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On the walk into Campisi, one of the kids from the dorm gives Blane a high five like this was the most epic thing that's ever happened.

Inside it's a ghost town. The senior girl who normally works the front desk isn't there doomscrolling, looking exasperated. The foosball table sits to the side, no crowd cheering on a game. The lounge chairs are empty. Blane shuttles down the hallway. Another member of his mom's detail is stationed outside his room.

The agent gives a nearly indiscernible nod, allowing Blane entry. His mom is out of sight, down the narrow hall and in the tiny box Blane calls home. Blane can hear she's on the phone with someone, like always.

He lingers in the corridor a moment, listening.

"I don't know why we're having this conversation," his mother says into the phone. Someone's in deep shit with her, like always.

"Bullshit, Hank. That's bullshit."

Blane realizes it's his father on the line.

"It's spelled out in our agreement. I get Parents Weekend."

A heavy silence follows. The temperature is rising, like always. The usual garbage between them.

"Really, Hank? Really? Well I hope they fucking kill me too so I never have to hear your goddamned voice again."

Blane gives it a moment, backtracks, and rests his skateboard loudly against the wall so she'll hear.

"Hi, Mom," he says.

Her back is to him, like she's collecting herself. Then she turns. She's wearing one of her usual power suits, which somehow makes her look even taller than six feet. Her chin-length dark hair is immaculate, like always.

"Honey, how are you?" Her tone reveals none of the tension from seconds ago. "And all I get is 'Hi, Mom'? Get over here and give me a hug."

They exchange a stiff embrace.

Blane catches the faint scent of her jasmine perfume, which transports him briefly to when he was little. Back when Mom sang pop songs, inserting her own silly lyrics, as they drove home from Little League. When she would dance and gyrate as Blane pounded on his toy bongo drums. When she would even watch SpongeBob with him, declaring Squidward was her favorite character. Then came her new, powerful job. Then the bounty on her head because of that new, powerful job. Then Blane's terrifying four-day disappearance. Then the divorce. It was as if every stress layered a coat of varnish over her, encasing her in a hard, humorless shell.

He wonders how long it will take for her to critique his hair, his clothes. The mustache the fraternity he's pledging insisted he grow since they say he looks like Goose from Top Gun.

Surprisingly, she just says, "I'm excited."

"About what?"

She gives him a hard look. "To spend time with you. To meet your friends. Meet the other parents."

Blane nods, says nothing.

"Is there an agenda for the parents?" She pauses. "Never mind, Paul will know."

Paul is her chief of staff. As smarmy a Washingtonian as you'll ever meet.

"There's a dinner thing tonight with my capstone group," Blane says.

Each freshman dorm breaks the residents into small groups of five to six students. They have to complete a project together by the end of the year, but spend most of the time partying.

"Have you gotten lunch?" his mom asks.

"I'm supposed to meet some friends at the dining hall," he says, hoping she won't gripe.

"That's great. I actually have a few calls this afternoon. So, I'll see you tonight?"

He nods.

"Maybe you can shave that peach fuzz over your lip before dinner."

There she is.

"Can't, it's a frat thing."

She frowns. "At least put on a clean shirt."

Another stiff hug, and he's off.