"Oscar needs the exercise," I said. "It'll help calm him down."

Unfortunately, Oscar was sort of asleep when I said that, tired out from all the stress, so it made no sense. Anyway, Grant pulled over and I wrestled Oscar out of the backseat onto the curb. "Well, um, thanks," said Grant. "Hope that wasn't too traumatic."

"Oh, he'll be all right," I said.

"I meant you," he said.

I wanted to jump back in the car, take the wheel, and run over him at that point. What did he know about me, about anything?

"Yeah. Thanks a million," said Kelli, leaning out of the pa.s.senger seat.

I gave her a fake smile, a fake wave, and started to walk as they pulled away from the curb. It was then that I really paid attention to where we were.

Didn't realize how far from home we were. What a hike.

I'd acted like such an idiot. Why did I have to act like that? How juvenile was I? What was wrong with me?

Almost started crying on the way home, it just hurt so much to see Grant with someone else for real. (Plus, I was getting blisters from my ballet flats, which are not designed for walking two miles.) That note I'd found over the visor? It was probably still there, he'd save it forever and put it in their memory book. Sc.r.a.pbook. Whatever.

Why couldn't things have stayed the same?

Why couldn't anything ever stay the same?

I must have PMS or something. This is ridiculous.

10/15.

Called Wittenauer. Didn't tell him everything that happened yesterday as that sounded stupid, but did tell him this wasn't my best week. He was really, really sweet. Made me wish I'd stayed in Wisconsin. Well, that and the fact I'd made a complete idiot of myself yesterday. He reminded me that he's a mascot who once stripped down to his shorts in front of the board of trustees. He got me to laugh at myself, relax, and think about next year.

"Next year?"

"Yeah. I'll be done with school here, and we'll be together."

"We will?"

He laughed. "Of course we will. Don't worry, I have a plan."

Well, good. At least one of us has a plan. Me, I'm more worried about this year. Who's to say CSU won't raise their tuition rates and I'll end up transferring even somewhere else?

Is it possible to homeschool for college? Probably not if you don't want to actually live at home. Besides, imagine the social life. Nightly dinners with Mom and man-friend.

Speaking of which, Mom's been calling and asking me to come visit this weekend. Like I want to spend my Sat.u.r.day night with her and Mr. Man-friend?

Maybe I don't have anything better to do.

Ack!!!!! Must join a club or other extracurric ASAP. Like, "Soph.o.m.ores Whose Moms Are Infatuated at an Advanced Age." This is a big school. They'll have something like that.

10/16.

I'm published! Sort of. If you count student blogs, which I swore never to do again.

"Holding Court" by Courtney Von Dragen Smith is up on the web. (Debated a long time whether to use my middle name or not. Has embarra.s.sing V. D. initials, but is more distinctive than just using "Smith.") My first column, "Bring Back the Silver," is about how many places still use plastic cuttery.

That doesn't sound right.

Cutlery. Yes, that's the word, just went back in to edit.

Anyway. I listed several of them by name. Yes, to-go orders are challenging, but in-house orders should use mugs, not plastic cups; stainless forks, not plastic.

I was going to suggest that restaurants and coffee shops quit giving out napkins, but that seems a little impossible to achieve. What would people use?

Instead, I urged restaurants to compost all paper products, such as recycled napkins, and food waste.

Not sure where compost goes, but I've heard of it.

Perhaps should check into how stainless is made. Does it involve strip-mining? Is there such a thing as strip-mineless stainless steel?

Anyway, I wonder if a project like this is big enough for the Env. Activism group thing Dr. Bigelow talked about. If we took it to a slightly bigger scale, maybe? Then again, do I want to be the person spearheading any kind of protest? Look where it got me last time. Last year. Was hated by CFC sweatshirt wearers around the globe when I demanded we stop using harmful initials on college gear.

Then, somehow, lost scholarship. They claim no connection, but can't help thinking otherwise.

10/17.

K OS.

Utter total K OS.

Just when you think things won't get worse, after you humiliate yourself in front of your ex, his girlfriend, and an entire cla.s.sroom of people and animals . . . well, they do.

So on Friday night, Grant asked if I wanted a ride to Denver-he was going to visit his parents and grandmother. I said sure. Mom had asked me to visit, anyway, so I was doing the right thing. Shawna promised to walk Oscar a few times and generally keep him out of trouble while I was gone.

Besides, I thought it'd be cool to spend a little time with Grant and make up for the way I acted on Wednesday. I was glad he was still talking to me.

Of course, they probably were only taking pity on me. They. Because of course Kelli was coming along. Why wouldn't she? They're boyfriend and girlfriend after all.

I was minding my own business in the backseat when I heard her and Grant arguing a little outside the car, something about "why would you ask her" and Grant saying he felt sorry for me and was only trying to help. . . .

I was about to bail when they both climbed in, closed the doors, and we were off to I-25.

"So, is this the first time you'll be meeting, uh, the Superiors?" I asked Kelli, trying to make pleasant small talk.

"Yes. How do I look?" she asked. "Is this too much?" She was wearing a dress that looked like it had come from that cool, expensive shop in Old Town . . . can't remember the name of it. She looked like she was going to a wedding: had on heels, fancy necklace, makeup.

"No, it's perfect," I said, thinking: Why would you get dressed up to meet someone's parents? They're only . . . parents. They don't know what's in, or out, of style. All they care about is whether you're a nice person or a psycho killer.

Besides, Grant's mom's idea of dressing up was matching her T-shirt to her Birkenstocks.

