“Mom, please. We talked about this last year,” Sam whined from the living room's front window, using his reflection to straighten his tie. He would absolutely not – absolutely not – let his mother leave the house in jeans and a hoodie. Not on Brookfell's Family Night.

“Controlling,” Olivia sang, playing with the pleats of her skirt.

Sam frowned and shot his sister a look. “I'm not walking into the lion's den dressed like meat. You remember three years ago when you wore that one really long scarf, and it got caught in the gym doors? You were almost decapitated and were mocked for weeks after for it.”

Oliver threw down her hands, frowning. “Just because you're willing to play into those snob's ideas on how to dress does not mean we have to.”

He turned away from the window, hands tensed. “I'd rather blend in than stick out. Half the school makes more money than us in one week than we do in one month.” Perks of being scholarship recipients.

His sister grumbled and sank deeper into the couch. “I liked that scarf. Lindsay Lohan wore one like it.”

“Yes, and she's tall. Yours dragged on the ground. Mom,” Sam called, desperation in his voice. “Mom, just leave them. I'll do them later when we get back. We have to go.”

“I'll finish them now,” Mrs. Watson shouted back, still hunched over the worn laminate kitchen counter clearing up from the early dinner. Their air still smelled like homemade lasagna. Slightly too much garlic. Always slightly too much garlic, but her children never complained. “And I think I look pretty good.”

“Mom,” her son whined, draping himself over the back of one of the dining chairs, “please. Please.”

“I'm just teasing,” Mrs. Watson confessed, putting her soapy hands up in defeat. She knew she was testing Sam's patience and resolved to end it, scrubbing the last of the plates, her freckled hands moving with practiced ease.

‘Like constellations,’ Sam thought. ‘Dad used to say he loved tracing them on her back, connecting them.’

“Done. I’ll go change, now. Okay?” When she finally came down, she donned a dark green turtleneck. Her jeans remained, but her boots were polished black leather, and the small gold earrings were a nice touch. Her hair was pulled back, growing wiry, a softer brown color than her brood. Her daughter had her eyes, but her intensity, while hers had softened with time, went to her son. Her complexion was paler than her children's, but she was still decorated in freckles.

“Good,” Sam sighed, wiping his face. “Jesus Christ, I'm tired.”

“So are we,” Olivia called from the couch.

The doorbell rang.

“Shush, child,” Mrs. Watson said, moving past her son and bopping her daughter. Olivia covered the crown of her head in anticipation of Mrs. Watson's wedding ring, and dropped her hand after it was over. “Just because your brother wants to step forward on the right foot does not mean he's being obtuse. We look nice for a special event.”

Olivia merely stared, frowning, as her mother opened the front door.

Standing on their stoop was Liam, hands in his pockets and looking like he'd just stepped out of an eighties movie, leather jacket, denim, and a graphic tee shirt. The expression on his face, however, was sour as he pushed in and raised a pointed finger at Sam, Mrs. Watson unfazed by the entry as she shut and locked the door behind him. “I have a bone to pick with you, Watson.”

“If it's about the football game last week –”

“You bet your ass it is. Your school cheated, and you know it.”

“Hello, Liam,” Sam's mother drolled with a sigh. A smile still played on her lips. “How are you, sweetheart?”

Liam waved his hand over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Sam. “Good, Mrs. W.” He continued without skipping a beat: “What do you have to say for yourself, Sam?”

“How about, ‘I don't deal with meatheads like you’?”

He grinned. There was something easy about Sam's best friend, like the flow of water down a well-tread creek. Everything felt natural, uncomplicated. Something unraveled in Sam's stomach when Liam was around, and at times, he was grateful for it. It made sense, watching them talk, they'd been stuck at the hip since the first grade, even when Sam transferred to Brookfell. “You’re such a freaking loser, Sam. You’re a meathead like us.”

“Soccer doesn’t count as meatheadedness.”

“Potato, pohtatoh,” Liam snickered, high-fiving him and standing back, glancing Sam over. “Where're you going? I thought we were going to your stupid school thing.”

“I told you to dress nice.” Already he regretted inviting him, though a part of him kind of wanted to see how people would react with Liam stolling the halls. Still, he had appearances to keep up. “This is nice?”

Liam had been begging to come to Brookfell's Family Night for years, and the one time he let his friend tag along, he came dressed like a biker. Liam shrugged down at himself. “What, this is nice.”

“That’s ‘I’m going to McDonalds at two in the morning’ nice. I wanted ‘going to an Italian restaurant where they use actual cloth napkins’ nice.”

