Monday evenings in my house are all about empty hallways and iPods cranked up loud enough to tune out all the silence. I sit on my bed, singing along to the Sweeney Todd soundtrack in my creepiest voice. I miss a note and immediately veer completely off, screeching like a kitten in danger of losing its tail. I'd rather pretend I meant to screw up all along than try to pretend it never happened. And before you lecture me about learning from the past, I want you to know that I've tried that, too.
Somewhere in the house is my mom, and somewhere else in the house is my dad. I know with certainty that they aren't together. They haven't really been speaking since Cora arrived, and I don't blame them.
That girl screws everything up.
My eyes slide to my alarm clock, and I make a face. Not even eight o'clock. I continue to flip through the magazine I've been pretending to read for the past hour and a half. I