Kelli turned around and rested her chin on the headrest. "I should totally get notes from you. Tell me what they're like."

I just sort of smiled, feeling very, very uncomfortable. Why was I in this car again? Fool me once, shame on . . . me? "Well, they're very nice," I said, glancing at Grant, who was glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "A little bit intense, though. They'll grill you about everything."

"What?" asked Grant.

"Oh yeah. You don't know because you weren't there," I said to him. "But they get you alone, see. They'll find some way to get you alone and they'll just grill you. Be ready for the third degree."

Kelli suddenly didn't look very confident. I think her hair literally wilted a teensy tiny bit from the fan vent in front of her. "What kind of, um, questions?" She fiddled with the vent, which was blowing right at her.

"That one doesn't close," Grant and I both said at the same time.

That was so awkward that I said, "Excuse me a sec. Have to check in with Wittenauer."

I made a point of talking to him for a little bit while we rode down, just so it was clear that we'd all moved on. But he couldn't talk long because it was a football game, so that figured. Of all times to be Corny. I kind of pretended I was on the line longer than I actually was, to be honest. Kelli was squirming with nervousness and I have to admit I was enjoying it.

They dropped me off and Grant idled at the curb, waiting to make sure I got in OK. He always did that. I always loved that he did that. Some other people would just take off, like Dave.

Anyway. Got to the front door, rang bell. No answer. Had my keys, and attempted to unlock the door.

My key didn't fit in the lock. WHAT? I felt ridiculous. How embarra.s.sing. Locked out by own mom. She changed the locks!?!?!? (This was a trick!) But I couldn't let them know that, so I just waved and said, "I'm in!" as they drove off and I stood there, waving and pretending to open the door.

I pounded on the door. Then I tried calling Mom, and it went straight to voice mail. "Mom! How could you not even be here?" I cried.

I called Bryan but his cell was off. I called Wittenauer to vent, but his phone was off, too. Had to rely on my own devices. I remembered that Mom usually kept a spare key under this brick on the side of the house, so I ran to get it.

Guess what? No hidden key anymore.

Trick.

I gave up and sat on the steps for a while. Somebody would have to come home soon, right?

Wrong. Instead, neighbor across the street, Mr. Novotny, came out and started talking about the Broncos with me. "Big game Monday night against the Chargers." He had no ideas for me to get into the house, but he did tell me a lot about the strategy the Broncos would need to use, and their defensive backfield, whatever that is, and other key points of the game.

As I sat there trying to rely on my own wits, and listening to more about football than I've ever known or cared to know in my entire life, I suddenly remembered that we had this one window screen that was always sort of loose-Alison had started it, just in case she ever got home past curfew. It was in the back of the house, off the den.

Of course. Brilliant.

I excused myself for a minute and went around back. I found the loose screen, which didn't seem quite as loose as it used to be. I pried it off and tried pushing at the window. It wouldn't budge.

As I was standing there, I remembered coming home late one night last spring, senior year. . . . Grant was helping me to sneak in at about one in the morning, but we got kind of tangled up trying to open the window and ended up falling on the ground, and, well . . .

Suddenly, I heard sirens.

Getting closer and closer.

Since when was it illegal to have risque memories?

I went around front and saw a white security company car pull up in front of the house. Two seconds later, a police car rounded the corner and stopped behind it. Next thing I knew, a male security guard and a female police officer were walking toward the house-and me.

Talk about not being welcome at home.

"May I see your identification, please?" they both asked at the same time.

"See, the thing is, I used to live here, but-"

"ID, please."

I grabbed my bag from the front steps and desperately searched for my wallet. It had dropped into some crevice that would not release it. Or had I just forgotten to put it into my bag because I was tired?

"How are we coming on that ID?" asked the police officer.

"Not, um, good," I said. "But can't you look me up on your onboard computer or something?"

She glared at me.

"Ma'am?" I added as a sign of respect. "Ma'am Officer? I really do live here. Well, I used to live here." I ran through the story of everything that had transpired lately, how it came to be that I would be standing here with the wrong key and trying to enter illegally.

Mr. Novotny had been standing there and watching the whole thing. Finally both guard and officer turned to him. "Can you vouch for her?"

"That depends. How much do you need?" Mr. Novotny regarded me with a wary expression.

"Is she who she says she is?" asked the police officer.

Mr. Novotny shrugged. "You never know with teenagers, do you?"

I rolled my eyes. I swear. Ageism.

Fortunately, Mom and Sterling finally showed up, in Sterling's football fieldsize SUV. They went out to brunch. Brunch. Who eats brunch?

They said they turned off their cell phones so they could have some real together time with no interruptions. Stupid romantic ideas of old people. There's nothing wrong with interruptions when they're important, like your daughter is ABOUT TO BE ARRESTED.

"You got the locks changed?" I yelled at her once the law had left.

"Bryan lost his keys-"

"And since when do we have an alarm?" I asked Mom.

"Sterling worries about me living here by myself."

"You don't. Bryan lives here. And Oscar did, too . . ."

"Oscar's no guard dog," she said.

"That's because you never believed in him. You never did!" And then I started sobbing and turned into an emotional wreck. I seem to be good at that lately. "You know what? Just take me back."

"Courtney, don't be ridiculous."

"Take me back, or I'm hitching a ride. On the highway."

She used to work hard on this mother-daughter stuff. Now she could not care less. She's forgotten all about book clubs and Oprah. Instead of O magazine, she now subscribes to Running Fanatic.