“Oi,” Mrs. Watson warned, crossing her arms.

Sam stuck his tongue out at her.

“Yeah, oi. Don’t be so prissy,” Liam said, though the barb was soft and teasing more than annoyed. “You wanted me to look like I was meeting the freaking pope?”

“You're officially uninvited to Family Night.” Despite himself, Sam smirked.

“What? Nooooo,” Liam moaned, his expression suddenly wide with surprise and fear. “Cut me some slack. I've been a good boy this year.”

Sam glanced at his mother. “I don't know. Imagine what our classmates would say if a biker came strolling into their hallowed, ivory halls.”

No doubt Olivia saw this as an opportunity for chaos because she jumped to her feet and announced quite casually, “Let him come, Sam. You said he could this year. We can pass him off as our cousin.” In all likelihood, if she weren't crippled by her social shyness at school, she and Nate would be monsters.

The comment, under normal circumstances, would have been welcome, but this was Brookfell Academy. They would be serving canapes and finger foods in the cafeteria while classical music played, and teacher’s aides would be walking around giving impromptu tours to prospective parents and their snobbish, flat-faced children. The evening was half “Parent-Teacher Night” and half “Brookfell Showcase”. Parents of existing students came to the event as an exhibition of sorts, to see what their children had started in the new year. No doubt, parents met with teachers, but more often than not they were private or through emails.

Clubs would be performing tasters of what to expect. A wall by the administration offices detailed renovations planned for the coming decade to remain the best private school in the region. It showed off its awards it, or its clubs, won over the last year. There were plenty of pictures of Nate and Sam battling it out, touting them as the pinnacle of ambition and knowledge.

And despite the debate club giving various mock-debates, Sam was not participating this year, merely spectating. That privilege went to Olivia.

Though it didn’t matter. The amount of former alumni claiming their children’s “legacy spots” on Family Night made his presence – his squeaky clean-ness – all the more important to solidify as earned. Either he would make himself known as a scholarship recipient (lesser than), or make his mark academically (earn it). Blending in was a wishful lesser of the evils.

“Fine, fine,” Sam conceded with partial relief. A part of him did want to see how tumultuous Liam’s presence could be. It would certainly liven up the atmosphere of animosity and tension he always felt at Family Night.

Liam bit his bottom lip and fistbumped the air, making a throatal sound that signified victory. “And I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

“I doubt that,” Sam replied, sneering. “I half-expect you to eat half the finger sandwiches and send all the lunch ladies into a stupor.”

He shrugged. “Guy’s gotta eat.”

Olivia trotted from the couch and grabbed Liam’s arm. “I challenge you to eat an entire platter of salmon finger sandwiches.”

“I will take that challenge and win.”

“No, you won’t,” Sam laughed, tugging the two towards the door in the kitchen. “If you do that, I’ll personally let the football coach know your ‘master plan’ for getting back at us. Which you haven’t enacted, mind you.”

“There’s a time and a place,” Liam said, hands tucked into his pockets as he jumped the four steps down to the driveway. “Last game was a fluke.”

Sam rolled his eyes and locked the door once everyone had exalted the back porch steps. They climbed haphazardly into Mrs. Watson’s 1996 Toyota Corolla (still wonderfully nice-looking, mind you) and buckled in. Olivia had taken the front seat, while Sam and Liam started discussing plans of attack for dealing with people.

“I can’t wait to finally meet the legend. The myth.”

“Marissa?”

“No, Golden Boy. Nate.”

Suddenly, Sam’s heart started sinking.

Apparently, the look of distress was not as subtle as Sam had hoped for, or maybe Liam could read him like a book (he could, anyway), but he rolled his eyes, rocking forward as the car backed out of the driveway. “Don’t be dumb. I’m not going to make anything more awkward for you. Legit, I just want to shake his hand and see Golden Boy in action.”

“Oh, he’ll be in action, all right.” Sam leaned forward over the center console, propping himself up on his elbows. “Mom doesn’t like him, either.”

Mrs. Watson shifted into drive, pausing in recollection, then sighed. Her hands tensed on the steering wheel. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Samuel David. ”

“You don’t like how much he tries,” Olivia clarified, fiddling with a button on her blouse. She hated the color. It was also her mother’s, so it was a size too big, but a carefully worn cardigan fit it to her.

“Maybe he’s softened since last year,” Mrs. Watson offered.

Sam shot Liam a glance. His lips curled in an awkward way, a disbelieving way, a way that made Liam laugh.