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My mother shakes her head as she stabs her fork into her salad.

“And the newspaper?” he questions.

“I think I have all my stuff in order for the next edition, but I’ll be staying after school more until everything is ready to submit.” I take a bite of the warm bread. “People are already arguing over the layout design.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear.”

I drop my breadstick and turn back to Dad when he asks, “Did you get some good photos this year?”

“Uh-huh.”

My father bought me my first camera when I was a little girl. It was a cheap one we found at a souvenir shop when we were at Disney World. I took photos of anything and everything. It sparked my love for photography, and I’ve found comfort behind the lens ever since.

“Emily came into the flower shop this afternoon with her boyfriend to pick out a corsage and boutonniere for the spring formal,” my mother says. “He seems nice.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter while I twirl my fork in the pile of spaghetti on my plate.

Emily and I used to be inseparable when we were younger, but once middle school ended and high school began, we sort of went our separate ways.

“Has anyone asked you to the dance yet?”

Noodles dangle off the prongs of my fork when I stop mid-bite. “Seriously?” I snide. “Those dances are lame.”

“How would you know? You’ve never been.”

“Mom. Stop.”

Her need for me to fit in and be okay—whateverokayis—is annoying. Her idea of how I should spend my high school years drastically contradicts mine, but she doesn’t get it.

“I just worry that you’re going to look back one day and regret not being more involved.”

“Let it go, Jamie,” my dad tells her gently.

“I’m serious. You should be enjoying yourself and going to dances.”

“I’m fine,” I exhaust. “I swear we have this same conversation every few days. Can we just drop it?”

She looks at my dad for backup, but he defends me instead. “I agree. Let’s drop it. If she says she’s fine, then that’s all that matters.”

But I know my mom, and after a minute of silence passes, she can’t help herself. “I’m just worried, Harlow.”

I drop my fork, and it clanks loudly against the plate as I shove my chair back and stand.

“Harlow, stop.”

“Why don’t you stop, Mom?”

“Harlow,” my father warns.

“She does this all the time, Dad. You’re always gone, so you don’t see it, but it’s literallyall the time.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” she murmurs before taking a sip of her wine. “I just think it would be healthy for you if you got out more and made some friends. You’re always alone.”

Heat crawls up my neck, and I cross my arms defensively as I stare down at my uneaten plate of spaghetti.

“Why do you have to be so hard on her?”

“That’s easy for you to say, Jonathan. You’re never even here, and with the little time that you are, you act as if you’re the parental expert,” she snaps at my dad while I shut down. “I think I know our daughter a little better than you do.”