Because my phone had died hours ago, I drove back home instead of to Callan’s place. Mom might’ve been high off prescription drugs somewhere, but Dad was most likely at home, worried sick about my whereabouts. I had been staying out late more than usual recently.
When I pulled up to my house, the living room light glimmered through the front window. I parked in the driveway and gathered my belongings from school, then walked to the front door, where Dad stood nervously.
“Thank God,” he said, opening the door for me. “I thought you were dead.”
“Sorry,” I said, walking into the house and replacing my shoes with slippers at the door. “My phone died.”
“Where were you?” he asked.
“At Ichika’s,” I said, avoiding eye contact.
“I called her hours ago,” he said. “You hadn’t gone over.”
I wal
