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I did actually agree with that diagnosis. My parents made me on a hot summer night after they had both had too much to drink. My father let that little detail out once when they were arguing over something stupid like how much of his money my mother spent on fresh flowers, especially in the winter. I happened to overhear it.

“Maybe I was just dying to be born, and there was nothing you could do about it,” I offered dryly.

She pulled herself up, primping like a proud peacock. Then, as cool as a brain surgeon, she stepped out of the little comfort room and spoke to Mrs. Miller.

“Do you think she is in any sort of condition for a meeting with the principal?” she asked, hoping to hear no, of course.

Mrs. Miller rose and came to the room.

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; She grabbed my shoulders and turned me to her as I stood, and then she shook her head.

“What gets into you kids these days?” she asked.

“Aliens?” I responded. “Through our belly buttons, I think,” I added.

Mrs. Miller nearly smiled.

“She’s fine, Mrs. Sommers. She’ll probably have a good headache all day. Give her some Advil at home.”

“I think it would be better if she suffered all day and appreciated the damage she is doing to herself,” my sweet, loving mother replied.

Mrs. Miller looked like she agreed.

“Come along, Teal,” Mother said, and I started out.

“Your books,” Mrs. Miller reminded me. “Mrs. Tagler brought them in after you arrived.”

“Oh. Sorry,” I said. I really meant sorry she had brought them in, but Mrs. Miller smiled and handed them to me.

I continued after Mother, who tapped the corridor floor tiles with the sharp heels of her shoes like some drum roll as she reluctantly led me back to the principal’s office to be executed in red ink. I remained a good yard or so behind her, imagining an invisible rope tied to my neck, which was used to tug me through life itself.

“How is she doing?” Mrs. Tagler asked my mother when we entered.

“Rather badly, I would say, wouldn’t you?” Mother replied, her lips slicing a thin red line in her face. I always thought that for an expert on cosmetics, Mother wore her lipstick too thick.

Mrs. Tagler rose without speaking and went into the principal’s office. Mother turned to me, shaking her head.

“I was on my way to have lunch with Carson,” she said. My brother, who was nearly fifteen years older than me, was already running the business affairs division of my father’s real estate development company. He had his own townhouse and was practically engaged to the daughter of a wealthy banker.

Carson was everything they would want me to be, I thought. He is Mr. Briefcase, a suit and a tie with a perfectly designed manikin within, Mr. Perfect who uses a Waterpik after every meal. I called him my father’s second shadow, especially when it came to business.

Our father specialized in malls and entertainment centers, and it had made him—us—very wealthy, millionaires a few times over. At the end of the fiscal year, Carson liked to break it down to how many dollars were made per minute. I suppose in my case it was how many dollars were wasted every minute.

We lived in a full-blown estate house with nearly twelve acres, an Olympic-size swimming pool, and a clay tennis court, which only Carson used occasionally. The property was walled in and gated.

“I’m sorry I spoiled your day,” I told my mother.

When Mr. Croft asked for examples of understatement once, I raised my hand and said, “My mother favors my brother over me.” Worships would have been more like it.

“My day?” She laughed. “It’s more than one day you’ve spoiled, Teal,” she added.

I looked up at her sharply and felt tears trying to introduce themselves to my eyes. Only my own ever-present boil of rage kept that from happening.

The principal’s door opened before I could say anything, and we were ushered in. Mr. Bloomberg did not get up when we entered, and I could see that bothered my mother. He was trying to make a point, however. The point was, this was definitely not a social occasion.

“Please have a seat,” he said, nodding at the chairs Mrs. Tagler must have just placed directly in front of his marble-topped, immaculate-looking desk. Everything was so neatly organized, I felt like wiping my hands through the piles of papers and files before sitting and knocking them all about. Of course, I didn’t.