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“Sure, but even going to college, you could end up with a career you don’t like, so then who cares if you’re making more money? And then you’re also going into debt before your life even really begins because you have to pay the bank for an education that might not even be valuable to you in the long run. And all this for an uncertain future? Nah, I’m starting over here.” I slam my little green car with the mandatory puppy onto the board, knocking over a stack of cards.

“Hmm,” Etta says again, pursing her lips this time. “While I’m curious to unpack that, I need this hour of kid time to count so I’m off the hook for the rest of the day.”

“There’s nothing to unpack,” I spit out. “It’s just strategy.”

“Sure,” she says, moving her little pink car to the starting line.

We start to spin and flip cards as we move through the board, Etta checking her watch every five minutes. I end up being a professional athlete (as if) and my sister is a secret agent (very possible). And yeah, her stack of bills is much more significant than mine, but that’s not because she chose the college path. It’s because she keeps getting stupid cards like “You win a beautiful forehead contest, collect ten million dollars,” while I keep getting ones like “You’re fired for sneaking your cat into work, pay a billion dollars and also you have no friends.”

I get to another little stop sign, and Etta tries to hand me another peg, blue this time. “Time to get married.”

I eye that thing suspiciously because I’ve been through too much this past week (hell, my whole life) to trust any more boys, even if they are plastic.

“Yeah, I’m not getting married.”

“You have to,” she huffs. “It’s in the rules, Lenore.”

“Well, I think we need to question the values of this game, then,” I say, taking the blue peg from her and tossing it across the room. “Why do I need a husband to be successful? Some people just don’t find a partner and fall in love and that’s okay—it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with them. In fact, it means there’s something wrong with the boys. Maybe you should write a paper about the misogyny of this game, huh? I won’t tell Mom and Dad.”

Etta blinks at me. The “hmmm” is unspoken this time but still very much present.

“Okay, maybe this is getting too real,” I concede.

As if summoned by their names, our parents appear at my door, and Etta jumps to spin the rainbow wheel, clapping her hands excitedly. “Whoo boy, this is fun!” she laughs, fooling absolutely no one.

Mom is still wearing her church clothes from the early morning service she went to with Grandma Lenore. And Dad is in a navy suit because he’s been at the office all morning. He always works at least one weekend day—he has for as long as I can remember. It sucks that he has to work so much, but this isactually an improvement because when I was really young, he used to go in both days. He had to in order to give himself a leg up as the only Black man working at the corporate firm. This vacation will be his first real one since Etta was born.

“Lenore, can we speak to you for a minute?” Mom asks, and her tone makes me look up and really take in their faces. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pressed in so tight that they’re nonexistent. And Dad looks tired because of course he does, but there’s something else there. His jaw is jutted out, and his eyes are zeroed in on me.

What the hell? I just graduated! With honors! How am I in trouble already?

“We need to have a talk,” Dad says, emphasizing those last two words in a way that’s very familiar.

They don’t just want to talk to me. They want to have a Talk. You know, like the Sex Talk, the Police Talk, and the Why We Can’t Listen to “I Believe I Can Fly” Anymore Talk. Capital T.

“Sure,” I say, looking over at Etta, expecting her to leave. But she spins the wheel again and moves her pink car along the board.

“I’m going to keep playing without Lenore then, because you guys told me that I only have to do this for an hour, and this counts.”

I laugh, expecting Mom and Dad to join in, but they just look at me with their serious, scary faces. “Let’s go into the living room,” Mom says, leading the way.

When we sit down on the brown leather couches, Dad gets right to it. “We heard you talking to your grandmother yesterday at the party,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me, as if I should know what this means.

I rack my brain. What did I tell Grandma Lenore? I don’t think I outright admitted that New York terrifies me, but maybe I did? Is this, like, awe told you sothing? Both of them were against me going to college in New York. Mom actually lived there right after grad school, before she moved to LA, and she said I would hate the snow and the fast pace that’s so different from California. And she was probably right. But eventually I won them over, especially once I leaned into what a prestigious school NYU is. But did they notice my stank face yesterday too?

“Is this because I made fun of her greens?” I say, trying to defuse the tension, distract. “You know I was just playing.”

Instead of laughing, though, they look at each other, weary expressions taking up both of their faces.

Mom’s fingers press together in a steeple. “It’s about what you said, baby, about your major—the majoryouselected, for the record. You called it boring?”

“I believe you referred to it as a placeholder,” Dad cuts in. “Until you figure out what you really want to do. Which was disconcerting because that’s... breaking news to us.”

“Oh!” I let out a small laugh of relief. This isn’t as big of a deal as I thought. They just heard that I’m a little unsure about my major. “Well, yeah, that’s true, but that’s actually totallynormal. I looked into it. You have to declare a major to apply—well, you don’thaveto, but it looks better on your applications. That’s why I did it, to make sure I got in.” I wait for them to nod their heads, to get that same proud look that filled me up when I first got the acceptance letter from NYU. To remember that their daughter knows what’s up. But they still look stern as hell. I keep going, trying to sound light and confident. “But nothing is set in stone. You have until the end of sophomore year, really, to actually decide before it messes with your graduation timing or whatever. So I figure I have a little bit of time to try things out and take classes to figure out what I want to do. No big deal.”

I put on my biggest smile, and fight the urge to do jazz hands after my little song and dance. Mom exhales and puts her face in her hands. Dad shakes his head as he studies the floor. They don’t look like they would appreciate jazz hands.

“Lenore, baby,” my mom says finally, but then she turns to my dad. They communicate something to each other with no words, just tight lips and eyebrows pressed together, something I guess you master after twenty-five years of marriage. Finally, they seem to come to a consensus, and they turn to me. I can read both of their faces immediately. Disappointed. And also, strangely... scared.