delighted to talk to him. But then he turned to me and it all fell away. “I need you to get back home,” he said, his voice low and not inviting any arguments. “Now.”

I swallowed hard and nodded—I knew when I was beaten. I’d known I’d have to go home and face the music eventually, I just thought I’d be doing it on my terms. “I should go,” I said quietly to Tom and Palmer, who both nodded. I could see Palmer was asking me silently if I was okay, and I just gave her a tiny nod. “See you guys soon.” I slid out of the booth.

“Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” my dad said, his smile and friendly tone undercutting what he was saying. “Andie’s going to be grounded for a while.”

I felt my face get hot, and I had to look away from Palmer’s expression of sympathy, because it was making things worse. I just hoped nobody else in the diner had heard, especially Frank. It was embarrassing enough to be humiliated like this without the class president seeing it happen. “Bye,” I muttered to both of them, then walked toward the front door, keeping my head down, needing to get out of there as fast as possible.

My dad followed behind me down the steps while I looked straight ahead and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. “Let’s go,” he said, pointing at his SUV, parked on the street next to the diner.